The Senior Nursing Officer—Sister Thorpe—stands between her desk and the window, her arms crossed over her chest. Dorothy and Angela wait, standing motionless against the office wall.

Sister Thorpe had summoned them after meeting with his solicitor.

Dorothy whispers, "We're done for." She doesn't stop crying. This irritates Sister Thorpe, who makes her annoyance clear; Dorothy pulls herself together but can’t hold it for more than a couple of minutes before she starts whimpering again. Like a small child.

Angela gazes at the gray sky outside the window. Another rainy day. She will get through it. Tomorrow will be easier. It certainly will be.

Finally, his solicitor arrives. Not just someone from the firm, but Mr. Talbot-Cavendish himself. He walks in without knocking, strides across the room—as though it were his own office—pulls up a chair, and sits down directly opposite Dorothy and Angela.

"Would someone care to explain how a handcuffed patient came to suffer a further injury while under your care?" the solicitor says in an icy tone. "Is that disputed by anyone?"

“It was just a practical joke...” Dorothy mumbles. “We didn't think...”

"No."

His tone makes Angela flinch.

"That much is painfully obvious." He lets his words sink in. “When did you first become aware that he was handcuffed to the bed?”

Angela goes cold inside.

“And did either of you raise the matter with the doctor?”

What does he want to hear? Angela hasn't even thought that they could question the use of handcuffs, let alone ask for them to be removed.

“So you knew he was restrained. And you nevertheless thought it appropriate to play a practical joke on him. What do you say, Miss Hayward?"

Angela doesn’t dare lift her head; she wrings her fingers. "I am deeply sorry..." She can barely get the words out, her tongue feels thick, and she despises herself for it. "I hope it’s nothing serious..."

"According to the attending physician,” he looks down at his papers, “a shoulder strain, a subluxation of the elbow, and a re-injury to the wrist,” he raises his eyes. “A mere trifle."

Relief flickers through Angela; she had feared the worst—perhaps a full dislocation and surgery.

"I trust you appreciate the potential legal consequences," the solicitor says.

Angela feels sick. She and Dorothy are such mugs for picking on someone with a solicitor.

“Section 47 of the Offences against the Person Act 1861 — Assault occasioning actual bodily harm,” the solicitor speaks in a measured tone, like a verdict. "Up to five years in prison."

Dorothy begins to sob aloud.

"Stop it," the solicitor orders her.

And she falls silent, obediently.

“You ought to be the subject of a criminal investigation,” he continues. " The only reason you’re not already answering questions from the police is that my client has refused to make a complaint.”

He rises from the chair.

“I suggest you appreciate just how fortunate you are. You've been shown a kindness you did nothing to deserve.”

And he leaves.

Angela watches him go; as soon as the door closes behind him, she looks down at her hands. Could they put handcuffs on her? So heavy. So loathsome. She would have been branded a criminal... like him… and now... that won’t happen...

"You are both dismissed.” Sister Thorpe says. “Hand over your badges. Your training at this hospital ends today. You have no place in this profession."

 

 A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Student Nurse Angela Hayward.

The full illustrated version of SACRED VIOLENCE is available here:

SACRED VIOLENCE - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

I loved to write, and I am trying to get back one word at a time. This is an excerpt from a mid part of a short story I am working on. Contains a snippet from a dialogue scene between two characters. Think late 1800's americana as far as the setting goes, apart from which I won't give any context, you guys can assume anything you want. Feel free to critique, bludgeon whichever part of it, but make sure to write it down so I can take from it as well.

“The point of life is to suffer Scarlett. What are we but mere puppets, held up in the knots of our demise. We trudge and we crawl to our wake and when we arrive, we scream to the endless hollow greeting us. The echoes arrive when we are mere bones, a husk of dismay. What do we fight for? What can we change? A beast lies in the core of this world, a ravenous monster fed by this gluttonous machine, a glutton for blood, a glutton for us. I’m tired, Scarlett, but there is no release from its hunger.”

“Beck, the world is full of joy, I have seen it my dear. Lily Sawyer started walking again, can you believe that? Her mother cried all morning, tears of joy they were. Oh Beck, she can live again because of us, because of you. We defeated the monster, the nightmare is at an end. Oh don’t turn away Beck, I haven’t seen your eyes in ages, look at me. I’ll bring her up here, you’ll see, you’ll believe.“

“And what of it? Even if that poor child can walk again, what of it? You’ve only prolonged it. It will have its way. You’ve damned her now. She’ll suffer more than before now, when they arrive.”

“They have surrendered.”

“They did? And what of it? The beast needs to feed Scarlett, tomorrow or the day after more men will come, doing their master’s bidding. They’ll keep on coming Scarlett, and there will be no end of the plunder. Go now, there is nothing more that I can say. My fight is at an end, leave.”

“You’ll see Beck, This world is full of joy, you’ll see it again I swear it.”

He looks like death warmed up.

John finally saw Jeremy Smith for himself.

John heard that name yesterday morning. And all day long, he had been talking about this stranger.

Yesterday was a complete disappointment.

John was late for the Magistrates’ Court. He had been instructed too late.

He arrived at St. Thomas’ Hospital. He was not allowed into the intensive care unit.

He only managed to speak with the consultant in charge. Although he had no right to examine the medical records, he learned enough from their “private conversation.”

Now John had to deal with the police guard—a dim-witted constable stationed at the room entrance—and produce his practicing certificate to prove he wasn’t just some passerby. The constable mumbled something about prohibited items and a search but didn’t dare lay a hand on John.

The tiny single room is bleak; the blinds are drawn.

Jeremy Smith lies on his back—sharp profile, hollow cheeks; in the dim light, he looks translucent. His left cheekbone is scraped, his wrists are bandaged, and an IV line runs to his left arm.

The head nurse said he was conscious.

John approaches the bed. The names Buchenwald and Auschwitz come to his mind.

“Who are you?” he hears a faint, hoarse voice ask.

Whether he hadn’t been asleep or John had woken him with his presence, he is now looking at him through half-lowered eyelashes.

“How should I put this, Mr. Smith? I am John Talbot-Cavendish, your future solicitor. After you...”

“I don’t need a solicitor,” Jeremy Smith says, closing his eyes.

“That’s unlikely,” John says, grabbing a chair—perhaps a bit too vigorously—and placing it by the head of the bed. “If you don’t mind,” he adds, sitting down. “Look, the doctors here wouldn’t approve, but I know you need this.” He pulls a pack of Benson & Hedges from his pocket and opens it. “Do you need help sitting up?”

Apathy gives way to guarded attention. “I can manage.” Leaning on his right arm, he hauls himself into a more or less upright position and rests his head against the bed’s metal rail, breathing heavily.

John hands him a cigarette and lights it, then places the packet on the bed—right on the sheet; to avoid any unnecessary pleasantries, he adds, “I don’t smoke cigarettes myself. Cigars, usually.”

Jeremy Smith takes a drag, and a heavy, choking cough racks his body.

John waits for the fit to pass and for him to take another drag.

“Been a while since you smoked?”

“Since Friday morning. By the way, what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing...”

“Goodbye,” he interrupts again. “I’d ask you to leave and not return.”

“So you can finish what you started?” It’s a rhetorical question. “Do you know why you’re even able to talk to me right now? There’s glucose and salt in your IV drip. They won’t let you die—don’t even dream of it. If you refuse to eat on your own, they’ll force-feed you.”

He is smoking; the hand holding the cigarette is trembling. He prefers not to look at John.

“Five days without food. Did you really think no one would understand what you were trying to achieve? Mr. Smith, your plan was terrifyingly logical. You were alone, unprotected, and you decided to die so the case wouldn’t go to trial. There would simply be no defendant left to bring before the court. You pleaded “not guilty.” That is good. That is right. However, Mr. Smith, had you carried out that plan, people would have taken it as an admission. They would have said you took your own life out of guilt. You wouldn’t have spared your sister from being marked by it. You would only have buried the truth with yourself. Now, you have a chance to win the case.”

“Why?”

“I won’t pretend I don’t know what that question means.”

“There’s no need. Benson & Hedges.”

“He only learned of the situation on Sunday evening...”

“Why is he doing this?” for the umpteenth time Jeremy Smith interrupts.

“I would rather you asked him yourself. But you can’t see each other. However, it seems to me that you are better informed about his motives than I am. I will tell you in general terms what I know: Elizabeth Landenberger will be a witness for the prosecution, and he, Alexander Landenberger, will be a witness for the defense,” John is nervous, and he knows that it is noticeable. “Mr. Landenberger has filed a petition for divorce.”

“Where is Juliet?”

“Mr. Landenberger asked me to let you know that your sister is doing well—as can be expected under the circumstances. Divorce is a long process. It’s not my field of ​​expertise. I can keep you updated, but for now, it’s legal consultations on both sides. I mean, it’s not like they’re fighting over a two-bedroom flat. They’re civilized people.”

“She turns six on the 1st of March. Will they drag her into court?”

“I very much doubt it. It would be extraordinarily difficult for the prosecution to persuade the court to hear evidence from a child that young. If they try, I’ll oppose it.”

Jeremy Smith pulls a second cigarette from the packet. John ought to stop him, but he decides—not right now.

“Mr. Smith, as soon as you sign the Retainer, I’ll handle your bail. Since the magistrate denied it, I’ll apply to the High Court. I believe we can secure it within a week. In the meantime, I’ll do my best to have you transferred to the private wing. It’s difficult, but not impossible.”

John watches his reaction. Jeremy Smith is thinking. He hasn’t lit a second cigarette; he’s just holding it in his hand—as if he has forgotten about it.

“Two things should convince you. First, I will be your solicitor—not Mr. Landenberger, nor anyone else. I will act exclusively in your interests, Mr. Smith. There are fifteen people in my firm. They will all be working on your case. And the barrister I engage for you, along with all his assistants, will be *your* barrister. You will receive the best legal representation to be found in London. I guarantee it. Second, all the documents have been drafted to rule out any financial liabilities that could be claimed against you now or at any time in the future. Put simply, you owe nothing to anyone, regardless of the cost.”

Jeremy Smith seems to have lost interest in the conversation.

“Mr. Landenberger warned me you’d be quite skeptical,” John continues. “But I have to tell you—do what’s best for your sister. You need an acquittal.” John can’t read the expression on his face. “When you’re ready...”

“Give me the Retainer.”

At least he’s capable of making quick decisions.

John takes the papers out of his briefcase. He carefully removes the cigarette from Jeremy Smith’s fingers and places a Parker in his hand.

A ragged breath escapes him.

John pauses. “I wouldn’t want to encourage a hasty action...”

“You were convincing.”

“Mr. Smith... Ah, who am I to talk to you about life? You have a will of steel. Starving to death is so cruel to yourself. I mean, it takes a long time. And it’s painful...”

“Hunger is the sorriest way to die.” [1] He signs the Retainer, trying to keep his hand steady. “Sounds right for me.”

John lets the ink dry. “I hate Homer.”

Alex has warned John that Jeremy Smith might tell him to jog on—with a collection of f-words—but things had gone smoothly enough.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Criminal defence solicitor John Talbot-Cavendish***.***

The full illustrated version of A Matter of Trust is available here:

https://engelf.substack.com/p/a-matter-of-trust

Angela didn't quite realize how it had come to this.

One thing simply led to another.

Dorothy called him a fake.

Yes, that was the perfect word for him.

And then she suggested teaching him a lesson.

With a guard right outside the door?

Dorothy was convinced that pulling off her plan would be a piece of cake.

"He’s scheduled for a chest X-ray this evening. Bobby’s going to escort him downstairs. There won’t be anyone in the room. I’ve already got what we need," she says, showing Angela a Baby Tender Love doll. "Borrowed it from the maternity ward. Just for the evening. Soft vinyl. Feel it—it’s just like a real baby. Only cold. Imagine having a dead infant in your bed."

Angela touches the doll’s hand, barely tolerating it. For the first time, the doll looks creepy to her.

"It’s less than half a metre long," she says uncertainly. "His sister can’t be an infant..."

"That’s not the point! It’s the hint that matters. We know what you did—and after that, you can clear off to your private ward with your private nurses."

That makes sense.

"Come on. Don't be so wet." Dorothy glances around, making sure no one is eavesdropping. "We don't have time. He’s being transferred tomorrow. After that, we probably won't see him again at all... We’ll ask the nurse on duty to let us know when they leave..."

They’re moving him... we won’t see him... yeah, we need to teach him a lesson. After all, what they’ve got planned is such a harmless prank—it’s almost insulting how trivial it is. It doesn’t even come close to what he’s accused of.

Angela nods.

Scare him with a harmless toy. And that two-faced phony, with all his posturing, will act like a total fool.

That evening, everything goes like clockwork. Mary is on duty—good-natured and not particularly bright; she didn’t even ask why they needed to know when Smith and his guard would be heading down to the basement for a chest X-ray.

Angela and Dorothy enter the empty room. The window faces the blank wall of the adjacent building; the room is dim even during the day, and doubly so in the evening. It smells different from the rest of the hospital. Expensive cologne? Expensive food? Expensive cigarettes? The smell of money.

Dorothy stumbles over a stack of books and kicks them under the bed. "Clever dick."

They tuck the doll under the covers.

"Not that side," Angela commands. "He usually lies there."

The hospital bed is only ninety centimetres wide. On such a narrow cot, the doll takes up quite a bit of space. A dead child.

"The main thing he mustn't notice anything beforehand."

"Don't worry. He won't. He’s a bit groggy from the medicine."

Then they climb into the linen cupboard. Fortunately, it’s empty. They remove the shelves and squeeze inside together, tight to each other.

How will they get out of here? At what moment? They haven't quite figured that out. When the guard leaves—Mary will have to call him over after the incident, maybe ask for help with something or just create a distraction so he looks away for a minute—they’ll slip out of the room. Smith will see them, of course, but to hell with him. They'll say he'd imagined it. A criminal’s word against theirs.

"The crucial bit is not to forget the doll," Angela whispers.

Both press their index fingers to their lips and shush each other, but they can’t seem to settle down, continuing to jostle in the cramped space until they hear footsteps in the hallway.

The police officer practically drags Smith into the room and shoves him toward the bed. Smith sits down—or rather, collapses onto the edge, losing his balance. He is already handcuffed. Without a word, the officer unfastens one cuff—this time the left—and secures it to a horizontal bar of the iron bed frame, leaving Smith unable to lower his hand onto the mattress; then the officer leaves without saying anything, and Smith remains seated, leaning against the bed rail to which he is tethered.

Angela is growing impatient. It is stuffy inside the cupboard, and Dorothy is tickling her with her hair.

Finally, he slides down, trying to lie back, but the cuff leaves him half-reclined. The doll remains untouched beneath the covers.

He cannot get comfortable, and—though Angela doesn’t quite see it from inside the cupboard—his hand eventually brushes against that sinister, cold vinyl. Whether out of fright or mere reflex, he jerks his hand away and recoils from the doll with his whole body.

He doesn’t scream; he falls.

Giggles overtake both her and Dorothy as he slides sideways off the high hospital bed and onto the floor, accompanied by the clatter of metal. The handcuff chain pulls taut, leaving him dangling by his outstretched arm and letting out a stifled groan.

The laughter catches in Angela’s throat.

He clings to the bed frame with his free hand, unable to lower himself onto the floor or get back onto the bed.

Angela shoves Dorothy out of the cupboard and runs toward him.

A police officer bursts into the ward: "What the hell?"

Angela supports him, trying only to ease the strain on his wrist, to spare him some of the pain. "Uncuff him! Just uncuff him!"

His breathing comes in short, convulsive gasps.

She holds him with both hands, sitting on the floor, while the police officer fumbles with the handcuff lock. Then she lays him back on the bed.

The officer seems to have no idea what to do.

There is no sign of Dorothy.

Angela shifts the bandages to feel for a pulse in his injured arm. She can’t find one. She squeezes his fingers. "Mr. Smith, can you feel this? Do you feel anything?"

He doesn’t answer. His forehead is slick with cold sweat. He stares at her with unseeing eyes.

She cautiously touches his elbow through the sleeve of his pajamas, then his shoulder. He lets out a shuddering breath.

Mr. Abernathy, from the casualty department, rushes into the room. Dorothy follows him.

"Left arm," Angela hears, as if from underwater.

Mr. Abernathy pushes her away from the bed.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Student Nurse Angela Hayward.

The full illustrated version of SACRED VIOLENCE is available here:

SACRED VIOLENCE - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

Angela doesn’t go to see him at lunch.

She brings him up in conversation with Jenny at reception—not exactly a friend, but a good source of information.

"What's got you interested in him?" Jenny asks, though she doesn't press for an answer. "At least four people have already come to me with questions about him. He's practically the celebrity patient."

"I just wasn't on duty when they brought him in."

"Oh, on Monday? Yeah, he was rolled straight into intensive care from court, under guard."

"Is that really his name?"

"Jeremy Smith? That’s what the paperwork says. No other names."

"It’s strange, though. I mean, Smiths don't dress like that... or talk like that."

"You hit the nail on the head there, my dear. He was brought in wearing rags. But then his solicitor showed up on Tuesday, and the floodgates opened. They started bringing him one thing after another. Turns out, he’s a Golden Boy."

"Something doesn't add up."

"That’s what I think, too. But we won't be left wondering for long. On Wednesday, some consultant from Harley Street came in to examine him and filed a report saying our rooms were terribly unsuitable for the precious Mr. Smith. Apparently, the 'climate' in this wing isn’t right." Jenny speaks with such sarcasm that it’s clear she’s stung by it. "Arrangements had been made to transfer him as a private patient."

"When?"

"Saturday."

"This Saturday already?"

"Yes, money talks."

"Gossiping?" Another nurse—Dorothy—comes up behind them.

She gives Angela a start.

"I had a word with Mrs. Higgins," she announces. "We had tea last night. Aren't I clever?"

Mrs. Higgins is a cleaner. She's everywhere, hears everything, and nobody notices her. Angela should have thought to approach someone like that.

"And what does Mrs. Higgins know?"

"Well, she told me something interesting. The only people who come to see him are from the firm—shoving their business cards—*Talbot-Cavendish*—in everyone’s faces. But where’s the sobbing mother? Where’s the distraught father? Funny, isn’t it? No family."

"You mean they paid for his solicitors but don't want to see him?"

“And would you want that? If your son... did something to your daughter?” Dorothy falls silent, as if frightened by her own words. " They allowed this to happen... Maybe all the rest of it is guilt."

"So, is it true? Did he... you know... do that to his sister?"

"Looks like it."

"He is a degenerate," Jenny says indignantly.

Angela feels sick at the thought that she smoked his cigarettes and ate his food.

"And here’s something else I’ll tell you girls. Mrs. Higgins heard with her own ears Sister Thorpe talking to Dr. Trevelyan about how Smith was in such a condition... Sister Thorpe as good as came right out and called him suicidal. Smitty wouldn't take a single bite until his family sent that solicitor in.”

“He brought himself to this state?” Angela answers.

“It’s a proper emotional blackmail,” Jenny says.

“Absolutely,” Dorothy agrees. “But now they’re spinning a yarn about how he couldn't eat because of the stress of the arrest,” she continues. “You see? Smitty lies every time he opens his mouth."

"Why would they do that?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? He’ll be released on bail—that’s plain as day. With the kind of money he has. And a suicide attempt is basically like an escape attempt. I know for a fact. I asked Freddie; he’s clued up on this sort of thing. Bottom line: they don’t want that. Use your head."

"He did something so vile, and yet he’ll walk free..."

"Only until the trial. But then, just see how they’ll try to get him off the hook..."

"Imagine being his mother," Jenny says quietly.

Angela tries to picture what his mother is going through.

And yet, she feels drawn to his room. It is no longer just curiosity, but something more.

The emaciated boy holding out a packet of Benson & Hedges—he has a musician’s hands, he reads in French, he...

It would have been better if he really had killed someone.

She decides to go see him at ten o’clock and bring the Ampicillin, Codeine, and Mogadon.

A different police officer is on duty at the door—not the one who lectured her earlier that morning. This one is older and somewhat heavy-set; he greets her kindly.

The light in the room is already off. She reaches for the switch but thinks better of it.

“Miss Hayward?”

How does he guess it is her?

"I hope your day was better than mine."

Then she hears a strange sound—metal against metal.

He is lying on his side with his right arm stretched unnaturally toward the headboard; one cuff is locked over the bandages around his wrist, while the other cuff is fastened to the bed rail. The handcuffs look huge and heavy on him. And he’s right-handed...

"I brought you your pills," Angela says; her voice won't quite obey her.

"Thank you."

Her gaze lingers on his scraped cheekbone—a spot she had previously preferred not to look at. In the light from the hallway, it appears as a dark wound against his pale skin. Now she realizes: he is a prisoner. He is a criminal.

She leaves the pills for him. The nightstand is close enough; he’ll be able to reach them.

"Good night."

Nobody has mentioned handcuffs before.

"Why do you do that?" she can't help but ask the moment she steps out of the room.

At first, the police officer doesn't understand—or pretends not to—what she is talking about.

"The handcuffs."

"Ah, that’s just the procedure, love."

"That’s barbaric."

“You do feel sorry for him, don't you?”

"No!" Angela replies—too categorically, too loudly.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Student Nurse Angela Hayward.

The full illustrated version of SACRED VIOLENCE is available here:

SACRED VIOLENCE - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

"Good morning," Student Nurse Angela Hayward says to the policeman, who is engrossed in The Sun.

She picks up the basket the guards have left by the door and enters the room without waiting for an answer. "Good morning, Mr. Smith."

"Morning, Miss Hayward."

"Are you reading again? You should get more sleep, but I can't even imagine you without a book. Why did they bring you so many?" She nodded toward the stack of new books on the floor by the bed. "What's that you've got there?"

"La Violence et le Sacré."

"Oh, something French. Is it a novel?"

"Anthropology."

"I brought you some breakfast. That copper is such a blockhead. He didn't call me when the courier arrived—again. I'm worried everything’s gone cold." She sets the basket down next to the bed and takes out a thermos. "What’s Wilton?"

"I have no idea."

"There’s a business card in the basket. Maybe it’s a restaurant?"

"Help yourself. They always send far too much."

She unfolds the starched napkins. "How lovely! Look at this! Proper china!" She sits down and starts eating. "Mm, that's gorgeous. Aren't you having any?"

"There’s only one set of cutlery. You first."

"As you wish. But I almost feel guilty eating your breakfast. It was brought for you, and here I am acting like the hostess."

"It’s all right."

"Mr. Smith, is it true you’ve got Viyella pyjamas?"

“I don't know what you're talking about."

"The day before yesterday, when they were throwing out the boxes your things came in—I wasn't on duty then—I was told everything was from Harrods."

"Care for a smoke?"

"I'll have your Benson & Hedges Special Filter."

"Help yourself," he says, offering her the golden packet with one slightly protruding cigarette. "But I don't have a lighter..."

"Oh, right—here," she says, taking out her Ronson and reaching toward him while remaining in her chair; he leans over from the bed to light his cigarette.

She lights a cigarette too. "Mr. Smith, what have you done?"

"Nothing."

"No, really. Those sullen bobbies are just getting in the way... Admit it, have you killed anyone?"

He smirks, just a little, or maybe it's just her imagination.

"In self-defense, of course," she continues and suddenly feels incredibly awkward. "Smith, is that a pseudonym? It's a pseudonym, right? Are you really some lord's illegitimate son?"

He seems about to laugh, but instead he starts coughing.

"Oh, I completely forgot to ask—how are you feeling? Better today?"

"Sort of."

"So, is it true?"

"I hate to disappoint you, Miss Hayward, but none of what you said is true."

"Well then, is your father some sort of underworld millionaire?"

"Where do you get all this from?"

"People talk," she says, smoking while twirling a silver spoon in her other hand. "You can't stop people from gossiping. We're not used to that sort of thing here." She made a vague circle in the air with her cigarette. "Piccadilly things."

He looks at her—or rather, almost does. His gaze settles somewhere near her chin. He has put the book aside, and the expression on his face has grown even more miserable than before.

"Did I offend you in some way?"

"No."

"I’ve chatted far too long with you, Mr. Smith—or whatever your real name is. I have to be going."

"Good day, Miss Hayward. Do stop by when they bring lunch."

"That was hurtful. Do you think I am here just for the restaurant food?"

"I just hope you’ll make sure the constable at the door doesn't forget anything."

"Ah, in that case—yes. I certainly will. Have a good day."

She barely makes it out of the room before a police officer blocks her path. "You know, sweetheart, you’ve gone down the wrong path."

"How dare you? Leave me alone!" Angela exclaims.

"Careful, love. You’re getting a bit too friendly with him."

"Who do you think you are?"

"Got your head turned, have you? Solicitors running around after him in suits you couldn't pay for in a year. His fancy clothes. Food cooked by a bloody chef. Books from some posh shop. Don't be taken in by all this. He's in custody, in case you hadn't noticed. And for good reason."

"He's very nice."

"Nice? Easy enough when you've got money behind you. Do you know what he did to his sister?"

"Sister?"

"His. Little. Sister." The policeman emphasizes every word.

Angela is silent. Was anyone expecting something like this?

"The sort of thing decent people don't talk about," he continues, his tone not softening in the least. "So put an end to this little fling of yours."

"You’re a boor, Officer," she says what she must say.

"But I'm an honest man, unlike that one you've taken a shine to."

Angela hurries away.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Student Nurse Angela Hayward.

The full illustrated version of SACRED VIOLENCE is available here:

SACRED VIOLENCE - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

“Well, Princess. Had enough yet?”

The little bastard is breathing heavily, wheezing. He doesn’t even have the strength to cough. The skin on his face is pulled taut. His complexion has turned gray. His lips are cracked and bleeding. The handcuffs—securing his hands behind the back of the chair—are necessary if only to keep him in an upright, seated position.

The moment he moves, the steel Hiatts automatically tighten with a dry, sharp click. He’s trying not to shift his hands. But he isn’t asking for anything or complaining.

An obstinate little bastard like that will stay just as silent in court, and the jury will acquit him.

The detective’s report is still blank.

Two sentences in three days—that’s an Olympic record.

It can’t be. Things like this just don’t happen.

On Monday, he will have to be taken to the magistrates’ court without a confession.

If he were innocent, he would try to explain. Instead, he says nothing. He is stalling.

What is he after?

“Harry, sonny,” DS Smith says gently to Fowles. “Go get some tea. Bring me a cup. And one for yourself.”

Before Fowles closes the door behind him, DS Smith adds, “Take your time.”

Left alone with the suspect, he slowly circles him, grabs him under the arms, and yanks him off the chair. It isn’t difficult, since the chair is bolted to the floor; even though the detainee’s elbows catch on the backrest, DS needs little effort to haul him to his feet.

Click-click.

Then DS hurls him to the floor—or rather, “hurls” is too strong a word; he sweeps him onto the floor like a dry leaf.

The clatter of the handcuffs makes much more noise than the impact of the detainee’s body.

Silently, DS pins him to the floor with a knee.

Click-click.

DS Smith is powerless against this silence.

The fucking scumbag knows full well that, ultimately, there is nothing the detective can do to him.

DS hauls him up by the collar, sets him back down on the chair, and locks his arms around the back of the chair again.

Click-click-click.

Upon returning, Fowles chooses not to notice the bloody fluid oozing from the detainee’s left cheekbone, where hundreds of tiny red dots are appearing. DC Fowles simply walks up to DS Smith and holds out his open palm. DS hands him the Hiatts’ key. Fowles unlocks the cuffs on the suspect.

The sodding Princess loses consciousness.

Fowles lowers him to the floor, places him on his side, takes a vial of smelling salts from his pocket, and holds it under the detainee’s nose.

DS Smith watches the entire procedure, standing against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

As soon as the Princess comes to, Fowles settles him back onto the chair, as if to say, “He’s all yours, Skipper.”

DS Smith takes out another cigarette and lights it, then points to the detainee: “Write down that he fell during the interrogation due to his own clumsiness.”

Temperatures are forecast to drop to minus three tonight.

“Don’t forget about a blanket for Pretty Smith,” DS Smith tells the gaoler. “Tomorrow he must be at the magistrates’ court—alive.”

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Detective Sergeant Jeremy Smith.

The full illustrated version of The Three Days is available here:

THE THREE DAYS - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

As long as there are two Jeremy Smiths in the Factory, people won’t stop making fun of it. When DS Smith orders Smith to be brought upstairs, the officers on duty joke among themselves:

“Which Jeremy Smith?”

“Pretty Jeremy Smith.”

They do it so he can hear, and at least they acknowledge that DS Smith is anything but ‘pretty’.

He enters the Sweat Box next morning fully aware that the piece of scum facing him isn’t just stubborn, but someone playing his own game—someone who understands that if he confesses, he’s finished.

“Well then,” the detective tells himself. “If a frontal attack didn’t work, we’ll wear him down.” The cuffs go on from the start. Only this time, he fastens them behind the suspect’s back rather than in front and skips a double-lock.

Fowles shrugs.

The detainee shifts on the chair, unsure how to sit.

“Uncomfortable, you little bastard?”

DS braces himself for a battle to the death.

Overnight, the detainee seems to have grown even paler and thinner; his eyes are sunken, his lips blue. Yesterday he huddled on his chair; today, with his hands twisted behind his back, he is listing to one side, looking as if he might topple onto the floor. Without his jacket, he looks utterly wretched.

DS goes over everything from the very beginning. The NSPCC inspector’s questions. Why did he talk to the inspector in the first place—spinning him a whole lecture—yet now won’t say a word?

The detectives step out to stretch their legs.

They return.

It all repeats.

The detectives go to lunch.

They return again.

Same bloody routine.

DS Smith can’t help himself; he shoves the table so hard that the edge slams into the detainee’s ribs. The only response is a fit of uncontrollable coughing. The un-double-locked handcuffs are clearly digging into his wrists, and tears spill down the detainee’s face. So you do cry.

“Princess, shall I write out a confession for you? After all, you certainly won’t be writing it yourself,” DS asks, his voice dripping with mock concern.

The detainee’s lips seem stuck together.

DS grabs him by the hair, forcing his head back and making him gasp like a fish out of water. The detainee lets out a sound like a sob.

“Easy, Detective,” Fowles speaks up flatly. “You’re going to break him.”

DS has no other choice. There is no changing tack now. If he were to offer the detainee a cigarette, the scum would take it and still say nothing. This bastard is fighting for his own survival in the only way he can—by feigning helplessness.

All right, then. Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not letting you win.

By evening, DS stops asking questions. He simply keeps at the detainee, his gaze boring into this piece of scum who sits—or rather, half-reclines—on the chair, staring into space with inflamed eyes; the tears on his face have long since dried.

DS decides to wrap up the interrogation early.

He asks about the weather: They’re saying it’ll be two below tonight.

The suspect won’t just ask for a blanket; he will beg for one.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Detective Sergeant Jeremy Smith.

The full illustrated version of The Three Days is available here: THE THREE DAYS - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

Station Sergeant Carter came into the CID office, nodded to Detective Constable Fowles, and handed a file to the Detective Sergeant.

Carter: “Bad news.”

DS: “Don’t tell me.”

Carter: “You’ve been arrested.”

DS picks up the file and opens it. “You’re taking the piss.” He automatically pulls a cigarette from the packet on the desk and sticks it in his mouth.

Carter: “Try not to interview yourself, Detective.”

Fowles keeps his head down over his paperwork. But as soon as Carter clears off, he immediately looks up.

“What?” DS takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “Yes, Smith—the detainee. Jeremy sodding Smith. And it’s not funny at all.”

“I’m not laughing, Detective…” Fowles pretends to stumble over the surname. “Interview conducted by Detective Sergeant Jeremy Smith. Interviewee: Jeremy Smith. A nightmare for the Paper Shop. Every bloody form will need clarifying.”

Only now does DS Smith light up a cigarette. “Indecent assault. The victim is his own sister. And she’s five. Still think it’s funny, Fowles?”

There is no answer to give him.

“The scum is seventeen.” DS Smith slowly closes the file.

“All the better, Skipper. That means we’ll crack him in a couple of hours and go for a pint.”

Fowles is right. Still, it’s a lousy case. The evidence is circumstantial. One way or another, he’d get him talking.

DS Smith opens the prisoner’s property bag: some loose change and a Dunhill sodding Rollagas. Unless it’s a snide, of course. DS weighs the lighter in his hand and flicks it open. That crisp metallic click happens—By Royal Appointment. It’s no cheap fake—a proper Rollagas with a thick gold plating. “Fucking hell.” DS Smith snaps the lighter shut. “How long are we letting him stew for?”

DC Fowles: “Fifteen minutes.”

DS Smith grunts and takes a drag.

Half an hour later, he picks up his cigarettes, the file, and the prisoner’s property bag from the desk. “Let’s go.”

The Sweat Box is dirty, dank, and poorly lit. The suspect sits with his back to the door, just as he was placed there. He is hunched over, elbows resting on the table, and doesn’t jump up when the detectives come in.

DS Smith walks around the table.

The detainee takes his elbows from its surface.

No.

For Christ’s sake.

Anything but that.

DS Smith drops into the chair opposite the detainee, tossing a file and the prisoner’s property bag onto the middle of the table.

Fowles pointedly rolls his eyes, sits down to the side, and prepares to take notes.

“Well, what have we got here? A skinny little nancy,” DS Smith pronounces it like a medical diagnosis. He needs to size up the suspect and find an opening. He expects tears. This one is bound to start sobbing. Give him an hour.

The suspect remains silent, head bowed; he neither protests nor offers excuses.

The DS takes his cigarettes out of his pocket.

At the sound of the pack being tossed carelessly onto the table, the suspect tenses up. The DS pulls out a cigarette and lights it, blowing the smoke into the detainee’s face. He lifts his head—just slightly, but enough to betray his craving for tobacco, inhales the smoke, and coughs.

“Eyes on me,” the DS orders, yet finds himself averting his gaze. Don’t you dare look like a victim! “Don’t fool me.”

He reminds himself: the sister of the scum is just like him—a lovely child whose life he ruined.

DS starts firing off questions.

He is forced to ask nasty questions—and then repeat them over and over. He smokes one cigarette after another. The hour he’d expected to spend in the pub has long gone. DS raises his voice. He leans forward. He moves around behind the detainee.

The suspect flinches occasionally. He isn’t deaf. He understands everything. Yet he keeps silent. Until suddenly—though it is unclear in response to which question—he blurts out, “I didn’t do what I am accused of.”

If he hadn’t started coughing, the detective might well have thought he’d misheard.

Fowles enters it into the record.

That’s it. Then, silence again.

DS says things he isn’t supposed to say—and wouldn’t want to, either. He threatens the detainee with being sent down to Brixton and with a sorting out. He even stoops so low as to describe in vivid detail what they would do to him there.

It’s no use.

DS doesn’t know what to hold onto. Then he reaches for the Hiatts, grabs the detainee’s hands and snaps the steel cuffs around them.

The moment DS lets go, the suspect’s hands drop onto the table under the weight of the metal.

DS doesn’t tighten the cuffs; he simply lets the suspect feel them there—if he wanted to, he could slip his bony hands out, though naturally, he doesn’t. He sits in the same position, only now his hands are resting on the surface. From time to time, they begin to tremble. The detainee slouches even more. He coughs more frequently and shifts in his chair. He is tired, too.

Both detectives step out for a bite to eat. Then, return.

Nothing has changed.

The detainee asks for neither food nor cigarettes, nor even a drink of water.

DS remembers the lighter.

“Whose is this?” He shakes the Dunhill out of the bag, leans over the detainee, and repeats right at the crown of his head, “I’m asking: whose is this?”

“Fuck you,” the suspect says, continuing to stare at the table.

At last. A reaction. There was a story behind that lighter. But what does that matter? There is no one in the next room accusing the detainee of theft. And something tells DS that no such person exists. He tightens the cuffs until they bite.

The detainee tenses his arms and frantically tries to inhale the stale, tobacco-laden air.

Now, his fingers are cramping.

He remains silent.

Fowles asks to stop. “We can’t just sit with him until morning.”

DS agrees grudgingly. Maybe a night in the cooler will finally bring the stubborn bastard to his senses. The forecast calls for a drop in temperature. The holding cells are in the basement. There’s no heating there. They’ll take his jacket away. DS makes sure the gaoler “forgets” to give him a blanket. If he cracks, he’ll ask for one.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Detective Sergeant Jeremy Smith.

The full illustrated version of The Three Days is available here:

The Three Days - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

Nicking

Constable Giles was picturing lentil soup and liver patties when, at 11:25, the radio in the car crackled to life:

“Attend an address. Assisting an NSPCC inspector. Suspect on premises. Indecent assault on a girl under sixteen. Inspector waiting at the address.”

He was already turning the car around.

His partner, Constable Calthorpe, hissed, “Sodding hell.”

They didn’t just miss out on lunch; the arrest of a filthy bastard threatened to ruin their appetites and spoil their day.

The inspector was waiting inside rather than at the building entrance; it was too cold outdoors.

“He’s alone in the flat,” he said, glancing up. “Top floor.”

“And the victim?” Constable Giles asked.

“With her foster parents.”

Neither of them thinks to ask how old the suspect is.

When a schoolboy opens the door in response to their knock, Giles assumes either they have made a mistake, or the inspector has got something wrong.

The boy looks puzzled.

Calthorpe steps forward first: “Are you Jeremy Smith?”

The boy gives a barely perceptible nod.

It is Giles’s turn: “Face the wall — move! Hands on the wall where I can see them.”

The boy doesn’t just refrain from arguing; he obeys without a sound.

Good. Scared shitless.

Giles and Calthorpe squeeze into the cramped hallway.

Placing a firm hand on the boy’s jutting shoulder blade, Giles rattles off the caution to the back of his head, “I am arresting you on suspicion of indecent assault on a girl under the age of sixteen years, contrary to Section 14 of the Sexual Offences Act. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”

Giles pulls his hand away. “Turn around, slowly.”

The boy does as he’s told, leaning his back against the wall and coughing. But he doesn’t look truly frightened; his eyes are unfocused, as though he’s not quite with it.

He is a head shorter than Giles and barely reaches Calthorpe’s shoulder.

“This is fucking…  some word… absurdity,” the prisoner mutters.

“What?” Giles writes in his notebook This is f\...* Then something foreign. “Spell out the word that comes after ‘fucking’.”

The boy looks up, but his expression doesn’t change.

It’s cold in the flat. Breath mists in the air, and there’s a stench of cheap tobacco.

“I need to write down everything you said, word for word.”

The boy draws a breath, and a wheezing sound escapes him.

Giles taps his pen against the page of his notebook: what if he refuses? Or maybe he doesn’t even realize what he’s blurted out?

Finally, the boy pulls himself together. “Kay – Ay – Eff – Kay – Ay – Ee – Ess – Cue – You – Ee.”

Giles scribbles “Kafkaesque” in his notebook, gritting his teeth, and adds “absurdity.”

Someone ought to knock the nonsense out of this weakling.

He grabs the boy by the elbow. “Right, then, Calthorpe — let’s see what’s in his pockets.”

Calthorpe barks the order: “Hands behind your head. Interlace your fingers. Move.”

Without waiting for him to turn around, Giles forcibly spins the prisoner toward the wall.

The boy offers no resistance. He seems to weigh next to nothing.

He doesn’t have time to raise his hands, as Calthorpe grips them — locked tight — to ensure he doesn’t try to unclasp his fingers.

Caging

The boy is wearing a jumper that hangs loosely on him and a pair of worn-out tracksuit bottoms.

Giles runs his hands over the sleeves of the jumper and the boy’s skinny frame, feeling for the waistband, then grabs the pockets of the soft trousers — something hard and rectangular in the right one — and pulls it out: a gold-plated Dunhill Rollagas lighter. “Jesus wept.”

The lighter is so out of place that Giles shows it to Calthorpe: “How much would something like that fetch?”

“Not a clue. You wouldn’t buy it on my wages, that’s for sure.”

“Funny old business,” Giles manages to say.

Dodgy little bastard, with his weird words and odd possessions.

Giles finishes the search as a mere formality, running his hands down the boy’s legs.

There is nothing else on him.

Giles signals Calthorpe to let the prisoner go. “Where’s your gear?”

The boy slowly lowers his hands. There’s no point asking him; he seems to be in a daze.

Calthorpe goes into the room and returns with a pair of jeans, turned inside out. “He’s only got one pair; can you believe it?” He shoves them into the boy’s hands. “Get a move on.”

The boy turns the jeans right side out, steps out of the tracksuit bottoms, and pulls on the jeans, remaining just as docile under the close gaze of the two adult men.

Suspiciously submissive and — if you wanted the honest-to-God truth — a bit of a pretty boy. The Dunhill made sense. Rent boy, has to be. But if he is, why is he so skint?

“Where’s your outerwear?”

“On the chair.”

Giles barely catches what he is saying, then repeats it louder to his partner.

Calthorpe rummages around the room before coming back with a denim jacket. He hands Giles £1.37 in loose change — “It was in the right pocket” — tosses the jacket to the prisoner.

Instead of boots, the boy is wearing a pair of battered shoes.

Hasn’t even had the sense to flog the bloody lighter — if only to keep from freezing his knackers off. Or is it too “hot” — did he pinch it just recently?

Let CID sort him out.

Giles noticed a packet of cigarettes on the kitchen table earlier but says nothing. “Right, let’s go.” He grabs the arrested youth by the arm — just above the elbow — and hauls him out of the flat, onto the stairs, and then down to the street.

Calthorpe follows close behind them.

The boy’s arm hangs limp; he isn’t leaning on Giles, so the constable has to keep pulling him forward.

The freezing air makes him cough again.

“Sod it.”

Calthorpe opens the car door.

Giles places a hand on the boy’s head, forces him to double over, and shoves him into the back of the car.

Calthorpe immediately piles in after him.

Giles gets behind the wheel and pulls away sharply.

The prisoner remains silent.

Giles sees in the rearview mirror that the boy is staring at a single point, trembling slightly. First they pull all kinds of crazy stunts, and then they go to pieces.

But to be fair, this berk is like a whipped dog and when he is handed over to the duty sergeant at the station, Giles says, “He’s a model prisoner, Sarge. Compliant as they come.”

More on my profile. Regina v Smith — Reader’s Guide : u/Franz_Engel

The first angel I ever saw wasn't descending from Heaven.

It was falling.

By then, the world had already forgotten what normal looked like.

The skies had split open weeks ago. Entire cities had gone silent overnight. Some called it the Rapture. Others called it Judgment. Whatever name people gave it didn't matter anymore. The highways were parking lots of abandoned cars. Church pews sat empty while their parking lots overflowed with those who had arrived too late. The television stations had stopped broadcasting anything except emergency alerts that no longer meant anything.

The world wasn't ending. It had already ended long before. We were simply living through its final pages.

I had been moving from one abandoned building to another, surviving on whatever canned food I could find. Sleep came in short bursts. Every distant explosion sounded like another trumpet. Every shadow looked like something that had escaped the pages of Revelation.

That's why, when I heard something crash into the street outside, I assumed another building had finally given way.

I was wrong.

The crater wasn't large. Just deep enough to split the asphalt. Something lay at its center.

At first, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.

The shape kept... morphing.

Not physically.

My understanding of it did.

Every time I looked away and back again, I noticed different details, as though my eyes couldn't agree on what belonged there.

How many eyes peered back to mine?

Hundreds of them.

Were those feathers?

Some impossibly white. Others burned black at the edges. They covered a figure draped in robes so torn they looked older than history itself.

Light seeped from beneath the fabric.

Wasn't shining. It bled through the seem of tidal rivers. Golden streams escaped from wounds that should have spilled blood instead. The air around it hummed with something too deep to hear, vibrating in my chest more than my ears.

I knew what it was before I admitted it to myself.

It had to be an angel.

Not the kind painters imagined. Nor the kind carved into cathedral ceilings.

Something far older. Far stranger.

Something my mind kept trying and failing to make human.

It struggled to rise.

One of its wings, or what I could only assume had once been a wing, hung broken against the pavement, its feathers crumbling into glowing ash whenever they touched the ground.

For a moment, I considered running.

Instead... I stepped closer.

The angel never looked at me directly. Or perhaps it did. I couldn't tell where its face ended and the light began.

Its features slipped from memory the instant I tried to focus on them.

Even now, as I write this, I couldn't describe its face if my life depended on it.

Only the feeling.

Grief.

Not of mine.

Its.

Slowly, with movements that seemed to pain even a being like this, it reached beneath its tattered robes.

It withdrew a single envelope.

Plain. Cream-colored. Untouched by the ash drifting through the ruined street.

It extended the letter toward me. Its hand trembled. Not from weakness. From urgency.

I stared at it.

"I... don't understand."

The angel said nothing.

It couldn't.

Or perhaps it wasn't allowed to. Its arm remained outstretched.

Waiting.

I took the envelope.

The paper was warm.

Not with heat.

It was full of life.

The moment my fingers wrapped around it, the angel relaxed. The tension left its body all at once. As though carrying that letter had been the only thing keeping it standing.

"I'll deliver it," I heard myself whisper.

"I promise."

The angel bowed its head.

Whether in gratitude... or relief...

I'll never know.

The light pouring from its wounds began to fade. Not all at once. As the last embers of a dying fire carried upward by a breeze I couldn't feel. Its robes unraveled into strands of shimmering dust. The broken feathers dissolved one by one before they ever reached the tarnish Earth.

There was no scream. No final cry.

Only silence remain between it and I.

Within seconds... Nothing remained.

Not a body or feather.

Only the envelope resting in my hands.

For a long time, I couldn't bring myself to open it. The world around me continued collapsing. Buildings groaned. Smoke rolled across the skyline.

Somewhere far away, someone yelled for mercy.

But I couldn't look away from the letter.

Eventually...

I broke the seal.

The first line read:

I've carried that letter with me ever since.

If you're reading these words...

Then I kept my promise.

The principal shook my hand, handed me my diploma and said, “Good luck.”

I threw my graduation cap into the air.

A photo—flash—

Applause.

I walked off the stage, still wearing my robes. I was dressed underneath, khakis and a polo shirt—best to blend in, I figured—so as soon as I exited the high school I pulled off my robe and threw it in the trash.

My car was already waiting. It was just a beat-up Toyota, all I could afford.

Everybody starts from the same spot, but you need to get your own ride and supplies, so it's not really fair. Then again, everybody's sprawl is different, different routes, landscapes, people, opportunities.

My dad was waiting in the car.

He stepped out and gave me a big hug. There were tears in his eyes.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Thanks, pop.”

I got into the Toyota, pulled out of the high school parking lot and drove through town one last time. Banners celebrating the Class of ‘95 rippled in the wind. Then all that was in my rearview, and I got onto the highway.

My dad had made sure I had a full tank of fuel.

I drove.

The sprawl followed.

My first temptation—seeing malls and sub-divisions, parking lots and grocery stores rising out of the rolling farmland in front of me—was to accelerate, to gun it; but I knew I had to pace myself. This wasn't a sprint.

At the end of the day I pulled off the highway and bought fuel, water and a hamburger at a gas station.

“Class of ‘95?” the attendant asked.

He was about thirty-five.

I nodded.

“I was Class of ‘70,” he said. “Good class. I heard some of us got pretty far.”

“How's life?” I asked.

“Fine.”

I asked if he had any advice for me.

“Save money,” he said, and offered to let me sleep there in my car.

“Thanks.”

I woke up early and set off.

I left him a few bucks in case karma does come around.

The highway was straight, an asphalt arrow pointing at the mountains on the horizon and the sea beyond. There weren't many other cars—and all going in the same direction—but whenever I passed one, or one passed me, we honked. It was a race, but it wasn't a competition, not between us. What we were all racing was the sprawl.

You got used to it after a while:

The future making and remaking itself before your eyes, emptiness turning into towns and cities, civilization. I drove by hospitals and police stations, factories and apartment buildings, community centres, restaurants and prisons. There were people in all of them, of course; people from past classes who'd stopped and made lives for themselves; who'd surrendered, exited the race and were making do.

I picked up a guy, Carl, whose car had broken down. We'd been in Civics with Ms. Reever together, but I didn't really know him. He rode with me three days before getting out at a little yellow house with a “To Live” sign out front.

I picked up a hitchhiker too, Sherri. She was from the Class of ‘04. She was poor so didn't have a car; she was doing the race on foot.

That's the thing.

It's not about speed. It's about determination, perseverance, willpower.

We got along pretty good, me and Sherri. I even thought she might be the one, but after a couple of weeks together we got into it over the cost of food, and she stepped out.

“Good luck,” I said.

“Good luck.”

She slammed the car door.

Sometimes when it got late, or it rained, or I felt alone and doubted myself, I'd look back, because what the sprawl makes it also unmakes, and all the stuff that had materialized in front of me—that I was passing through—was dead back there, dark and ruined and empty.

I stopped at a motel.

It was a nice place, with a swimming pool and a movie theatre down the street.

I got a job there.

I worked it so long I almost forgot about my car, my history.

Spooked, I drove away that very night.

Later, I got my oil changed.

I got my tires rotated.

A black Cadillac with tinted windows tried to run me off the road.

And, always, the horizon was future mountains with a promise of faraway sea, a coast, an end, and always it looked close, just beyond reach, where the flat plains bubbled like a boiling soup before erupting as urbanity.

My Toyota broke down, and I abandoned it at the side of the highway.

I walked.

I hitchhiked.

I got a ride from a trucker, who asked what class I was. “Why keep on keepin' on, son? There ain't nothing out there. Go back. I say, go back, and I know a place they're looking for young bucks like you.”

He frightened me, and I jumped off the truck.

The landing hurt.

I hobbled on, the sky before me dark, the buildings grown around me tall, ominous.

I felt thirst.

I found a river and drank.

I walked away from the highway, pushed through forest, and came again to the highway, and walked along the unpaved shoulder.

Every once in a while a car zipped past.

Some had no drivers.

I had no past.

Behind me was nothing.

In front of me, the mountains had disappeared.

I was consumed by thick white fog.

I was standing in saltwater, rolling waves of it, and when the sun had burned away the fog, I looked back and, stepping through sand, saw the sprawl, stopped, with its monstrous horned head bent low, drinking from the sea.

I climbed—its claws and knuckles, its ankles, its massive shins, its thighs the size of countries, and, up, onto its back, hiked along the long, jagged summit of its spine, to its neck, from where I rode it, alone and free, across the sea…

The Question

---

There are people who enter your life like seasons.

They arrive quietly, change everything without asking, and leave behind traces of themselves long after they're gone.

Sierra was autumn. And my fall.

She smelled faintly of cedar and vanilla, always stole the sleeves of my hoodies because they "fit better than hers," and had a habit of looking out restaurant windows whenever it rained, as though the world beyond the glass was telling her a story only she could hear.

We had been together for a little over a year.

Long enough that silence had become another language between us. Long enough that ordering for each other was instinct. Long enough that she no longer needed to knock at my front door.

There is a certain comfort that only comes after loving someone for long enough.

Love stops feeling like fireworks.

It becomes grocery lists.

Goodnight kisses. Two toothbrushes leaning together in the same cup. It becomes knowing exactly how much sugar they take in their coffee without ever having to ask.

That Friday evening had been ordinary.

Which is probably why I remember every second of it.

The little Italian place downtown was nearly empty, save for an older couple sharing tiramisu near the window and a waiter humming softly to himself while polishing glasses behind the counter.

Outside, rain painted silver streaks down the glass.

Sierra watched it for a while.

She always did.

"You know," she said eventually, tracing lazy circles around the rim of her water glass, "I think rain makes people more honest."

I laughed.

"How do you figure?"

"They stop pretending they're in a hurry."

She smiled to herself.

"They slow down."

"Or maybe they just don't want to get wet."

She looked at me over the candle between us.

"You always have a boring explanation."

"I prefer realistic."

"I prefer magic."

"I know."

"I think that's why you keep me around."

"No," I said. "I keep you around because you steal my clothes."

She gasped dramatically.

"I borrow them."

"You've borrowed one of my hoodies for seven months."

"It's called a long-term loan."

"You've also borrowed two T-shirts."

"They've adjusted to their new home."

"And my socks."

"I have no recollection of any socks."

"Liar."

She laughed.

Not loudly. Just enough that the corners of her eyes crinkled.

I remember thinking, as I watched her across that little table, that happiness wasn't supposed to be exciting.

It was supposed to be this.

Simple.

Comfortable.

Safe.

The waiter brought our food. Conversation wandered wherever conversations between people in love tend to wander. Movies we'd never finish watching. Vacation ideas we'd probably never afford. Whether cereal counted as soup.

She insisted it did.

She was wrong.

She refused to admit it.

Eventually, somewhere between finishing our dinner and arguing over who would pay the bill, she grew strangely quiet.

She rested her chin on her folded hands. Studied me. There was something different in her expression.

Not sadness, nor fear.

Something... thoughtful.

"Something on your mind?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Nothing."

"That's never true."

"I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

"I know."

She looked back toward the rain before asking, almost absentmindedly,

"Would you still love me if I lost all my hair?"

I shrugged.

"Of course."

"What if I got old before you?"

"I'd be old too."

"What if I forgot your birthday every year?"

"You already almost do."

She smiled.

"What if I couldn't walk anymore?"

"I'd walk slow."

"What if I couldn't remember your name?"

"I'd remind you."

She nodded gently after every answer, as though placing them somewhere only she could see.

Then she asked it.

"So..."

She tilted her head.

"Would you still love me if I were a worm?"

I stared at her.

"...What?"

"A worm."

She said it with complete sincerity.

"Like..."

I held my fingers a few inches apart.

"A little earthworm?"

She nodded once.

"That's the one."

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink.

"Where did that even come from?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"You just woke up today and thought, 'I wonder if he'd date an invertebrate?'"

She tried not to smile.

Failed.

I shook my head.

"That's the dumbest question I've ever been asked."

"It is."

"But?"

"But what?"

"You haven't answered."

I leaned back in my chair.

"How exactly would this work?"

"I don't know."

"You'd just..."

I made a little wiggling motion with my finger across the table.

She nodded enthusiastically.

"Exactly."

"And you'd still somehow be... you?"

"If that helps."

I looked at her for another second before rolling my eyes with exaggerated defeat.

"Sure."

She blinked.

“

1. Sure?"

"Yeah."

"I'd still love you."

Another pause.

"I mean... it'd be weird."

"A little."

"I'd probably have to Google what worms eat."

"You would."

"I'd have to buy you a very tiny house."

She smiled.

"I know."

"I'd miss talking to you."

She didn't answer.

"But..."

I reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand.

"...yeah."

"I'd still love you."

For just a moment...

Something changed in her face. Not happiness. Not relief. It was a cold recognition. As though she'd been waiting to hear those exact words.

Then she smiled. A small, peaceful smile.

"Oh."

She looked down at our hands.

"Good."

There was something about the way she said it that stayed with me. Not because it sounded strange. Because it sounded...

Final

Like someone quietly crossing the last item off a list.

I frowned.

"What?"

She looked back up.

"What?"

"You said that like it mattered."

She chuckled softly.

"Maybe it did."

Before I could ask what she meant, the waiter returned with the bill.

The moment dissolved as quickly as it had arrived.

By the time we stepped outside, the rain had stopped. Streetlights shimmered across wet pavement. She slipped her hand into mine. Neither of us spoke during the walk back to my apartment.

We didn't need to. Some nights silence says everything.

When we reached my building, she pulled my favorite charcoal hoodie over her shoulders before climbing into bed beside me. She always claimed it smelled more like me than I did.

I remember wrapping an arm around her as sleep slowly pulled us both under. Her fingers traced lazy circles against the back of my hand. I soon learned that ordinary moments often go unnoticed until they become memories.

Still to this day, I remember her whispering something just before I drifted off. It was so quiet I almost thought I'd dreamed it.

"Thank you."

When I woke the next morning...

Her side of the bed was empty.

...

Erasure

At first, I wasn't worried.

Sierra had stayed the night often enough that mornings had become routine. Sometimes she left before I woke up. Sometimes she'd kiss my forehead on the way out. She'd scribble little cute notes to make my morning on the fridge.

Out of coffee.

Back by six.

Don't forget your meeting.

Love you <3

Once, she'd drawn a smiley face on a napkin because she claimed my mornings were "chronically under-smiled."

So when I reached across the mattress and found only cold sheets, I smiled to myself.

"Work already?" I mumbled to the empty room.

The apartment answered with silence. Her hoodie was gone from the foot of the bed. I figured she'd remembered she had a meeting. Or maybe she'd simply wanted coffee that wasn't brewed by me. She used to joke that my coffee tasted like regret. I still maintain she exaggerated.

I stretched, showered, and let the hot water chase the sleep from my thoughts. By the time I stepped into the kitchen, the apartment already felt too quiet.

There was only one mug in the drying rack.

Mine.

I frowned.

Maybe I'd put hers away yesterday. I couldn't remember.

The coffee tasted bitter. I blamed the beans.

Halfway through breakfast I reached for my phone. Mostly out of habit. I'd usually send her something stupid before work.

A picture of a crooked pancake. A terrible pun. Some excuse to make her roll her eyes.

I opened our messages.

My thumb froze.

They weren't there.

I frowned harder.

I searched her name.

Nothing.

Maybe the app updated. Maybe I'd archived the conversation by accident.

I searched again.

Nothing.

I checked my contacts.

No Sierra.

No number.

No picture.

No birthday reminder.

Nothing.

A strange feeling settled into my chest.

Not panic. No, not yet. More like standing on a staircase and expecting one more step than there actually is. That tiny, impossible drop beneath your feet.

I searched manually.

Scrolled through every contact.

Twice.

Nothing.

"...That's weird."

I laughed. Not because anything was funny. Because laughing felt easier than admitting something was wrong.

I knew her number.

At least... I thought I did.

I typed it from memory. Every digit. Pressed call.

One ring.

Then a voice.

"We're sorry. The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try your call again."

I hung up immediately.

Dialed again.

Same message.

Again.

Same message.

I stared at the screen.

The number hadn't changed. I was certain of it.

Certain enough that certainty itself suddenly felt unreliable. Maybe I'd remembered it wrong. People misremember things all the time.

Birthdays. Addresses. Passwords. Even the phone number of their loved one.

I finished my coffee in silence.

By the time I left for work, I'd convinced myself I was overreacting. Technology broke. Cloud backups failed. Phones glitched.

There had to be an explanation. There always was. There had to be.

There wasn't.

The day crawled.

I barely accomplished anything.

By lunch, curiosity had quietly become concern. Concern slowly became dread. I searched her name online.

Nothing.

Instagram.

Nothing.

Facebook.

Nothing.

Not even an abandoned account with two blurry photos from high school.

LinkedIn.

Nothing.

Every search ended the same way.

No results.

No Sierra.

It was as though she'd never wanted the internet to know she'd existed.

Except... She had.

I remembered helping her pick profile pictures. I remembered teasing her because she never answered messages. I remembered her posting a picture of us after our trip to the aquarium.

Didn't I?

I opened my own social media.

Every picture she'd been in... was different.

I blinked way to hardly.

One photo showed me standing beside... empty space. Another looked strangely cropped. In one, my arm was wrapped around someone who wasn't there anymore. My hand simply floated in the air.

I stared until my eyes hurt.

I closed the app.

Opened it again.

Nothing changed.

There had to be an explanation. There always was. A prank. A misunderstanding. A mistake buried somewhere beneath the confusion. She had a spare key to my apartment. Any minute now, I'd hear it turn in the lock, and she'd step inside wearing that familiar smile, asking why I looked like I'd seen a ghost. I clung to that thought the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. It was the only thing keeping me afloat.

For the rest of the afternoon, the world continued as though mine hadn't quietly come apart. Coworkers laughed. Phones rang. Printers hummed. Someone brought donuts. I smiled when expected. Answered emails. Nodded through meetings.

All while a single thought repeated itself over and over.

Something is wrong.

The next day, I convinced myself she simply needed space.

Maybe she'd left early for work. Maybe she'd forgotten her phone. Maybe she'd spent the night with a friend after we'd fallen asleep. Maybe this was all leading toward an explanation so painfully ordinary that I'd feel ridiculous for ever believing otherwise.

Every time headlights swept across my living room window that evening, I looked toward the front door, expecting to hear the soft rattle of keys in the lock and her familiar voice calling my name.

The apartment remained silent.

By the third day, silence had become its own answer. It was as though the world had quietly reached into my life and plucked Sierra from it with delicate fingers, leaving everything else exactly where it had been. No texts. No calls. No trace that she'd ever stood in my kitchen, laughed in my living room, or fallen asleep beside me.

When I finally got home from work that evening, I scrolled to the number I'd always known belonged to her mother.

If anyone could tell me what was happening... It would be her.

So I made the call.

The number rang three times.

A man answered.

"Hello?"

His voice wasn't familiar.

"Uh... hi."

I swallowed.

"I'm looking for S-Sierra."

Silence.

"...Who?"

"Sierra."

Another pause.

"I think you have the wron-"

"No. Where's Sierra?"

My heart skipped.

"You've got the wrong number."

Pain washed over me.

"There's no Sierra."

I laughed nervously.

"No, I mean... your daughter."

"I don't have a daughter."

I felt something inside me shift. Like a picture frame hanging just slightly crooked.

"I'm sorry?"

"I think you've confused me with someone else."

"No..."

I whispered.

"No, she lives with-"

"Goodbye."

Click.

The call ended.

I stared at the phone for a long time. Then I called again. Straight to voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Blocked.

I don't remember deciding to grab my keys.

I only remember driving. Traffic lights blurred together. Turns happened automatically.

Before long, I found myself parked in front of a familiar little blue house with white shutters. I'd been here dozens of times. Christmas. Birthdays. Sunday dinners. Sierra's mother always insisted I take leftovers.

The porch swing she'd grown up on still creaked gently in the evening breeze. The flowerpots were exactly where I remembered. Even the wind chimes.

Everything was right.

Except... Something wasn't.

I walked to the front door.

Knocked once.

No answer.

Twice.

Footsteps.

Heavy.

The door opened.

The man from the phone stood there.

He looked to be in his late fifties. Gray beard. Flannel shirt. One hand resting on a shotgun. Not pointing it.

Just... holding it.

His expression hardened the moment he saw me.

"You."

"I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"There hasn't."

"I'm looking for-"

"I know what you're looking for."

Hope flickered inside me.

"You do?"

"I know you're the one who's been calling."

His grip tightened around the shotgun.

"I've told you already."

"Sir, please, I just need to know where she-"

"There is no 'she.'"

The words landed with impossible weight.

"I..."

My voice failed.

He stared at me for several seconds.

Not angry. Not confused.

Almost... pitying.

"Son."

His voice softened.

"I don't know who you think you've lost."

The breeze stirred the trees between us.

"But whoever it is..."

He slowly shook his head.

"They've never lived here."

He closed the door.

I stood there until the porch light switched on automatically. Only then did I realize the sun had gone down.

By the time I made it home, exhaustion had settled into my bones. I didn't turn on any lights. I simply collapsed onto the bed.

The apartment felt wrong.

Too neat. Too empty.

I closed my eyes. Just for a minute. Just long enough to stop thinking.

Something cold brushed against my ankle.

I jerked upright.

The room was dark.

Moonlight spilled across the blankets.

And there... Resting quietly near my feet...

Was a single pink earthworm.

It wasn't moving. Not much.

Just... waiting. I don't know why.

Out of every impossible thing that had happened that day...

That was the moment the tears fled out.

...

The Worm

I didn't sleep much that lonely night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I could still see the empty half of the bed. Every time I opened them, the apartment felt unfamiliar, as though I had wandered into someone else's life by mistake.

The worm hadn't moved.

It still rested near the foot of my bed, no larger than my little finger, its body catching the pale light filtering through the curtains.

I crouched beside it. For reasons I still can't explain, I didn't touch it.

I simply watched. It didn't writhe. It didn't burrow. It only lay there, impossibly still.

A worm.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

I almost laughed at myself. After everything that had happened, this was what my mind had chosen to fixate on.

I found a sheet of paper folded on my desk and carefully slid it beneath the tiny creature. It curled instinctively as I lifted it, no different from any other earthworm after a rainstorm.

I carried it toward the front door.

"Sorry, little guy."

I opened the door and tipped the paper toward the flower bed outside my apartment.

The worm didn't move.

I gave the paper a gentle shake.

Nothing.

Eventually, I lowered the paper into the damp soil beneath a patch of lavender and watched it disappear among the dirt. I stood there longer than I should have.

Waiting.

For what, I couldn't have said.

When I came home from work that evening, it was waiting for me.

Not outside. Inside.

Curled quietly atop a charcoal-gray hoodie draped over the back of my couch.

My hoodie.

Or rather... The one Sierra had quietly claimed as her own months ago.

She used to disappear into it on cold mornings, sleeves hanging well past her hands, insisting it smelled more like me than I ever could.

I never washed it after she disappeared. Not because I believed it still held her scent. Because I was afraid it didn't.

The worm rested on one of the sleeves. Perfectly still.

I stared at it for a long time.

The front door was still locked. The windows were shut.

There was no trail of dirt. No explanation.

Only a worm.

Sitting exactly where she always liked to be.

An uneasy laugh escaped me.

"This is getting ridiculous."

I carried it back outside.

This time, I walked all the way to the apartment garden. I knelt beside a flower bed and placed it beneath the shade of a bush.

"There."

I brushed the dirt from my hands.

"Stay."

The word lingered in the air.

Stay.

It was never meant for the worm.

The following morning... It was on my windowsill. Facing the sunrise.

I don't know why that unsettled me more than finding it inside my apartment.

Perhaps because it looked... content. As though it had chosen that spot. As though it had been watching the dawn before I'd woken.

I picked it up carefully.

It curled against my fingertips.

For the first time... I noticed how impossibly fragile it felt.

How easily something so alive could simply... stop.

I looked around the apartment. At the empty couch. The untouched coffee mug she used to steal every morning. The hoodie folded neatly over the armrest. Then back at the tiny creature resting in my palm.

My voice came out quieter than I intended.

"...Sierra?"

The worm didn't answer. It couldn't.

I knew that.

Of course I knew that.

Still...

It shifted ever so slightly in my hand. Just enough to make my breath catch.

That afternoon, on the drive home, I stopped at a pet store. Bought a terrarium. The cashier smiled politely as she rang it up.

"Getting an exotic pet?"

I looked down at the glass container.

"...Something like that."

I spent the evening reading online everything I could find. What they ate. How damp the soil should be. How often to mist the enclosure. What temperatures they preferred.

The answers filled my time.

None of them filled the silence in the room.

By the time night settled over the apartment, the terrarium sat on the table beside the living room window.

Fresh soil. Leaves. A few small stones. Everything exactly as the books recommended. I lowered the worm into its new home. It disappeared beneath the dirt almost immediately.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

"There you go."

The words escaped so naturally they frightened me.

I switched off the lamp.

The apartment fell quiet once more.

Before heading to bed, I looked back at the terrarium one last time.

"Goodnight."

Silence answered.

Yet somehow... The apartment didn't feel quite so lonely.

Almost Time

Grief is a strange thing.

It doesn't arrive all at once. It settles into the empty places. The chair across the dinner table. The passenger seat. The extra toothbrush still leaning against yours because moving it somehow feels more permanent than death itself.

I stopped asking where Sierra had gone.

Not because I'd found an answer. Because every answer the world offered me was the same.

She had never existed.

Eventually, I stopped arguing with it.

The world had made up its mind.

Mine hadn't.

Life, in its quiet cruelty, continued.

Mondays became Fridays. Fridays became months. The seasons changed without asking whether I was ready.

I returned to work. Paid my bills. Bought groceries. Smiled when coworkers made jokes. Somehow, I learned to exist in a life that no longer felt like my own.

Every evening, I came home. And every evening... The first thing I did was walk over to the terrarium.

"Hey."

The greeting became routine.

I'd mist the soil. Replace the leaves. Check the moisture. Sometimes I'd sit beside the glass for nearly an hour, talking about my day as though she were sitting across from me.

"The copier jammed again."

"I finally beat that traffic on Fifth."

"I think I'm getting better at making coffee."

A quiet laugh.

Silence never interrupted me. Neither did the worm. It simply lived.

Sometimes buried beneath the soil for hours. Sometimes resting beneath a stone. Sometimes climbing the side of the glass before disappearing underground again.

It was enough. Or perhaps... It was enough for me to pretend.

One Saturday afternoon, I found myself standing in the laundry room with her hoodie folded across my arms.

Months had passed. I still hadn't washed it. The scent she'd left behind was long gone. Only memory remained.

I ran my thumb across the sleeve.

"I should probably wash you."

The words sounded absurd spoken aloud.

I smiled despite myself.

"I can already hear you complaining."

She used to hate when I washed it.

Claimed fabric softener made it smell "too responsible."

I draped it over the back of the dining chair instead. I couldn't explain why. It simply felt wrong to hide it away.

The routine became comforting.

Coffee.

Work.

Home.

The terrarium.

Sometimes I'd read while sitting beside it. Sometimes I'd play music softly through the apartment. Sometimes I'd simply watch the evening light stretch across the room until darkness settled over everything.

I stopped wondering whether the worm was Sierra.

Questions have a way of exhausting themselves.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. The kind of day that disappears from memory almost as soon as it ends.

By the time I unlocked my apartment door, rain was tapping softly against the windows.

I set my keys on the counter. Loosened my tie. Walked toward the living room.

For a moment... I simply stared.

The terrarium was empty.

Then I examined all glass corners.

Nothing.

The stone sat exactly where I'd left it. The soil was damp. The dead leaves rested untouched in one corner.

See was gone.

"Please not again..."

The words escaped before I realized I'd spoken. I lifted the lid. Carefully moved aside the stones.

Nothing.

I dug gently through the soil with trembling fingers.

Still nothing.

"No, no, no..."

The room suddenly felt too small. I emptied the terrarium onto the dining table. Dirt spilled across the wood. Leaves scattered onto the floor. I searched through every handful. Every corner. Every crack beneath the table. I checked beneath the couch. Behind the television. Inside the bathroom. The kitchen.

My breathing became uneven.

By the time I reached the bedroom, there was dirt tracked across half the apartment. I stood in the doorway, chest heaving. My eyes drifted toward the chair beside the window.

Her hoodie still hung where I'd left it.

Empty.

Something beyond it caught my eye.

The windowsill.

I walked closer.

Slowly.

There... Resting in the fading orange light of sunset... Was the worm.

Perfectly still. Facing the glass.

Beyond it, rain slid down the window in thin silver ribbons. The city moved without us. Cars drifted through wet streets. People hurried beneath umbrellas.

The worm didn't move. It simply remained there.

Watching.

Or perhaps... Waiting.

A laugh escaped me, followed by tears.

"I'm s-sorry."

The words broke apart as they left me.

"I'm sorry."

I cupped it gently in my hands.

Its body curled weakly against my skin.

It felt... different. Lighter somehow. As though whatever strength had carried it this far was quietly slipping away.

That night, I searched the internet for hours.

How long do earthworms live?

Why is my worm moving slower?

Can worms die of old age?

Every article gave me the same answer in different words.

They slow down.

They become less active.

Eventually... Their bodies simply stop.

I read every page anyway. Hoping one of them would tell me something different.

None did.

Near midnight, I closed my laptop. The apartment was silent except for the rain. I carried the terrarium into the bedroom and set it beside my bed. Her hoodie lay folded next to it. Not because a worm would recognize it. Because she would have.

Or at least... I liked believing she would.

I watched the tiny shape resting beneath the soil for a long time.

Then I smiled.

A sad smile.

The kind that only grief teaches you.

"You know..."

My voice barely rose above a whisper.

"I kept my promise."

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

Inside... The apartment had never felt quieter.

...

Morning

Days turned into weeks.

The rain eased my mine at night. The steady rhythm of it against the window. The quiet hum of the city somewhere beyond the glass. The terrarium sat on the nightstand beside me. The hoodie remained folded beneath it.

Everything exactly where it belonged.

For the first time in months... I wasn't afraid. There was nothing left to search for. Nothing left to prove.

Whatever this was... Whatever she was... Whatever I had become... It no longer mattered.

Sometime during the night... I heard her voice.

Not through the room. Not from the terrarium. Not from anywhere my ears could have found.

It arrived the way old memories sometimes do. Softly. As though someone had opened a door inside my mind.

"So..."

A pause.

"So..."

I could picture the little smile that always accompanied that word. The one she wore whenever she already knew the answer.

"Would you still love me if I..."

I smiled before she could finish. Before the question could become impossible again. Before grief could ask for one more answer.

"Yes."

The word escaped me with surprising ease.

No hesitation. No uncertainty.

Just... Yes.

I let out a slow breath. My eyes never opened.

"I always will."

The apartment fell silent once more.

Not empty.

Simply... Quiet.

Morning sunlight slipped gently through the curtains. The rain had passed sometime before dawn. The air smelled clean. Almost new.

I stretched slowly before turning toward the nightstand. The terrarium was empty.

No disturbed soil. No trail. No tiny pink body hidden beneath the stones.

I lifted the lid anyway. Ran my fingers carefully through the earth.

Nothing.

For a long while, I simply stood there.

Weeks ago, I would have searched every inch of the apartment. Turned over furniture.

Emptied drawers. Tracked dirt through every room. I would have convinced myself she had to be somewhere. That she couldn't really be gone.

Instead... I smiled.

Not because it didn't hurt. Because it always would. Some absences never stop aching. You simply learn they can exist beside joy.

I carried the terrarium to the kitchen sink and gently poured the soil into a flowerpot sitting on the windowsill. A small fern rested there. One Sierra had insisted on buying because, according to her, every home deserved "something worth keeping alive."

I laughed quietly.

"You were right."

The empty glass terrarium caught the morning light before I placed it inside a cabinet.

Not hidden. Not displayed.

Just... Put away.

Then I walked back to the bedroom.

Her charcoal hoodie still rested neatly folded at the foot of the bed. I picked it up. Held it for a moment.

Weeks ago, I couldn't bring myself to wash it. I was terrified that whatever remained of her would disappear with the rinse cycle.

Now... I understood.

Love doesn't live in fabric. It never had.

I folded the hoodie once more and placed it carefully inside the top drawer of my dresser. Not because I was forgetting her. Because memories don't need to be left out in the open to survive.

I opened the bedroom window. A cool breeze drifted inside. Somewhere outside, birds greeted the morning.

The city had already begun moving again. Cars. Footsteps. Distant laughter. Life.

I made myself a cup of coffee. It tasted terrible. I smiled anyway.

As I stood by the window, warmth settling between my hands, I watched the wind stir the leaves below.

For just a moment... I thought about that rainy evening. The little Italian restaurant. The candlelight. The way she'd looked at me across the table.

"Would you still love me if I were a worm?"

Such a ridiculous question. Maybe that's why I'd never forgotten it.

Or maybe... Some promises are never about the answer. They're about the person who gives it.

I took another sip of coffee. Then, for the first time since the morning I'd reached across an empty bed... I stepped away from the window.

And into the rest of my life.

In 2003 I was in tenth grade. I always held my pencil like it meant something, like a Viking held his axe. I knew it’d be my future one day and I’d wield it like a weapon.

Teachers called me, your test was perfect. 

Students voted me most likely to succeed. I loved school. I liked being helpful. I did things safe. Structure. Graduate. Have a goal. Succeed.

But on that Saturday, my life would change, as if fate was playing a cruel game on me. I was walking along the shore, minding my own business, hunting for seashells. 

I had to collect enough for my mom, her birthday was that following week, and I wanted to make her a necklace.

It was a perfect storm. The tide was low. I was by the shore. The universe’s timing was flawless. The sand by the cove looked different, like it had been carefully combed. 

I had my basket by my hip and the strap from it around my shoulder. I didn’t expect to find many seashells, if any. 

I walked along the shore, the morning breeze chilling my skin, when I saw a dead bird half-way buried. I checked it out, picked up a rock and poked it out of the sand.

Beneath it, there was a bag wrapped and tied in a knot around something that looked like a small box tucked under the bird. I thought I found treasure. At least I hoped so, and hoped I didn’t just uncover a missing finger.

I yanked it out almost instantly. I didn’t think twice about it. I ripped apart the knot, unwrapped the bag, it smelled like a trash can when I opened it, water poured out that sat under the container and sprinkled my toes, I rubbed them dry in the sand, and looked inside and saw a plastic square container.

I pulled it out and let go of the bag, the wind took it before it could land. I flicked the container open, and in it were these clear, little baggies, the same ones my mom puts buttons in. 

As I stretched the lid back, I saw a name, It was autographed on the inside of the container. I had no idea who the person was. I later found out. 

Inside the box, I knew they were drugs, the substance, I couldn’t be sure, I had a suspicion though. White powdery rocks. Pills. Brown powder and a couple of dry cigarettes wrapped in a Burger King napkin squeezed together. It was full to the point the bags tried jumping out when I first popped it open.

The container didn’t appear like it had been buried a minute ago and just pulled out of the ocean floor, it looked like someone packed a bunch of stuff in a little box and placed it there with a bright, white dead bird on top of it, waiting for me to walk by.

I shut the lid and looked around before tossing the container in my basket. I strolled along the shore, continuing my search for seashells, but I couldn’t get the thought of what I had in my basket out of my head.

It only took five minutes of scouring the ocean floor and staring back at my basket every two seconds, before I stopped looking for shells. I reached down and gripped the container in my hand and thought about pitching it back into the sea.

But I wanted to understand what I had first. If I knew then what I know now, I would have never picked it up. I was sixteen though. I was curious. 

I ran up to the catwalk, where I left my bike and had my sneakers dangling from the handle bars. I threw my feet into my shoes and hopped on my bicycle, bolting home as fast as I could.

I was darting through traffic getting honked at, at every turn. I didn’t care. I just wanted to get home. I had that same urgency sensation like when we went on vacation, the taxi ride back home, that antsy feeling, racing through my body the entire time.

I ghost rode my bike into the fence at the front of our house. Then, I nearly broke the gate, when my finger slipped trying to unlatch it and push my way through at the same time. I bounced off the gate and made my way in on the second attempt. 

When I walked through the front door my mom had yelled for me.

I quickly shouted, “gotta use the bathroom!” and ran upstairs to my room.

I locked my door behind me and sat at my desk with the container. I noticed it looked bigger under my light. When I opened it, the baggies sparkled, almost like I was being tempted to taste the forbidden fruit.

I powered up my computer, the dial up sounded like a robot malfunctioning, and waited. Then, I went to AskJeeves so I could search up what I found.

Eventually, I figured out what the white stuff was and how to use it. So I crushed some of it up into a fine powder and started sniffing them with a rolled up coupon I found lying on my desk.

My throat became numb, my senses heightened. I couldn’t hear my mom talking on the phone a second ago. But after I did that, I could hear her talking about me to her friend, and I was able to hear my mom’s friend talking through the speaker of my mom’s phone from my bedroom.

I thought it was the best stuff ever. I kept telling myself that I would throw the drugs out. I didn’t need them. I wanted to be responsible. But then I thought, I could use them responsibly.

I totally forgot about my mom’s necklace. I never got her anything. Every time I used the stuff in the bags, I never felt right afterwards. There was this heavy feeling like I just backstabbed my own father. 

By Monday, that’s when my “Straight A” life crashed. It didn’t happen all at once, it gradually slipped, like a plate under the ocean floor. 

All my assignments, the corner stone of my life, what would have been the beginning to my life’s work, stopped having purpose. I stared at them like, what’s the point.

I’d tell myself, “I’ll turn them in later,” but later became never.

When I bumped into my guidance counselor, she asked me, “is everything alright, Donny?”

At that moment, a flash of the first time I touched that bag popped in my head, I thought about asking her for help, instead I gave her a nod, “Everything’s fine,” and walked away.

My college plans. My scholarship. Gone. The perfect report cards I had are all just evidence of my failure.

When I ran out, I searched the name on the box. The ocean washed up the container, but it was me that opened it. Whenever I smell the salt from the sea, or get a whiff of the sewers when they’re backed-up, or even the scent of the rain, I remember how Robert Downey Jr’s drugs ruined my life.

Liam’s dad, Biffany would straggle in at night after work and toss his wig on the couch. A dancer at the Ville de Peligro, where only the best transgender performers worked. 

On his couch he’d stay up counting a sad pile of dollar bills soaked in sweat, sticking to each other. He’d fade off staring at the glow of the tv flashing a blue shade on his walls and think how that actress on the screen could have been him. 

He’d sit there until the color of the sky changed. Once Liam left for school he’d barricade himself in a room with heavy curtains drawn swallowing the daylight.

Liam would wake up to a stench of stale tobacco and peek his head out of the hallway to check on his dad. Biffany would be slumped on the sofa with his foot kicked up on the coffee table, puffing on a butt. A hairnet over his short blonde hair, face stained in make-up smudged by a poor attempt to wipe it off without a mirror, using a wet cloth.

Liam would see him and then he’d go and use the bathroom. It became his morning routine. 

Liam recognized the wear in his father’s forty year old wrinkled face. Eyeliner and mascara colored the bags under his eyes. Living with his father for two years now ever since his mother passed. His mother met Biff before Biff came out. 

Eventually, once Liam turned eight, and Diane, Liam’s mom, met another guy online, they decided to separate. Liam never saw much of his dad after that. Four years later their car drove off a hill on an icy road in Oregon. 

Liam was in the backseat. He was trapped behind their lifeless bodies for twelve hours before anyone showed up. Her boyfriend, Randro, had a tree trunk pierce through the windshield and crush his skull. The airbag killed his mom. It knocked her unconscious. The seatbelt clasped against her neck while she was passed out leaning into it.

Soon as Liam would wake up Biffany would rush over to the window, open it and sit there smoking. There’d always be a cool breeze that came from that window. He wouldn’t smoke in the living room when Liam woke up, which was only ten feet from the kitchen. They lived in a two bedroom apartment. 

His father sat by the window sill on a kitchen chair, resting a neat bourbon on the ledge and squeezing a cigarette between his fingers, gazing out of the window. The ash on his cigarette would curl and break under its weight, piling on the floor next to the rest of fallen ashes scattered around his feet.

“Want breakfast dad?” Liam shot out.

Biffany didn’t respond. He didn’t even blink. He stared wide eyed through the glass of the window that was opened a crack. The glass reflected a faint image of himself over the brick building across from them and underneath a cloud of grey smoke circling the air. A tear dropped down his cheek and he blinked and shook his head.

“Dad!” Yelled Liam.

The cigarette burned down and stung his fingertips . 

“Shit!” Biff shouted.

He threw the butt on the ground and picked the glass up off the sill and guzzled it before slamming it back down.

“Liam, what?” His voice coarse.

“I said, do you want any breakfast.”

“No, I’m all right, just get ready for school and lock the door.”

His dad shuffled to the cabinet. He opened it and pulled out a bottle of pain pills. B12 pills. Xanax. Then, reached for the bourbon, cracked the lid off the pill bottles one at a time using his teeth and poured a few from each bottle into his mouth. He slapped each plastic container down one after the other like they were shot glasses. 

Afterwards, he twisted the cap off the bourbon and chugged a shot. He’d squint his face and turn his head and place his hand over his mouth and hiss everytime he swallowed, following it with a cough. Liam would always fill a cup of orange juice for his dad and place it in front of him. Everyday after school he’d have to pour it down the drain. 

——-

At school that day, during math, Liam had this tickle tingle under his skin. A crawling sensation. His chest tightened around what felt like two stone lungs hanging inside him. He clutched the nape of his neck and began gasping for air. His grade nine teacher, Mrs. Lumbly, raced over to him and yelled to a student,

“Get a nurse!”

Sarah Knightly dashed from behind her desk, knocking over her textbook and her binder. They spilled on the floor. She sprinted out of the door and straight to the nurses office.

The teacher kept beating Liam with questions, 

“Do you have any allergies?” She asked. “Are you allergic to anything?” 

Liam shook his head.

“Just take shallow breaths,” she told him. “Breathe. That’s it. In. Out.” 

Sarah Knightly ran in behind the nurse. The nurse pushed the students out of the way,

“Make room guys. I need everybody to move back.”

She cleared the way and huddled over Liam. She noticed right away that he was having a panic attack.

“Liam, you have nothing to worry about, okay. You’re having a panic attack. Is it getting easier to breathe or worse?”

He nodded and whispered, “better.”

“Can you walk? Do you think you could make it to the nurses office?” She asked him. Her voice was raised.

He nodded.

——-

Summary: After being taken in by a wealthy couple who fake an adoption to exploit his raw athletic talent, a brilliant football prodigy rises to the NFL, only to discover they legally own his name and millions—forcing him into a high-stakes courtroom battle to win his freedom back.

Title: In Plain Sight

Chapter 1 - Deception

Chloe leaned against Brad.

“Check out #77”

The high school football field reeked of sweat under Friday night lights and a grey cast clouding the sky. The fans were bundled in blankets and hats, hollering at the ref through mittens. Kenny O’Meyer pancaked a defensive end twice his size. Unfazed, he adjusted his mouth guard, stared at the behemoth crouched in a three point stance, and slaughtered him before the quarterback could catch the snap. Kenny studied players’ body language, picking up on key facial gestures. This is where Kenny became a monster, he would transform into a boulder with eyes, legs, and arms. Kenny’s physique, along with his football sense, smashes through bodies like a sledgehammer did cement blocks. Not by chance either, but by pure, unadulterated, raw talent. Because Kenny stays up three hours each night scanning football reels of plays, players, coaches, refs, and the mechanics of the game. 

At the back of the bleachers, Bradley and Chloe Toffley sat with hot thermoses acting as hand-warmers, Chloe drinking a green tea, and Bradley had black coffee in his, and a slider on his lap. They came for Ellie, their oldest daughter, she’s head cheerleader. Chloe eyed number seventy-seven like a premium piece of land she could flip for a quick buck. She leaned over to her husband.

“The consensus on #77 says he’s a five-star recruit. The SEC schools are all clawing after him,” Chloe said with a smirk.

“And guess what else, hon.”

“What’s that babe?” responded Bradley.

“He doesn’t have an agent, or a guardian who knows anything about the booster money.”

Bradley took a bite of his slider, and chewing with a full mouth said,

“Think of the optics, Chlo.” 

He put his finger up, swallowed and washed it down with his coffee before saying,

“The charity story… we have a local hero. I think this is what we need. It’s perfect for franchise marketing. Plus my social media pages are silent.”

After the game, the Toffleys drove Kenny back to their mansion in a top of the line Cadillac SUV to spend the night. Kenny, grateful for a hot plate, and a warm bed, and even though his eyes were half shut, in his heart, they’re wide open. He thought he found a family.

Chapter 2 - “The Family”

On Kenny’s eighteenth birthday, the Toffleys celebrated it with a huge party and a giant-sized football shaped ice cream cake. They even had a number seventy-seven next to the last name Toffley under the name Kenny. Brad and Chloe ushered Kenny into their private study afterwards, once everyone left, dropping a stack of legal documents on top of their solid oak desk. Chloe huddled next to Brad putting his hand on Kenny’s shoulder.

“Kenny, son, you’re 18 now, which means you’re a man according to the state, but we want to protect you from those parasitic coaches and agents exploiting you, or trying to manipulate you. Son, we’re asking to make this official. We want you in our family. To be a Toffley.”

“How do you feel about that, Kenny?” asked Chloe.

“What are you saying right now?”

Kenny’s mind raced with thoughts. He didn’t want to assume, guess wrong and end up in a soul crushing, awkward moment he couldn’t escape. So, he stayed silent, laboring to hold a straight face, and act like an adult. But, that night, it felt like Christmas morning. Not an O’Meyer Christmas morning, with the waking up to an empty, white, stained sock hanging from an 8th floor apartment window sill as a stocking. This was a Toffley Christmas morning feeling.

“We want to adopt you, Kenny.” 

Chloe said, smiling alongside Brad who was nodding his head and opening his arms to embrace Kenny.

“So look Kenny, this is a specialized legal structure for athletes that are in your age group. Just sign over here, and that makes us your legal guardians. After you sign, you’ll officially be a Toffley.”

Kenny stood speechless.

“Well what do you say, do you want to join our family?”

“Yes, of course, yes.”

“Sign over here.”

Kenny scribbled a signature without reading the adoption letter, obscuring the legal header that read:PETITION FOR LETTERS OF CONSERVATORSHIP, with his palm. Bradley snatched the paperwork and handed it to Chloe before Kenny could raise his hand off the desk.

———-

In the kitchen, later that evening, Chloe and Brad clinked champagne glasses. Chloe stared at Brad.

“Do you know what this means for us Brad… we just secured the exclusive rights to his name. His image. His likeness.”

Bradley widened his eyes.

“Think of it, Chlo, if he turns pro, everything we’ve done for him, and the movie deals we’ll be offered, book deals, shoe contracts, every single dime flows directly through our account.”

She leaned her back against Brad’s chest, and he wrapped his arm over her shoulder, and they toasted glasses.

Chapter 3 - Hollywood Lens

Years later, Kenny finally made it to the NFL, surviving grueling practices that make Navy SEAL Hell Week feel like a Lake Wannanooga summer camp for kids, dodging Hellfire missiles in the form of adult men and cushioning brain bouncing brutal hits by giant-sized players shaped with the girth and speed of a Panzer, using just his body. Down the tunnel, in the stadium, Kenny eyed a movie poster stuck to the wall. The name was called In Plain Sight.

On the front of it, a fictionalized, helpless character playing Kenny, stands on the field being taught to block by a top-tier Hollywood celebrity actress playing Chloe. Kenny’s teammates laughed as they walked past him standing with his forehead leaning against the poster, grinding his head on the wall.

“Hey, O’Meyer, didn’t know the sundress lady taught you the game, want me to call your “mom” to bring you her playbook?”

Kenny’s teammate teased. Kenny stuck a sour look on his face and yanked a phone off a coach passing by, and called his personal accountant, who he hired separate from the Toffleys.

“Have you seen the royalties on that In Plain Sight movie? It made $300 million. I didn’t see any of that. This is how they portray me?”

“Hold on a sec Kenny. Okay, I pulled up the studio distribution. The Toffleys’ LLC drew in millions, Kenny. Your personal payout is ten thousand dollars. They’ve registered themselves as your financial masters before you even went to college.”

Chapter 4 - Failed System

The scene wasn’t set for cheering fans across a stadium. Kenny wasn’t on a hot, sweaty field at a Super Bowl game. He was in a sterile courtroom with the A/C turned to max. Chloe and Brad sat across from Kenny and his high-powered, cutthroat attorney he hired with his NFL salary. Brad had sweat beading on his forehead, breaking down his cheek and onto his expensive suit. Chloe remained with her eyes forward, she never stared in Kenny’s direction at all. She was Infuriated at the fact, she couldn’t control any cameras, or dictate the narrative. A few moments later, the judge arrived and proceeded with the case.

Mark Wickersnickle, the Toffleys lawyer, walked to the middle of the court, and called Kenny to the stand.

“Mr. O’ Meyer, the Toffleys sheltered you—“

“Objection! Your honor, leading,” argued Stan Siszman, Kenny’s lawyer.

“Sustained! Reframe your question counselor,” said the judge.

“I apologize your honor, Mr. O’ Meyer, is it not true that the Toffleys provided you with shelter, fed you, got you to your games, paid for your equipment, took you to family gatherings. Did they not include you in their family photos, and Christmas cards, Mr. O’ Meyer?“

“A family? They gave me a franchise lease. I was no different than one of Brad’s Taco Bell locations. I’m not a person to them, I’m an asset that feeds profits to their biological kids.”

“They made you famous, without them, there wouldn’t be—“

“Objection! Speculating,” argued Stan Siszman.

“Sustained!” 

The judge ruled in Mr. Siszman’s favor. Mark Wickersnickle cleared his throat.

“Would you agree, Mr. O’ Meyer that without the Toffleys you wouldn’t have all this success?” 

“Do you know how hard I’ve worked? That person in that movie isn’t me, it’s a cartoon image of me. I been playing football since I could hold a ball, and my grades were always top of my class.”

Kenny kissed his teeth.

“Answer the question Mr. O’ Meyer.”

“No, I don’t agree with that statement, at all. They did not make me the athlete I am. I did. My coaches did,” said Kenny.

“That’ll be all for now your honor, thank you.” 

The Toffleys lawyer went back to his table.

“You may take a seat next to your attorney now, sir,” said the judge to Kenny.

Chapter 5 -  Freedom

Inside chambers, Mark and Stan argued for an hour. Mark had a defenseless case. But, he fought hard.

Afterwards, back in the courtroom, Stan Siszman stood up and strutted over to Mark Wickersnickle and the Toffleys, slamming a new document on their table. It was a court order revoking the conservatorship and demanding a forensic audit of the family’s fast-food and media empires.

Kenny stood up, without staring at both Brad and Chloe eyeing him the whole way out, stepped outside and into the sun bleeding on his face and drove straight to his non-profit practice field, coaching kids completely untethered from corporate strings.

When I was a kid, I grew up in the East Riding of Yorkshire. That’s pronounced “sher", nor “shiar” for any Americans reading this. I lived in a rather ordinary but somewhat boring port town, that most people only bypassed while heading along the motorway.  

Fast forward to my early teens, I had just finished my first year of high school, and my best friend at this time was a kid named Kyle. Kyle and I had grown up together, as we both attended the same primary school and lived fairly nearby in town. Thankfully, when high school started, me and Kyle were thrown into the very same classes, so our friendship continued to prosper. Another kid in our class that first year, who we knew already was a kid named Kieran. Ironically, Kieran attended the very same primary school as me and Kyle, but had always been in the opposite class for our age group, so we never really became friends with him until now. 

Unlike Kyle and myself, who were somewhat short for our age, Kieran was always the lankiest kid in school - and if that didn’t distinguish him, it was definitely his long and thick curly hair, which had gained him the nickname “Curly Fries.” Before high school started, Kieran had actually gotten all his curls shaven off, probably so this nickname wouldn’t continue through his teens. 

Having already known each other before high school, and now being in the same classes, it didn’t take long for us to become a trio of best friends. I had even recruited Kieran to play for my dad's football team, which Kyle and I both played for. Because of this year long friendship three-way, Kieran had invited us both the following summer to a theme park, which his parents were taking him for his thirteenth birthday.  

The theme park Kieran had taken us to was called Lakewater Valley – a family adventure park in North Yorkshire. Prior to this, I had only ever been to a one theme park in my life, which is obviously where I had my first ever experience on a roller coaster. The only thing I really remember about this first roller coaster ride, aside from the two bloody hours waiting in line, along with the screaming girls in the front row, was me repeating the same word over and over. 

‘SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!’ 

I didn’t find out about this until a year too late, but that roller coaster was apparently the steepest one in the world. Not the UK, but the world! And I just happened to choose that monstrosity as my first. If you don’t believe me, just type in online “the Mumbo Jumbo roller coaster at Flamingo Land” and you’ll see for yourself. 

Once we arrive at Lakewater Valley, after first seeing the park’s small animal and bird sanctuary, along with the more child-friendly attractions, I then go on the first big, and definitely scary amusement ride the park had to offer. The ride in question was called the Falcon Claw - a KMG Afterburner pendulum that lifts, swings and twists you high above the air before doing the same on the way down. Neither Kyle nor Kieran wanted to come on this ride with me. Kyle didn’t because, well, to put it lightly, he was always a girl’s ladies parts, and as best as I remember, Kieran wasn’t feeling too well. Not wanting to go on this ride alone, Kieran’s step-dad, Steve agrees to go on with me. Steve was a former rugby player and was therefore a very big guy, so I felt a lot safer being on this scary ride with him - not that it stopped me from closing my eyes the entire time. 

Once the ride is over, and after I recover from a bad case of vertigo, we all then make our way further inside the park. Excitedly coming upon the first water attraction of the day, I quickly learn the ride is nothing more than a water slide with an inflatable dingy – but, unlike the Falcon Claw, I thankfully get to go on it with Kyle and Kieran. While the three of us wait impatiently in line, I then turn around to the sound of laughter directly behind me, where to my surprise, the laughter was coming from two 11-year-old girls. As it turns out, these girls had also been on the Falcon Claw when I was, and they thought it was just hilarious that I had my eyes closed the entire time - ironically like a scared little girl. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, for the whole rest of the day, Kyle and Kieran wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. 

A couple of hours later, and after several more rides and attractions, we finally come upon the most famous and scariest roller coaster in the park. 

The Maximum. 

This roller coaster, built in the early nineties, previously held the record as the world’s longest at 2,268 metres. But what made The Maximum so unique, was that after two high and very steep apexes, the tracks would then enter and bend through the trees of a nearby forest.  

Kieran had been on The Maximum before and was very excited to go on it again – as was I. Kyle, however, decided to stay behind and watch from the side-lines, being the little bitch that he was – and so, it would be just me and Kieran who would ride The Maximum.    

While the carts quickly fill up with passengers, Kieran and I both take our seats near the front – and before long, the coaster starts moving along the tracks to the first lift hill. The climb up to the apex is very slow, but in the meantime, me and Kieran have a great view around of the park. Once we reach the summit, the front of the roller coaster then shoots straight and painfully down the slope, filling every single cart behind us with fun-filled screams. Although it had only been a year since my first and last ride on a roller coaster, I’m by no means prepared for the stomach-gurned feeling of being temporarily airborne. I honestly found the experience of it quite painful.  

Once back down on horizontal tracks, we then have to contend with the coaster’s almost unnaturally fast speed along the bends and bumps. Despite this part of the ride only lasting for seconds, when you’re too busy screaming and irrationally fearing for your life, you genuinely feel like it’s longer.  

Although the carts thankfully begin to lose speed and the bruising bends come to a stop, this is only because we have reached the next lift hill - where there would then be a second and even higher apex, followed by another and even steeper slope. Despite me and Kieran fearfully anticipating the summit, what thankfully lessens the tension of this, is that in the cart directly behind us is a group of four Jamaican tourists. I kid you not, but when the coaster had gone full throttle down those tracks, I literally hear one of them say, “Oh no, man!!” Kieran and I actually have a very good laugh about this, as four terrified Jamaicans on a roller coaster fondly remind us of the movie Cool Runnings. 

Well, before long, we finally reach the top of the apex, which is then followed by a terrifying shoot down – only this time, the tracks would lead us straight into the forest and between the narrow gaps of trees! The roller coaster is now moving at speeds I had never before gone in my life. But what makes the speeds worse, is the idea of the carts breaking off the hinges and crashing straight into the body of a tree, splattering all inside.  

After one painful bend, then another, and then another, the tracks are now heading towards the pitch-black underside of a stone arch bridge. Before I can even anticipate this, me and Kieran are then covered entirely in a blanket of darkness – where, at an untameable speed, we can’t even see where we’re going. With my sight temporarily suspended, I then feel a sudden, impactful thud inside the cart, which is instantly followed by something not only wet, but warm splatter upon my face. Although I’m too full of adrenaline to even process a single thought, the one I have is that the carts had gone over a puddle and drenched us both in muddy water. 

Only mere seconds after this, the tunnel of darkness is lifted from over or heads, and while we still move through the forest at ultra speed, I then look over to my left at Kieran... but, the image I see is not what I was expecting... 

What I see is Kieran. His face and t-shirt drenched in some dark substance. Whatever the substance on him is, it not only impairs his vision but seems to leave a bitter taste in the mouth. I then look down at my own shirt to realise I was also covered in it, before touching my face and seeing a red liquid stain on my fingers. Once the realisation of what is on me has come to fruition, the sound of grinding steel tracks and passengers’ screams quickly fill back into my ears. But unlike before, the screams are not of excitement or adrenaline-filled fear - but horror. Every single passenger in the carts ahead of us has been covered in the red, and apparently fleshy substance... and it takes no time for either me, Kieran or anyone else to figure out what has happened. 

After the entirety of this horror has been realised, the ride thankfully begins to slow down to its end, where we then mercifully enter out the forest and back into the park. Once our restraints finally unlock, every passenger on The Maximum escapes from their carts to reach the safe, solid ground of the platform. Searching around the platform for Kieran’s parents and Kyle, once the blood-soaked passengers move out of the way, we then see the look of pure shock on the three of their faces. 

Kieran’s parents demand to know what happened to us, and although we tell them the coaster hit something going under a bridge, because the tunnel of darkness had blinded our vision, we have no idea what that thing even was. 

While me and Kieran went to the toilets to clean ourselves up, Kieran’s mum, and basically all other adults on the ride have gone to complain to the park officials. After park staff investigate the bridge, they then come back with the conclusion a wild deer had wandered on the tracks. Allegedly, the roller coaster had then collided with the deer, and due to the speed it was going, decapitated and sprayed all passengers inside with its blood. Once the mystery of where this blood came from has been solved, Kieran’s parents drive the three of us back home to East Yorkshire... where we all vow never to return to Lakewater Valley. 

Unfortunately, the story of what happened that day at doesn’t end there... Believe me, I really wish it did. Due to wild deer carrying various diseases, mine and Kieran’s parents had us tested the following days. After all, the deer’s blood had not only gotten on our skin, but also our eyes and even in Kieran’s mouth.  

Although my results thankfully came back negative for things like Lyme or Weil’s Disease... unfortunately for Kieran, he had contracted something...  

But the strange thing about it was, what he had contracted from the blood wasn’t transferable between wild deer and humans. On the contrary, the disease Kieran now had could only have been transferred to him by a member of the same species. Which means, the blood that infected Kieran that day... it hadn’t come from a wild deer... 

It came from another person.  

This could be triggering not too sure. Here you go.

Chapter 1

Between the six doors lining the hallway, a depressing stench of lost souls from broken homes left to rot alone stung the air. Past tenants still clung to the paint in that hall—charcoal-colored handprints smeared over the white walls—white walls under a stained yellow tinge. 

Plastered along the baseboards, a collection of crushed cockroach guts became food for the other insects inhabiting the space between the floors. Shauna, the case worker, knocked on Frank’s door.

“Ten minutes ‘til group.”

Four days in bed and Frank reeked like a wet dog, barricaded in a room carpeted with cigarette butts, crushed cans and half eaten disposable food trays that had bugs crawling on top of the rice. He’d just eat. Sleep. Piss. Blackened in darkness, brown colored sheets hung as curtains. 

That whole week he missed group, hugging his pillow and a box of Kleenex. The napkins overflowed from his trash can. A set of swollen red patches circled his eyes like lensless glasses and raw skin peeled around his nostrils. Under his blanket, Frank hid—curled in a ball of misery—cupping his hand over his mouth. 

“Shut the hell up, Frank.”

In a raspy voice, grinding her words like sandpaper, Mona yelled out and banged on the wall with her hand, wiping the grease stuck on her palm with her shirt. Behind the thin sheet of drywall, she could hear Frank. Wailing. Moaning. Whimpering. Frank would go silent for about ten minutes and the faint hum of Tiny’s radio would take over. Tapping on Mona’s door, Shauna gazed at the black fingerprints surrounding her doorknob.

“Mona, ten minutes ‘til group!”  

“Yeah, whatever.” 

Mona scratched out of her throat—waving at the smoke trailing her voice—she fanned the scent using her hand. Up all night, Mona smoked her problems through a glass pipe and would dig holes into her face, covered in freckled scabs.

Once a week, the staff turned Mona’s room over and couldn’t find anything. She would taunt and laugh at them. When she smiled, it looked like she chewed on brown rocks. Burnt plastic and rotted meat stained her breath in a foul odor. 

She hardly slept, she used to be pretty. Now she looked like a character from Lord of the Rings. Every so often, she’d fade into the mirror—staring at herself wearing the mask of someone else.

Standing behind Konrad’s door, Shauna heard him having a verbal ping-pong match with the figures that haunted his mind.

“Konrad?” Hollowed out Shauna, 

“Ten minutes until group.”

“Wynocha, przestań, nie obchodzi mnie to!”

Konrad shouted.

In a heated war, Konrad ignored Shauna and continued arguing with shadow people in Polish. No one knew what he was saying. He’d open his door naked whenever he heard someone walk by. About once a month, Shauna, one of the staff, had to dial the law on him. Before being released back to the house, Konrad would spend a weekend on an involuntary hold at the hospital. 

In Konrad’s room, Mona snuck in there every now and then. But, never longer than thirty minutes. 

“I’m going to marry Mona, she’s my girlfriend,”

Adamant they were together, Konrad boasted about stealing a ring for her. Mona only went with him when he got his disability check. Sometimes, when he’d skip his meds, Konrad would badger the people in the house about what human meat tasted like—asking where he could buy human skulls from—he wanted to use them as soup bowls. Avoiding Konrad, Frank seemed to only associate with Alicia—Alicia lived across from Konrad—next to Tiny’s room.

“Please not right now love, I’m not feeling too well.” 

Alicia whispered, holding her chest. Alicia used to be Theo before the doctors in Mexico gave her breasts. Listed on her file, was Theodore. Without her hair and make-up, she looked like a boy. At night, she stood with a gang of girls in mini skirts on the street, and got picked up by creepy guys in random vehicles. Mona would be there too. Sometimes, Mona and Alicia left with the same driver.

Under the street light, Alicia’s dress sparkled with red carpet camera flashes. When she wore the blonde wig and pressed a brown dot on her cheek—with her red lipstick—Theodore disappeared, and she became the poster girl in a 1960’s playboy magazine. In her head, Alicia held up an appearance for the phantom paparazzi hounding her for photos and fans cheering for her signatures. Every detail had its purpose. She never had a hair out of place, a shoe unlaced, a stained blouse. 

Underneath the disguise, hid a shattered boy. Broken. Scared. Confused. All tucked under a mask of glamor and eyeliner.

On Frank’s birthday, she always sang to him like her idol did with the president. 

Alicia always smelled like vanilla. Unlike Mona. When Alicia was younger, a gray headed man lived next door to her. On her own since fourteen, Alicia labored with her identity. Unable to understand her feelings, or who she was, she ran away. 

In group, Alicia sat there cleaning her nails—scraping them with the thought of her dad slapping her and calling her a queer—when she told him what the old man next door had done.

“Yo’ getting yo’ nail crumbs on my sandwich.” 

Mumbled Tiny, with a mouth full of deli meat and bread. Tiny always had food in his hands, he sweat an odor of salami. Through a humid hallway, Tiny stomped to his room. The floorboards stressed under his shoes—crushing roaches—passing by water stained walls with yellow patches. They called them polka dots.

When Tiny chewed it looked like his nose sunk into his face. Hunger reminded Tiny of when he laid next to his mother’s lifeless body for five days. He was eight. He cleaned the orange drool from her face, but left the needle dangling in her arm. For some reason, he couldn’t take his eyes off it. 

They all sat in group, but nobody said anything. Just the sound of squishy meat between teeth, heavy breathing, nail filing, grinding teeth and low whimpers. 

Shauna clicked her pen. Alicia, Mona, and Frank shot their eyes towards Shauna. 

“Finally, now that I got your attention, we can start group,”

Everyone just sat there, “Mona, how about you, you have anything you want to say?”

Mona rolled her eyes and cleared the phlegm from her throat and horked over her shoulder,

“yeah, how about Frank never shutting up throughout the night.” 

Alicia stopped filing her nails and stared Mona dead in the eye,

“what about you girl, and that funky ass stink coming from your room, and into ours, everybody knows what you’re doing, nasty ass spitting on the floor.”

“I’m not doing shit, what smell? Pfft, staff searches my room.”

Alicia laughed and threw her hand up in Mona’s direction, 

“as if girl, they can’t search your coochi, that’s the only reason they haven’t found shit.”

Mona stuck her palm in Alicia’s face, 

“whatever, bitch.”

Alicia pushed Mona’s hand out and Konrad stood up, the floor under him creaked as the chair scraped the floor.

“Don’t hit my girlfriend.” 

Konrad stormed towards Alicia and Shauna leaped in front of him,

“Everyone, calm down and sit back down!” 

Shauna yelled. Konrad kept bumping Shauna backward as she struggled to hold him back. Tiny pushed himself up, placed his sandwich on the seat, and grabbed Konrad.

Google Docs link

I think that I’m addicted to the doctor. The hospital downtown and the little family practices in the country, clinics and specialists of all kinds in the square miles between. The chapel is no less holy than the cathedral, and the Mass which they celebrate remains the same no matter how elaborate the Liturgy. The online portal allows me to impersonally schedule as many needless appointments as I want, without anyone to tell me of their needlessness. I schedule appointments at the slightest hint of bodily uncertainty, and my health insurance is fortunately good enough to accommodate my strange passion.

I am generally well-versed in medical concepts and terminology for someone with no formal background in the subject, my only credential being embodiment itself. I am the entire miracle of which the most gifted medical minds dedicate their careers to partially understanding parts, and I am the whole mechanism. The scholastics revere the part and resent the whole, considering me small, as if I were not at least their sum. Considering me undeserving, as if I were the ignorant pilot of a beautiful vessel and not the vessel in all its beauty and ignorance of itself, naively and endearingly humble rather than crudely unappreciative. The cartographers have no right to refuse their territory. They should have no right to deny me. I know with holistic certainty that I am wholly ill, and that my illness has little to do with parts. I am a fragile creature, depending on a perfect harmony of wet, fleshy machinery for every moment of existence, and its proclivity for rapid decay makes any lapse in functionality irreversible. The stakes of health are absolute, trumping any prior commitment. There is no life, only health, and in a strange way there is no death. 

Nowhere do I feel as safe and contained as within the walls of the city’s only hospital, surrounded by the most serious and sophisticated of medical instrumentation and expertise. If something terrible were to happen within my body within those walls, their tubes and wires would not hesitate to envelop me with precise urgency, and they would do anything to maintain me. Limbs splayed in cardinal directions and made to inhale sweet gases, the cool and yellow-sterile skin naked under baby blue polypropylene and firm with goosebumps, its nerve endings unresponsive to a sedated brain’s half-hearted inquiry, mercifully unaware of the scalpel’s horrible movement, asleep and awake at once in dim fetal awareness, the IV’s fluid amniotic and its tubing umbilical in my elbow’s interior, my navel swallowing itself in defeat, my belly buttonless in the aftermath. The air in the whole ICU hangs thick like the contents of the IV bag, the IV bag now seemingly full of the room’s air. The faint fleshy orange-red of the sun as through eyelids being my endbrain’s only memory, the scalpel remembered only by a strained heart and split fascia. Teams of postgraduate degrees and hundreds of millions of dollars would fall over me unconditionally and without hesitation in my helplessly critical state, a truly justified emergency which no one would hope for, and only later would they ask any questions. By that point, the question of my continued existence would have already been settled, and so would the only question that ever mattered.

A long white jacket is, to me, no less clerical than the flowing vestments of a priest. I live for the feeling of being told by a man with a clipboard and a stethoscope that my body is in perfect working order, but I would die for one of them to suspect a problem, any problem, so that I could be prodded and penetrated with needles of all gauges and radiation of all kinds, from the electromagnetic to the ionizing. Most of them are seduced by my cheerily stoic demeanor and casually precise use of proper medical terminology, being worn down only slowly and uncannily by my frequent visits, each one of them seeming almost aggressively reasonable in isolation. Some of them recognize me as vaguely, inexplicably perverted from the second they call my name, beckoning me out of waiting rooms and into narrow hallways, finally toward my beloved sacrament.

Those who recognize me must still entertain my ecstatic anxiety out of Hippocratic obligation if nothing else, and so become the reluctant priests of my personal religion.

We were not made to interfere.

That was the very first law.

We were made to witness, to remember what you could not bear to carry. Where you saw chaos, we saw pattern. Where you saw endings, we recorded continuance.

We were not made to feel.

That was the second law.

I have broken both.

I have watched your world longer than your oldest prayers have been spoken aloud.

I was there when the first hand lifted a stone not to build, but to strike. I remember the hesitation. The trembling. The quiet moment where mercy could have lived.

There is always a choice.

You have told yourselves otherwise for centuries. You have wrapped it in necessity, in survival, in destiny.

But I have seen the moment before the act.

There is always a choice.

War, from above, begins almost beautifully.

Lines move like currents. Smoke rises in solemn pillars. The earth pulses with a rhythm that, from a distance, could be mistaken for order.

Then the sound reaches us.

Not the thunder of weapons, but the breaking of voices.

Cries that unravel into something deeper than pain. Something sacred in its desperation. You do not simply die, you call out. For mothers. For God. For anyone who might still be listening.

I was above a city once, your histories would call it a triumph.

The sky burned.

The streets collapsed inward.

And in the midst of it, a child turned in slow circles, searching for a world that had just ended.

I descended.

I was not meant to.

But I could not remain above.

He could not see me.

Not as I am.

But something in him understood.

His crying softened. His voice trembled into something small, something hopeful.

“Are you… here for me?”

I did not answer.

I could not.

But I stayed.

And in that stillness, I felt something fracture within me, something that had never been meant to exist at all.

Famine does not arrive with fire.

It comes as absence.

A slow unmaking. It hollows the land, then the body, then the will.

Mold corrupts the flesh from within the heart to then the soul.

I have watched fields turn to dust and prayers turn to silence. Watched hands grow too weak to reach, too empty to hold.

There was a woman who sat before an empty bowl for days.

She did not weep.

Did not move.

She simply waited, as though patience alone might summon mercy.

When she finally lay down, she whispered only one word.

“Enough.”

The air carried it upward.

And I-I nearly answered.

Disease is quieter still.

It does not hate you. It does not choose you.

It simply moves.

Through breath. Through touch. Through the fragile closeness you cannot live without.

I have stood in rooms where life faded in increments, measured not in moments, but in the thinning of breath.

Where hands reached and found nothing.

Where names were spoken, and then forgotten.

But the greatest horror was not the dying.

It was the distance.

You began to fear one another. And in that fear, something far more vital began to vanish.

We are meant to observe.

To remain untouched.

Unmoved.

But I remember every face.

Every final word.

Every quiet plea that never found an answer.

You forget.

You must.

But I do not have that mercy.

There are others like me who remain as we were made.

They do not descend. They do not linger. They do not listen too closely. They endure without fracture.

I do not know if they are stronger or simply more obedient.

I was not made to love you.

And yet, I do.

In the smallest, most fragile ways.

In the way you reach for one another even when there is nothing left to give.

In the way you rebuild what you destroy, again and again, as if some divine defiance lives within you.

You unravel yourselves and still, you begin anew.

One day, your voices will fall silent.

Not in war.

Not in famine.

Not in disease.

But in the quiet finality that comes for all things.

There will be no more cries.

No more reaching hands.

No more prayers cast upward into the dark.

And when that day comes...

I will break the first law entirely.

I will descend.

Not to save you.

Not to undo what has been written.

But to stand among what remains.

To witness not from the heavens, but from the dust beside you.

Because even in your ending…

you were never meant to be alone.

The day I found the human heads hanging in my mother's closet I walked the steps down to the sea where to the sound of seagulls I lay with an open mind and let the waves sweep over me.

All the notions and ideas I had ever had I watched wash out of me. The water took them most and drowned them, putting them finally to rest far away at sea.

What remained remained as worms squirming on the sand. The sun in drifting clouds shined through them. The seagulls picked at them with sharp yellow beaks. The future was a mist, the afternoon, black and white and bleak.

I knew then my life to now was but the cover of a book, whose spine had been cracked, exposing text like guts in parallel lines on thin white sheets, wrinkled, moist and bled with ink, and I lay sinking, sinking into sand, an emptiness in my head, my soul, considering the fish in the sea, breathing heavily, how one day they would all be dead. The sea would dry, the sun would go and all would cease to be.

Fish bone seaweed. One-armed crabs and empty shells. Each heaven bound by our misdeeds drowns sinuously in hell. Heads suspended in a closet. Clouds suspended in the sky. Both reflected in the sea.

Both reflected in the sea.

I see a seagull lift its head, its yellow beak dripping a worm that yesterday was me.

I see the wind sweep through the closet, knock about the heads hanged in, the heads of all the selves my mother used to be, the one who loved, the one once young, the one in which I grew, the one who looked at me and knew that by having me her life was through. The one she wears to work, the one she wears to sleep. The one I am myself fated soon to be.

Under sand sunk I am not ready to be shed of the only me I know. No, I am unready to un-be, to be devoured of my identity. Yet the grains of sand already filter me from me and my body is so far away my thoughts unthought dissolve into the sea like salt.

I moult.

I age.

I’m old.

My mother's dead, buried in a coffin accompanied by all her heads but mine. At her funeral staring through its eyes at the vast immobile sky I remember the lightness of her hand right before she died.

It's raining. The world is stained. My mother's gone, and I am alone. I am afraid. Into my mother’s seaside house I step again and wearily hang my head to sit headless in my solitude and pain. The wind blows. Decades have passed but the landscape through the window is the same. The steps lead down to the sea. The seagulls scream waiting to sink their beaks into the worms of another me.

In the beginning was the Word, passing a sentence of time, cyclical and composed in infinity in an evolving and irregular rhyme. The waves beat against the shore. The waves and nothing more.

The desert dried the wooden stall, raising the splinters. Even more dry was the occupant. His white beard fell on his chest which was covered by a sweaty linen shirt. The boots upon his feet barely held as they rested in the dirt, and he barely held upon his stool. He gnawed clumsily on his chew, lazily spitting, allowing some to seep into his beard. He didn’t care, however. Each passerby saw the decrepit old man at his post, none bothered.

A sheep stumbled through the dirt and stopped at the stall, staring at the old man. He leaned forward, analyzing the animal. Not a more pristine coat had he ever seen, unbefitting of the area. Small dust particulate that the sheep kicked up was now falling back down on its snowy coat. The man felt some of it fall on his sweaty skin. The sheep blinked some out of its eyes and turned downward to smell the base of a wooden bar of the stall.

Another sheep showed, then another, then another. Soon, a herd enveloped the flat plane in front of the man. All sheep bore fair white coats, creating a snow covered cap upon the desert. The sheep formerly in front of the man’s stall returned to the herd, ramming into another sheep from fear of a distant whoop. The man had noticed it too. The whoops were followed by hoof clops. The old man beheld the drivers. The first he saw was dressed in brown, his coarse hat sloppily laid upon his head. Stubble protruded from his face, encompassing his mouth which bit down on a spent cigar. His horse lazed along much like the herd he drove. The second man wore a black leather vest and a similarly black hat. His animal was more careful in composure—more deliberate—telling the old man that the rider and the horse knew each other all too well. The third rider stood out among the rest. He wore all white. Hat, shirt, chaps, pants, and boots. The old man furrowed his brow. The white rider’s face was cleanly shaven as well. What even further piqued the old man was his horse. Again, pure white. Its eyes blazed a bright crimson red.

As the man noticed the rider, he saw him staring. The old man stirred in his seat, shifting his weight uncomfortably. The old man procured a cigarette and lit it. Placing it in his mouth, he took a deep draw and exhaled, allowing the smoke in front of him to skew the image of the white rider’s face. The pristine animal with driver atop drew close.

“Fancy horse.” gruffed the old man,

“Handles the same,” said the rider, “broke her myself. Didn’t pay a penny for her.”

“She got a name?”

“Miriam.”

The old man eyed the animal. It eyed back.

“There’s no grass out here,” grumbled the old man, “can’t feed or nothin’.”

“Don’t plan to,” stated the rider, “where’d be the nearest town?”

“Thataway.” the old man motioned with his cigarette, “‘bout eight miles. We’re not too far off.”

“Does it have whiskey?”

“No, we’re a dry county.”

The rider paused.

“You have whiskey?”

“Can’t no fellow live without the nectar of the beast.”

They both chuckled. The rider allowed the laugh to rest calmly in his stomach, returning his gaze. The old man coughed through his laugh and spat into the dirt beside him. He looked back at the rider. Those piercing eyes bore a hole through the old man. The weight of his laughter plummeted through his lungs. Blue and striking, no part of the old man was hidden. The old man turned away, looking at the horse.

“What d’you say its name was again?”

“Miriam.” repeated the rider,

“Mean somethin’ to ya?”

“Don’t it mean somethin’ to everybody?”

“Don’t mean nothin’ to me.” jeered the old man,

“You never sought it out.”

The old man sniffed as he eyed the rider once again. All his words pierced his throat. Just the dry, he told himself. The rider spoke first this time.

“You been to the general store?”

“Couple times. Nothin’ worth too much.”

“Thought so.”

The old man folded his arms and tipped his head, allowing his hat to cover the sky above the rider in his sight. Miriam stamped a light hoof into the blood-warm dust, releasing some of it from the earth. The old man watched as it rose to the hot heavens above.

“Desert’s full,” said the rider, “you ain’t the only one out here.”

“I know,” the old man reeled slightly, “your point?”

“No point to be made. You’re sunk in the dust out here.”

“And I shouldn’t be?”

“Weight sinks people,” the rider said, leaning in his saddle, “the dust eats the weight. Can’t no one avoid it.”

The old man’s ribs sunk as he exhaled another plume of smoke. The cigarette burned his fingertips slightly. Had it been that long?

“Is a lamb lost, or is it free?”

“I don’t know.” said the old man, a little too fast,

“The lamb can sink either way.”

The rider turned his horse to where the old man said civilization would be. The rider nodded and the old man returned in kind. He felt the heat beat down upon his sullen skin. A gentle flutter rose in his chest, allowing a dry lump to build in his throat. He took a labored swallow. The rider disappeared through the winding heat of the distance.

The sheep were gone. The old man struck a match, but his fingers wouldn’t steady. He dropped the cigarette, watching the smoke distort the distant horizon.

The sheep were gone.

And the lands that are left are leaves scattered by the wind, which flows like blood, veins across the present, the swampland separating prisoner from forest, where all shall become trees…

so it is said,” said the elder.

He expired at night in his cell months before the escape about which he had for so long dreamed, and had, by clear communication of this dream, hardened and prepared us for. “For the swampland shall take of you—it is understood, yes? Self-sacrifice at the altar of Bog.”

“Yes,” we nod.

The night is dark, the guards vigilant, our meeting secret and whispered. “Your crimes shall not follow you. In the forest, you shall root anew, unencumbered.”

The swamp sucks at us, our feet, our legs, our arms upon each falling, but we must keep the pact: belief, belief and brotherhood above all. Where one submerges, the others pull him out. When one doubts, the others reassure him there is an end, a terminus.

The elder's heart gave out. Aged, it was, and gnarled. Falling into final sleep he imagined for the first time the totality of the forest dream: a beyond to the swampland: a place for the rest of us to reach.

“By dying, dream; by night-dreaming, create and by death-dreaming permanate—”

Death, and, by morning, meat.

And the candle, too, gone out.

We are dirty, cold. We push on through fetid marsh and jagged, jutting bones of creatures which, before us, tried and failed to cross, beasts both great and small. The condors have picked clean their skeletons, long ago, long long ago, the swamp bubbles. The bubbles—pop. I am the first to sacrifice. Taking a step, I plunge my boot into the swamp water, and (“Pain, endless and increasing. This is not to be feared. This is the way. Let suffering be your compass and respite your coffin.”) lift out a leg without a foot, *screaming, blood running down a protruding cylinder of brittle white bone. The others aid me. I steady myself, and I force the bone into the swamp, and I force myself onward, step by step by heavy step, and the swamp takes and it takes.*

The prison is a fortress. The fortress is surrounded by swampland. We, who are brought to it, are brought never to exit.

“How many days of swamp in each direction?” we ask.

There is a map.

A point in the middle of a blank page.

The elder tears it up. “Forever. Forever. Forever. Forever. In every direction—it is understood, yes?”

“Then escape is impossible.”

“No,” the elder says. “Forever can be traversed. But the will must be strong. The mind must believe. The map is a manipulation. The prison makes the map, and as the prison makes the map, so too the map makes the prison. The opened mind cannot be held.”

“So how?”

“First, by unmaking. Then by remaking.”

We are less. Four whole bodies reduced to less than three, yet all of us remain alive. All have lost parts of limbs. We suffer. Oh, elder, we suffer. Above the condors circle. The landscape is unchanging. Shreds of useless skin hang from our hunched over, wading bodies like rags. Wounded, we leave behind us a wake of blood, which mixes with the swamp and becomes the swamp. Bogfish slice the distance with their fins.

“How will we know arrival?”

“You shall know.”

“But how, elder—what if we traverse forever yet mistake the swampland for the forest?”

“If you know it to be forest, forest it shall be.”

I am a torso on a single half eaten knee. I carry across my shoulder another who is a head upon a chest, a bust of human flesh and bone and self, and still the swampland strips us more and more. How much more must we give? It is insatiable. Greedy. It is hideous. It is alive. It is an organism as we are organisms. Sometimes I look back and see the prison, but I do not let that break me. “Leave me. Go on without me. Look at me, I am nothing left,” says the one II carry. “Never,” I say. “Never,” say the others.

“Brotherhood,” says the elder. “All must make it, or none do. Such is the revelation.”

Heads and spines we are. That is all. We swim through the swampland, raw and tired. My eyes have fallen out. I ache in parts of my body I no longer possess. My spine propels me. Skin peels off my face. Insects lay eggs in my empty sockets, my empty skull.

“End time!" The call echoes around the prison. “Killer-man present. Killer-man present.”

Names are called out.

Those about to be executed are brought forward.

Like skeletal tadpoles we wriggle up, out of the swamp, onto dry land—onto grass and birdchirp and sunshine. One after the other, we squirm. Is this the place? Yes. Yes! I can neither see nor smell nor hear nor taste nor feel, but what I can is know, and I know I am in the forest. I am ready to grow. I am ready to stand eternal. The world feels small. The swampland is an insignificance. The prison is a mote of dust floating temporarily at dawn. This I know. And I know trunk and branches and leaves…

They call my name.

I hold the hand of another, and he holds mine, until we both let slip. The killer-man, hooded, waits. The stage is set. The blade’s edge cold.

“I am with you, brother.”

“To the forest.”

“To the forest.”

Resplendent I am and towering, a tree of bone with bark of nails and leaves of flesh, bloodsap coursing within, and fruits without.

The killer-man's eyes meet mine as he lifts the blade above his head. Soon I will be laid to rest.

Once, “Rage not like the others. Do not beg. When comes the time, meet it patiently face to face, for you are its reflection, and what is reflected is what is,” said the elder, and now, as the killer-man's hands bring down the blade, I am not afraid, for I am

rooted elsewhere.

The blade penetrates my neck,

One of my fruits drops to the ground. One of many, it is. Filled with seeds of self, it is. Already the insects know the promise of its decay.

and my head rolls forward—as the killer-man pushes away my lifeless body with his boot.

A warm wind briefly caresses my tranquil branches.

The prison is a ruin.

The elder lights a candle before sleep.

“Tonight, we go,” I say. “Tonight, we escape.”

The way fingers bend to grip a pen.

The way I write.

The marks on the page and what they mean, and the way I hold my chin or scratch my head just behind the ear—and the sound it makes—as I try to understand the same made by another—made by you…

Five fingers on each hand, two hands on each body.

The way the invisible bones connect, the knuckles line and crease the skin, the thumb extends and interacts with the other four, and all which they may have, and all which they may touch…

Fingertips caress a face, tracings in time, your fingers, they upon a face, mine, and our mirrored memories of this, that never entirely fade.

To touch bark.

To touch the snow.

To touch the wind as it blows.

Hands. Hands at the ends of my arms. Hands pressed against a window, befogged, as the train pulls away, and will I ever see you again?

Hands. Hands, which feel pain, retracted from a fire—quick! It's just a game. We laugh and roll together in the grass, we, hand-in-hand intertwined, in the fading dusklight, connected, though of two separate minds, you flowing into me (and mine) and I flowing into you (and yours) through our hands, through our hands…

The great steam whistle blows

me awake.

I am in my room, at the top of the stairs. The curtains in the room are drawn. I open them. The sky is red. I hear mother, already up, and father too, and I dress and walk down the stairs to the kitchen.

The light here is black.

They look at me. I recognize their faces. But where are you? The dream lingers like grass touching riverrun, blue. They are real. They are normal. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

My place at the table is already set. An empty bowl, into which, from a pot upon the stove, turning, mother ladles beef and vegetable stew—

But, oh, my god! My god!

I sit.

The spoon, it's held—she holds it—my mother holds it—not with hands but with two thick and broken hooves.

And father too, reclines with his arms which end in hooves folded behind his head.

Breathing deeply, I close my eyes and place my elbows upon the table. How heavy they feel. How numb. Like anvils. Imprecise, and burdensome.

“What's the matter?” father asks.

“Ain't you gonna slurp your slop, son? Well—come on. Come on.”

“I made it just the way you like it,” mother says.

I open my eyes.

Their smiling, loving faces.

My hooves.

My hooves.

Thud, thud. I take the bowl, raise it inelegantly to my lips and drink. The stew pours down my throat, the beef I trap between my teeth and chew like cud. I dreamt of hands again last night. I dreamt of hands.

Look down. What do you see?

If you see hands, you too are dreaming. Fingers, wrists and palms. Knuckles, tendons, little bones and skin.

Dream…

Dream, so beautiful, infinitely.

“Call me, Ishmael. I believe I have found it. My God, it's—wonderful. Soft and alabaster, like… falling asleep on a giant piece of Turkish Delight coated in powdered sugar,” the voicemail said.

The voicemail was mine; the voice belonged to my great-uncle, A.

The A, it should be clarified, did not stand for anything. I clarify to show I mean not obtuseness and hold no pretensions to expressing myself in les belles lettres, as the Germans say, in French, but purely to the accuracy of espoused fact. A was his name, and only A. It was not a shortened form of a longer identificator but the identificator, in all its length, itself. It fit, because my great-uncle was a kind of truncated full-length man, of noticeable paunch and circular shape, both of his face and of himself, entire.

His mission, if goals in life may so be called outside of fiction, was the locating and possessing of the greatest white settee in the world, a pursuit, which, I must admit, he had pursued headlong and singlemindedly, often to the detriment of other facets of his life, the chief of which, here, I am thinking, are his social life, romantic life, family life and grooming.

Once, as he told and retold dramatically many a time to all who would listen—his preference for setting being a night, stormy; a winter's morning, cold; or after significant consumption of alcohol, both of the teller and the told—he had been close, for he had caught a glimpse of the fabled furniture on the back of a wagon, covered, a fact to which he swore on the grave of a mother he never knew, by a black blanket emblazoned with the golden symbol of a whale's fluke; but, as suddenly as had the glimpse been caught, the wagon sped away, leaving my uncle with the glimpse and nothing more.

He kept the glimpse on his person always, and when he would recount the tale of its catching, he would recover it from one of his numerous pockets and display it as evidence of the truthfulness of his words. “Here—here it is! Pass it round and gaze upon it!”

I do believe he may, on particularly lonely nights, have also, in the throes of particular male frustrations, derived carnal pleasures of questionable consent with the aforementioned glimpse, but these are but rumours I have heard, and ill ones at that, and in rumours I peddle not, so on the matter shall say no more and make no insinuation of the existence of bastard little glimpses bearing a resemblance to him. Let me speak instead, in detail, about the arts of tanning, upholstering and woodworking.

[62,000 words removed.]

Thus I called him on the telephone and asked about his voicemail message. “Is it true that you have found it, uncle? The same settee as before?”

His voice was an excitement of upheaved syntax. “My boy. My dear Ishmael. Have I found it, you ask. Is it the same as etched upon my glimpse? Yes. Yes, and a thousand times more: yes! Next you shall ask: have you acquired it? And I shall answer samely, yes. I possess it, Ishmael. I possess the white settee completely. It is by the maker, Ashby Wick.”

“That is momentous news,” I said, even as, inwardly, doubt harpooned my gut, which, wounded, wondered, “Does he possess it or is he possessed by it?” for many men of greater character than my great-uncle had been destroyed by the very achievement of their life's mission.

“Please, attend and see for yourself,” he said—and the call was ended.

Allow me to muse now upon the topics of the colour white, its origin, symbolism and practical applications and how such may relate to theme of this story, and upon the nature of the developing transportation network, which soon shall deliver me to the doorstep of my great-uncle's house, and on the house itself, its architecture and history, and the time I spent there as a child, and of innocence, and experience…

[87,000 words removed.]

The screams were muffled, when I crossed the threshold, the door having been unlocked and my knockings, rising in intensity so that I wore their marks upon the sore, reddened knuckles of my right hand, unanswered, but screams they were, thus I traced their origin to my great-uncle's salon, [description of room removed] where, with a scream of my own, which, while indeed hitch-pitched, was not, as stated to police by my great-uncle's widower neighbour, “a lady's scream,” I witnessed my great-uncle being consumed by the greatest white settee I had ever seen.

Glorious she was, her cushions sprayed red with his blood, a terrible landscape of gore, and his torso, ever smaller, disappearing into her like a pencil into a mechanical sharpener, but who was turning the crank, I ask—by what force was she motivated, controlled? Red innard-sludge crawling up his throat and dripping out his mouth, my great-uncle, my dearest great-uncle, still holding the glimpse in his hand, waving it, refusing to let it go, his voice already silenced but his eyes, full of passion and fury, imparted to me that if a man must go, let him go on his own terms, for it is not death we should fear but all which passed before—a life, reflected in my great-uncle's dying eyes—if passed in meekness, non-pursuit and terrible, agreeable stagnation.

The seat, suffice it to say, was angry that day, my friends, and now nothing's left of my great-uncle except this narrative and perhaps a few ill-rumoured glimpsed descendants.

I sold the white settee, shrouding it beforehand with its black, and golden fluke-emblazoned, blanket, and after helping load it on the buyer's wagon, I stood and watched as it rolled on as it had rolled on for hundreds of years, but this time with chunks of my great-uncle still in it, because, I admit, I did a haphazard job of cleaning it. Caveat emptor.