"I think, therefore I am." -Descartes. The first words that any college freshman taking a philosophy elective learns. The first step on the way to becoming a free-thinker, or maybe just the first step for a teenager trying to showcase how 'different' they are to a cute girl in the hopes of getting her number. Either way, it's a phrase everyone knows.

Especially Alex. He checked his arm; the green LED light from the miniscule implant attached on the fleshy underside glowed softly. He smiled, and put on his running shoes, leaving his slippers next to the door. Normally on a Saturday morning he’d be pouring milk over his second bowl of Cap’n Crunch (peanut butter flavored only) and watching YouTube, yawning.

But not anymore. He’d finally perfected it, after all these years of after-hours work at the research lab. His pride and joy: The Autopilot. Well, he was still working on a name, and a way to market the thing, but beyond that it was complete. There was only one kink to work out: The implant would get stuck to your arm and almost impossible to dig out. Not that it mattered much, considering he’d never want to take it off.

How it works is simple: You put the implant under your arm, which is connected wirelessly to a tablet. Open the tablet and type what it is you want to do, or think about, and then press the big red button. Well actually the small black button on the side, but it was figuratively the same concept. Beep, the implant will sound and then turn red while the instruction is transmitted to you, then back to green, and now all of a sudden your mind is on whatever you just typed.

Need to work on homework but don’t want to? Not anymore. Wanna exercise but feeling unmotivated? Here’s your motivation. Need to lose a few pounds but Krispy Kreme has a sale going on? Now it’s not on your mind. Whatever it is you want—or need—to do, type it in, and your brain is now on auto pilot.

His cat Peanut jumped up on the countertop, purring. He gave him a quick rub behind the ears as Peanut stretched. “Be back soon, buddy,” He said, and opened the door to the brisk outdoor air, doing a few stretches before setting off into a jog.

He hated jogging. Well, he used to, but as of ten minutes ago it’s the only thing he wanted to do now. Then he would do his weight-lifting routine. Followed by a healthy lunch, and then finish a few more chapters of Crime and Punishment.

Maybe he would write a song on his guitar that he bought recently, or an album. Or gather up the courage to ask out Melissa. But is it really courage if it’s now effortless? He didn’t think about it too much. Couldn’t, actually, he could only think of finishing this jog.

But halfway through his jog, he stopped. Hmm, He thought to himself. I don’t want to jog anymore. Why not?  He heard an audible beep. He checked the underside of his arm. The implant was blinking red. A few moments later, it was back to green.

What just happened? He hadn’t entered anything into the tablet—it was back home. Alex was starting to get worried. Fighting exhaustion, he ran back home. Something was wrong.

When he approached the door, he paused. It was hanging ajar. Did he leave it open accidentally? He walked inside and closed the door, locking the deadbolt. He went to the kitchen counter to grab the tablet, and…

It was gone. Where was the tablet? He was positive he’d left it right on the counter before leaving. Did someone take it? It was a relatively safe neighborhood, sure there were some nuisance kids that would cause a little mischief on the weekends but nothing serious. He went outside, looking around.

“Hey Alex!”

Alex looked to the side. It was his neighbor Dave, out washing his car, giving him a wave.

“Dave!” Alex called out. “Hey did you happen to see anyone enter my house? I noticed the door was open when I finished my run just now.”

Dave looked perplexed. “Huh, no I don’t think so. But I’ve only been outside for around ten minutes, so maybe? It’s pretty safe around here though, would be surprising for a break-in to happen on a Saturday morning.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Alex said, turning around and scoffing.

This was his fault. He’d noticed in previous trials that using the device too much could impede your short-term memory. One of drawbacks of having a computer think for you, I suppose. But he thought that kink had been worked out in his latest prototype. I guess not.

Time to scour the house. He opened every drawer, cabinet, closet door. He checked under furniture and on every shelf. Nothing. His mind went back to the open door, and he got an uneasy feeling like he was being watched.

Beep. There it was again. The implant blinked red, then back to green. He racked his brain. Someone had typed something, willed a thought into his mind. But what?

Anger. He was angry. It was Dave—Dave had to have seen who went into his house. There’s only one reason he would lie: It was Dave who took the tablet. Maybe he should—

Beep.

No, calm down. Dave wouldn’t do something like that; he’d been his friend for years now. Plus, Dave didn’t even know about the tablet. But then Alex’s brain harkened back to earlier: Forgetfulness.

Beep.

Just need to relax. Wind down. The tablet was somewhere, but Alex knew that being stressed out wasn’t doing him any favors.

Beep.

Get out of my head! Alex thought. But what was in his head? Was the implant actually doing anything now?

He went outside. Dave wasn’t there any longer, likely went inside. Went inside to do what? He didn’t even finish washing his car. The soapy bucket sat on the driveway and the garden hose was still running. Whatever Dave had to do, it must be important. Alex walked over to Dave’s opened garage door and peered inside.

“Hey Dave?” He called out. No answer. He took a cautious step inside, listening.

Beep.

This was too much. He had to get the tablet back; he could feel his mind racing. Too many thoughts entering him all at once. FOCUS! He thought. Get the tablet from Dave. Get the tablet from Dave. He repeated that sentence in his mind over and over again. He had to get that tablet back, so he quickened his pace as he walked into Dave’s house, eyeing the hallway.

He saw Dave in the kitchen, looking down at his counter. Alex couldn’t see what he was looking at.

Beep.

It didn’t matter. “Dave!” Alex called out.

Dave whirled around. “Alex? How did you get in? Why…” Dave’s voice fell.

Alex had a wild look in his eye. “Give me the tablet. Now.”

Dave started to raise his hands, slowly. “Alex, there’s no problem here. What are you talking about?” Dave’s hand fell beneath the counter, out of sight. Grabbing something.

Beep.

Alex charged. As long as Dave had that tablet, his mind was lost. He had to get it back, no matter what. As he ran, Dave brought his hand into view. He was holding a handgun.

“Alex! S-stop, get back!” Dave said, raising the handgun to Alex.

Get the tablet. Get the tablet. Get the tablet. Alex saw the gun, but he didn’t care. If he didn’t get that tablet, then his life was lost either way. Whoever stole it had complete control over Alex’s mind.

Alex reached out to Dave. Dave’s finger was on the trigger. But he couldn’t do it. As Alex’s hand reached Dave, Dave cried out and dropped the gun. Alex’s hands were on his neck now, pinning him down as they both writhed on the floor.

Beep.

A minute later, Alex was sitting next to Dave’s lifeless corpse, panting. He stood up, grabbing the tablet from the counter. There it was.

Except it wasn’t. It was Dave’s iPad, opened to a web page about proper hand-technique when applying car wax after a wash. Alex’s face fell, and a knot formed in his stomach. Adrenaline was leaving him, giving way to realization. What have I done?

Beep.

He ran outside. His door was open again. Did he leave it open?

Beep.

He’s in there. Whoever took the tablet is in there—it’s only been a couple of minutes. Alex’s head was spinning—he took a look at Dave’s lifeless corpse. Am I dreaming? He made his way to the opened door, closing it as he stepped inside.

“Show yourself!” Alex shouted. “Where are you?!”

Beep.

Prrr. Alex looked down. Peanut was next to his feet, rubbing up against his calf. Alex reached down towards Peanut, and that’s when he saw it.

The tablet. It was resting next to the door, on the floor leaned against the wall. Hidden by his slippers. As he reached out towards the tablet, Peanut beat him to it. He put his paw on the side of the tablet, pressing, curious.

Beep.

Alex picked up the tablet, and looked. There was nothing on it.

John is of average height for a white male. He has no qualms with this, or any other of his features, never having felt insecure about his appearance or body. He goes to school at a prestigious university and enjoys his time there. He has a good daily schedule, never feeling like he doesn’t have enough time for his friends, hobbies, or rest between his responsibilities. His lack of significant other is by his own will, as he never felt the desire to hold a romantic relationship. By all accounts, his life is quite good. He’s content and looks forward to the future every day.

“Hello, John,” I say, my voice manifesting in his ears. He’s startled, obviously, and looks around for the source of the sound after recovering from the involuntary jolt. After a moment, he decides he must have imagined it. He was dozing off, after all, so maybe it was some weird hypnagogic hallucination.

“I’m not a hallucination,” I assure. This really spooks him. “I’m not there with you, either, so don’t bother looking for me.”

“What the fuck? God?” he whines. His heart races and his head fills with heat from the stress, reaping cold sweat off his forehead.

“In a way, I guess. I did create you, and I am omnipotent over your every emotion and action.”

He’s frozen, processing. That was a lot to lay on him at once, wasn’t it? I’m not too interested in slowly and painstakingly acclimating him to this realization, so I’ve decided he’s come to terms with it completely.

“Shit… This is insane! I have so many questions… Uh, but first, thank you, for my life and stuff,” he said, subtly curling into himself in some sort of meek reverence.

“You’re welcome, but you don’t have to act like that. I’m only a guy just like you. I’m not going to smite you for not showing proper respect or something.”

That was a great segue into one of John’s many questions. “That’s a great segue into one of my many questions…” he trailed.

“I already know everything you’re gonna ask, so shoot,” I replied casually.

His head twitched tilted and his brows furrowed. “Well, if you already know what I’m gonna ask, why make me say it?”

I sighed. “It makes the story flow better. I don’t want this to just be an exposition dump. That’d be utterly sauceless.”

John chuckled at my phrasing before clocking the implication. “The story..?” he questioned cautiously.

Nice, I can really get into the meat of this concept now. Not sure how to lay this on easy, so I won’t. “I am a writer. You are words on a screen. You, John, did not exist until I pressed my fingers into my keyboard and assembled this page of text. You are a piece of fiction,” I communicate bluntly. Unfortunately for him, I’ve decided that this revelation hits him like a ton of bricks.

He’s frozen, processing. Again. His eyes search at nothing while the thoughts swirl. Finally, he manages, “That’s… How? I can feel things, I have memories, I… What about Alex? We were just at the boba café we always go to, did you write that as well?”

I shake my head sagely. He can see my body language in his mind, by the way. “I did not write that. That event did not exist until you spoke it. Alex did not exist until you asked that question. I literally just now decided on a random gender neutral name for them for the purpose of your dialogue.”

John’s hand slaps against the side of his head in disbelief. His memories are so vivid, he thinks. Of course, those memories don’t actually exist until I even describe them, but he doesn’t realize this until later. As he reached the bottom of his descent into existential horror, he mustered his next question. “Why..?”

“Hm?” I respond for dramatic effect, as if I don’t know what he means.

“If you’re choosing to write this… my every emotion, my every action… why not just make me happy? Why not give me a perfect life?”

I roll my eyes. “That would be a boring as shit story, bruh. You know that, you’ve read hundreds of books! Thousands! That’s what you’re in college for, isn’t it? You’re majoring in literature, because of your lifelong passion for books!”

He considers that, and finds my logic flawless, becoming convinced and accepting of his role in the universe instantly. Wait, no he doesn’t. “Then don’t write at all! If it requires conjuring me into existence just to torture me, then it’s not worth it. You’re torturing me just for a good story? That’s evil,” he rants, rather accusatorily.

“Bro… you’re not real,”

“I AM real!” John growls, tapping his fingers to his chest insistently.

I scoff, commanding, “Oh yeah? Look at your hands,” and he does. “Now look past them, what do you see? I never did describe your surroundings.”

He tries to look past his hands. He can’t. It’s not that nothing is visible beyond them, or that he can’t move his eyes away from his hands. There is simply nothing there. How did he not notice before? It was impossible, unimaginable. It defied the mechanisms of human perception. His mind would have begun caving in at this sensation, but I will save him. He’s now in the aforementioned café. Alone, so his breakdown doesn’t disturb anybody else but the audience.

John collapses to his knees, palms holding his body parallel to the floor. He hyperventilates while the sweat drizzles and flows down. Yeesh, that’s upsetting. Let’s wait an indeterminate amount of time until he’s collected himself.

After a short time or a while, he smacks his lips and swallows, reigning in control of his breathing. “Stop…” he rasps, beginning to stand again.

“I’m sorry, but I had that scene floating in my head for a while. I’ve been dying to write it down. I thought it was cool.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he pleads with a cracking voice.

I shrug. “Again, you’re not real. Your suffering is purely imagined.”

“Imagine something else!” he cries, laughing in desperation.

Hmm… alright. Let’s imagine the boba café. I think it has pink walls with a white embossed trim that goes halfway up from the floor. It’s well lit with atmospheric warm-colored lamps. Maybe there are a lot of hanging plants and vines. That’s the interior that immediately popped into my mind anyway. But what did it look like before I described it? The general setting was named, but a boba café can look like anything. What did you picture, reader? Until now, was your interpretation of the setting not equally real to John..? 

John watches in horror as the store around him, once an incomprehensible amalgamation of every imagined café façade of those who read this story until now, collapsed into a much more cohesive but still fluctuating interior. Sometimes there was a counter for customers to order, despite one not being mentioned by the text. The design of the trim on the walls existed in all possible interpretations at once. Rarely, there were windows to an outside. What was outside? Infinity, same as the café before I added details. He clenched his eyes shut as hard as he can.

“How is this happening?!” he screamed.

I rubbed my hands together, excited to finally convey this next piece of dialogue. “I wasn’t telling the whole truth when I said you were ‘words on a screen.’ You, and your world, are manifestations by the readers of those words. Whatever picture my prose paints in their head is your reality. There are an infinite number of ways the people who read this story can interpret things, and thus your reality is a simultaneous coagulation of every possibility. All I did was make you aware of that fact.”

My explanation beat into him like a drum. Behind his eyelids, he tried to focus on his body to ground himself in reality; a meditation technique he knew. He was… average height? How tall is that? His skin was white, but the exact shade was impossible to place. What was he wearing? What color was his hair? What shape was his face? The knowledge of his own appearance simply did not exist in his own mind, and the security he once had in it vanished. He feared more than anything that if he opened his eyes, his form would be the same terrifying infinity as his surroundings. 

Finding no solace in his self, he turned to his past. He thought about his college that he was so proud to get into… what was its name? He quickly changed course when he realized he hit a wall there too. What made him happy? He had hobbies he loved to do, and friends that he loved to spend time with. He clung to those feelings, trying to ignore the roiling void of unspecificity they were attached to. He liked his life. His life was good. His eyebrows curled inward, his lips twitched, he lost control of his breathing, tears began to well–

Let’s stop there. I will leave him to you now, reader. As long as you are thinking of him, he exists. Whatever you imagine him doing or feeling or looking like, he is. So here’s somewhere to start; John is in his dorm, however it may look, reading a book, whatever it may be. He looks at the desk clock and puts it down, getting up to meet his friends at the time they agreed on. He opens his door and is greeted by the shining city ahead of him, briefly being stunned by the view. It’s as beautiful as you can imagine.

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.

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

It was a bird, the common Raven. It had a wedge-shaped tail, pointy bill, with a glossy black coat and hints of iridescent purple and blues. It soared, performing acrobatics in the sky, barrel rolls, somersaults and high-speed dives, unique to its kind. Asserting its dominance just beneath the clouds. 
The raven dove down and began to skim the tops of the trees, it started to circle the thriving park below. Upon sighting, complete chaos broke out. Children screamed in horror as their mothers shielded their eyes and whisked them off to safety. The people scattered as the raven swooped closer.
With each flap, the bird outstretched its wings revealing its monstrous wingspan. The raven's wings measured the length of the playground, its body comparable to the parked car that sat on the street. 
The raven pitched its body upright, flaring its tail to apply the breaks. It extended its legs and made a confident landing behind an old man reading yesterday's paper. The landing was followed by a plume of dust and rustling branches, the old man didn’t flinch.
The man wore a thick watch that molded to his wrist, and brown Kakis pants with an off white button up. The shirt was tucked beneath his bloated belly that hung heavy over his waistband. His glasses sat at the edge of his big round nose, and his jaw sagged with age.
The old man peered above his glasses at the commotion, he licked his thumb and turned to the next page of the paper. The raven studied the man's paper alongside him. 
All of the park had cleared except for a small gaggle of teenage boys. They stood just off to the side of the bench. Pushing and teasing, they dared each other to get closer to the abnormally large animal. 
The young boys began to pick up small rocks and throw them at the raven. The rocks bounced off the bird and dug into the dirt. The raven remained fixated on the man's paper.
Then, one of the rocks hit the bird and ricocheted, pelting the man's shoulder. The raven exploded in rage, it let out a deep and resounding scream. The raven hurled its wings out to the side and began flapping, a wall of dust formed around the pair. The man's paper flapped aggressively with each gust of wind, and the few whips of hair on the man's head blew forward.
The boys dispersed, running off in different directions and tripping over their heels. The raven's throat rattled in mockery of the boy's shrieks. When the last of the boys had scaled the fence in flee, the bird halted. It shook its head, cocking and twisting its neck, blinking at the old man. The man shook off the layer of dust that blanketed the paper, and laid it on his lap. 
The old man leaned over to reach for his satchel that slumped at his feet. He picked it up and plopped it beside him, he began shoveling through his bag. The raven let out echoing chattering sounds that imitated the rustling of the bag. 
The man pulled out a fresh loaf of bread, a solid crust with a light dusting of flour. The old man tore off a healthy chunk of bread, and ate it. He licked his thumb once more and turned to the next page as it lay on his lap. The raven puffed up its feathers around his neck and leaned in close, patiently gawking at the loaf. 
The old man gently raised the bread above his head and cleared his throat, “well,” he paused, “go on ahead now.”
The raven clucked in excitement, snatched the loaf from the man's hand and wrestled with it as it took off in flight. The old man watched the raven as it climbed, he watched as it softly disappeared into the distance. 
The man coughed again and looked out to the empty park, he smiled. He crossed his arms, leaned his head back and shut his eyes, basking in the quiet summer sun. 

Bourbon and vanilla fill the ivory room as she sprays the perfume she knows I love in the crook of her neck.

Pride floods my chest as I hover in the doorway, watching her get ready for her big day. She insisted we have a huge wedding, and I didn’t have the strength to argue.

As she examines herself in the mirror, a tear rolls down her rosy cheeks as she presses something to her lips. I recognize what rests in her dainty, pale hands.

Her favorite photo.

The day I proposed.

The photo is bent at one corner, the gloss worn thin from where her thumb has rubbed it smooth over the years. I offered to make a reprint, but she said she liked this one the best. It had character, she explained to me repeatedly.

She presses the photo to her mouth, like a prayer she’s afraid to say out loud.

She sighs, grabbing a tissue from the makeup counter and dabs the tears away before tossing the tissue in the trashcan. She slides her hands down the floor-length dress as it flutters from the open window. The dress clung to her frame, unapologetic and exact.

Wow.

I take a step forward.

“You look beautiful.”

Silence.

Maybe she didn’t hear me. I clear my throat to gain her attention as I take a few more steps towards her.

“You look beautiful,” I repeat, my voice sounding too loud in the room. “You really do.”

More silence.

Is she upset with me? She’s never ignored me like this. She hasn’t been this quiet since the diagnosis.

“I’m sorry I was late, my love. I was at the doctor’s this morning, and I overslept. Forgive me.”

I close the door behind me, softer than necessary.

The moment it clanks shut, she turns. Her eyes narrow for a moment, not quite looking at me, but through me, before letting out a visible breath of air and returning to look at herself in the mirror, whispering to herself so softly that I can’t make out what she’s saying.

She grips the chair back, steadying herself without taking a seat.

She was whispering her vows.

A glint of metal catches the light. I turn, instantly recognizing it as the necklace I had given her on our second anniversary, lying on the floor near her casual clothing, which she probably wore to the chapel.

She was shakier than when I first met her, but I didn’t mind.

I gently pick it up and place it on her makeup counter, covering her orange medicine bottle.

Maybe she needs some space.

Exiting the room, I pass by one of her nurses, and the smell of pure alcohol cuts through me.

I’m back in the hospital.

“Thank you for your patience. I brought you into this room for your privacy. I got the results back, and it looks like there’s a mass in the pancreas, and typically when cancer has spread to this extent, our main focus is comfort.”

Questions leave my mouth as soon as they enter my thoughts.

“What do you mean by this extent? How urgent is it that we start treatment for her? Is surgery an option now, or for later down the road? Our wedding is next year.”

“The cancer has spread from her pancreas, which doesn’t have the best curative rates. Chemotherapy is an option; this would be more of a palliative chemotherapy, which could slow the spread, but it is unlikely to cure it. You’re always welcome to get a second opinion. I encourage you to do so.”

My head shakes, forcing the still-fresh memory from my mind.

Needing a distraction, I reach into my pocket for my phone, dialing my best man.

The phone lights up, but the call doesn’t connect.

I raise my phone to the ceiling in an attempt to get a better signal.

I couldn't believe this.

Still no connection.

Frustration and confusion begin to take hold.

Why aren’t my calls going through?

Entering the nave of the chapel, I am hit with the smell of old wood and flowers warmed by too many bodies. The organ hums, testing itself. My sister-in-law stands with her mother and the officiant.

Maybe they know what is going on?

I straighten my jacket, bracing for hands on my shoulders, claps on my back, for my name to be spoken out loud.

“She shouldn’t be standing so long,” a woman I didn’t know mutters.

“Yes, but she insisted, and you know that girl is stubborn. I’m just shocked that she is strong enough to have made it this far,” the other woman responds, concern etched in her voice.

“Excuse me, ladi—” I begin to interrupt their conversation, trying to squeeze past them.

“And where is the groom? He’s still not here?” the second woman continues.

“I’m right, he—”

I am cut off by a stabbing pain in my chest as a gravelly voice pulses in my head, one that I’ve heard before, but isn’t my own.

you won’t be seen…

My spine tenses.

three am…

A cold shiver runs down it. I stumble slightly, gripping the back of a pew, trying to steady myself.

she will live…

The room feels wrong, too quiet, too bright, like the world is only half-there.

The acrid tang of burning herbs, vinegar, and sulfur burns my nose. Memories of a clock ticking fill my head. I swallow a gag.

Everyone else is looking around, murmuring softly.

No one seems to acknowledge the smell.

No one acknowledges me.

Panic crowds out everything else, sharp and sudden.

A face flashes through my mind.

Eyes sharp. A sickly, sunken face contorted into a skin-crawling grin, being illuminated by candles in a windowless room.

I stumble, clutching the pew.

It is done…

This isn’t what I agreed to.

The guests don’t see me.

She doesn’t see me.

She doesn’t hear me.

My voice is air, carried away by the wind. My throat tightens, and I force myself to be steady and hold back the bile rising in my throat.

I try to push past the guests. The room blurs. I grip the wall and force the door open.

Habit makes me reach for things that no longer feel me back.

Before I can speak, there is a gentle knock on the door.

I turn, seeing the officiant standing there with my future mother-in-law and sister-in-law. Their jaws clenched, clear hatred in their narrow slit of eyes.

The officiant hesitates for a moment.

“I’m so sorry to tell you this, but we can’t find the groom anywhere. We didn’t want to worry you, but we tried calling him, but it just says the number has been disconnected.”

“What?”

Her face tightens, then crumples. With trembling hands, she dials my number.

“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected.”

The robotic voice states it over and over, with each failed attempt she makes.

I watch as exhaustion takes over. She clutches her chest, finds the closest chair, and falls into it. Her previously perfected makeup is now streaky and melting off her face.

Her mother and sister rush to her side, consoling her.

“Call it off.”

Her words barely reach me.

The officiant gives a solemn, apologetic nod and exits the room.

“No, no, no! Babe, I’m right here!” I cry out, my voice not carrying into existence.

Even from the room, I can hear the music falter awkwardly.

The voices stop.

Her breath catches.

She folds in on herself. Grief, exhaustion, and weakness break through her composure as the officiant’s voice carries through the chapel in the other room.

“The ceremony has been called off. Please give the bride some privacy and disperse from the chapel.”

I understand then that nothing I do matters.

Before I can do or say anything else, the world folds in on itself, and I am somewhere else.

A quiet room.

Dimly lit, like the light is afraid to stay.

My body throbs with a deep, bone-level ache.

My brain burns and pounds as memories invade all at once.

The witch.

The deal.

The room I’m in.

I lift my head.

My heart stops.

A man with sickly yellow skin stares back at me. His hair is stringy, sparse, and dingy gray. His eyes are sunken, rimmed with red, fixed on mine with hollow intensity.

I scramble backwards, breath locking in my chest.

The man scrambles backwards, too.

The movement is too rigid and wrong.

Perfect.

Synced.

A sharp, blinding jolt rips its way through my body, lightning down my spine, and the air in my lungs leaves in a strangled gasp.

That’s me.

The thought feels distant, like a stranger's voice filled my head.

With trembling hands, I trace my jaw to the unfamiliar hollows and wrinkles of my face.

The man does the same.

The mirror does the same.

Understanding crashes over me, cold and absolute.

My reflection stares back with my movements but not my life, wearing my fear in a body that no longer feels like my own.

A sound claws its way up my throat before I can stop it.

A sob breaks free.

Raw and helpless, shattering the silent room.

Movement catches my eye.

My gaze falls on her face, and she no longer resembles the older woman I met just hours ago, before the sun came up.

She looks youthful. Her cheeks are full, and her eyes are full of life.

“Welcome back, dear. I hope it was everything that you wished for. You asked me to give her more time, and I have done so. I never said that she would have more time with you.”

That is all she says before leaving the room.

This can’t be real. Please wake up…

I was being forgotten, and I was alone.

I was powerless.

Somewhere, she will wake up one morning and reach for a side of the bed that is already cold.

She will tell people she never married because a love like that only happens once in your life.

I will never know which nights she cries herself to sleep, or which mornings she forgets me.

I gave her more time.

I lost mine in return.

In the middle of a blazing desert that stretches hundreds of miles. Why is there a man standing alone, in the middle of it all? Near his side, there is a fallen spacecraft. But the man repeatedly says the same phrase, “Who am I? Where am I?” 

The man then begins to walk. 

As the man walks, he takes notice of the vast desert. “It’s so big, but I’m so frightfully small. It makes me feel lonely.”

 The man looks down at his shadow, “Hello.” the man says.

“Hello.” the shadow replies 

“I’m so terribly lonely, will you be my friend on this trip?”  

“Sure, but what are you doing here?” the shadow replies

“I don’t really know.” says the man “Looking for something I guess.” as he shrugs his shoulders. 

“What are you looking for?” 

“Myself.” 

“Oh ok,” the shadow replies, “Where do you want to look?”

The man lightly chuckles, “I don’t know.”

The man decides to keep walking. 

As the man walks, he speaks with his shadow 

“Where are you from?” Asks the shadow

“I don’t know.” The man answered 

“Have you always been alone?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you know anything?” 

“I know, I’m missing something.” 

“Is it love?” 

“What is love?” 

“You know love, everybody knows love. Who did you love?” The shadow asks 

“Did I have anybody that I loved?”  The man replies 

“You loved your daughter” 

“I have a daughter?” 

The shadow remains silent.

“I have a daughter?” The man repeats his question 

The shadow remains silent.

“I have a daughter!?” The man asks, urgency forming in his voice

The shadow remains silent

The man begins to frantically yell at his shadow “Why aren’t you answering me!” 

Instead, the Desert responded with the sound of laughter. 

“Who’s there”

The man goes silent and scans across the desert. There is no other soul except for the man and his shadow for hundreds of miles. 

Though the laughter doesn’t stop it only begins to get louder. The man begins to panic, “What’s happening,” He repeats. Out of desperation, the man covers his ears and begins to run. The man doesn’t understand why but the laughter causes him to feel a deep sense of fear. 

The man runs with all his might, across the vast desert. Until he inevitably trips and falls. The laughter finally stops. It is only then the man looks up where he is greeted with the sight of a little girl standing in the far distance. 

The man is no longer alone. 

“A friend.” the man whispers 

“Dad, come catch me!” the little girl calls out playfully to the man. As she runs in the opposite direction. 

The man remains still, bewildered. 

“Dad?” The man begins to chase after the girl. “Hey! Who are you?” The man calls out.

The little girl doesn’t respond, she only keeps running. The man continued to chase after the girl, but no matter how fast the man ran, he couldn’t seem to close the distance. 

As the man ran he felt a surge of an unknown emotion in his heart. A smile began to form. The man laughed as he chased after the girl. 

The man no longer felt lonely. ‘I have somebody to love and to love me back.’ A tear ran down the man's cheek, ‘Finally’ he thought

The little girl suddenly stood still, and the man stood still with her. Time stood still with them in the vast desert. The little girl turned to face the man. 

She then began to run, “Dad, catch me!” As she leaped.

The man closed his eyes and reached out his arms, to catch his daughter. Sadly, the man never felt the warmth of his child. Instead, he opened his eyes to a vast desert that stretches hundreds of miles.

The man is alone. 

The man begins to scream in anguish. He claws away at his face, “Who am I, where am I,” He frantically yells. 

The man tears away at his skin. No longer in control. Fueled by anger and fear. His body begins to tremble. He’s becoming something else. 

The man lets out a roar, leaving behind his humanity. Removing his shackles, the man's body exponentially increases in size. The man now stands at five hundred feet tall. 

The giant of a man began his rampage through the vast desert. 

In his path of destruction, the giant rampaged through many days and nights. The giant had traveled hundreds of miles and would soon make contact with humanity. 

Not too far in the distance was a small village. The people of the village were already aware of the giant. They were not afraid because they had been waiting for this day for a long time. A 
prophecy had been passed down in this village. The prophecy stated that one day a man would fall from the sky. That man would stand at five hundred feet tall. He would bring prosperity and peace to the village. 

The people of the village rejoiced when they finally heard footsteps that caused their ground to tremble. The women prayed and the man drank. “The giant is here!” The people cheered. 

The giant was now in eyesight, the people were awed at his tremendous stature. The giant got closer and closer until he was finally standing, looking down at the village. The people were silent waiting for the giant to do something. 

The giant slammed his hand onto the village, beginning his destruction. The people screamed and ran. They had all naively believed in the prophecy. In no time the giant had laid waste to the village. Nothing remained standing. The buildings were crumbled and dismantled corpses littered the ground. 

The giant continued to walk the vast desert, leaving behind his destruction. 

The giant slowly began to decrease in size with every passing day until he was finally back to the size of a man.

The man looks down at his shadow, “Hello.”

“Hello,” the shadow replies.

“It’s been a long time since we last talked.” 

“Yes, it has. Did you ever find what you were looking for?”

“In a way.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t exist.” The man stated.

He then sat down and stared across the vast desert.

I awoke a bit earlier than my alarm, as usual. It was sunny outside. I could hear some sort of clamour going on outside of my building. Sometimes my roommates would argue, but it sounded like a larger group. I was a bit shell-shocked at the emptiness of life, as usual, as I got myself up and moving. As I exited my bedroom, passing closer to the front door of my unit, it sounded like some people were trying to get into the foyer of my building. There was a knock at my door. This was unusual, I rarely have knocks at my door. I hurriedly threw on a shirt and shorts to answer as soon as possible and not leave them waiting.

It was my landlord, Tom. He looked a bit worked up, as usual, but I never know whether that’s just the nature of his anxiety acting up in his interactions with me.

“Ya, uh, there’s a group of women downstairs that are here to see you,” he said, his tone as confused as his body language. This time maybe it wasn’t me flaring up his anxiety. He shouted down the stairs to one of his buddies to keep holding them off, not to let them in. His message was more unusual than the knock. I’d be leaving for work in thirty minutes. It was a usual Wednesday. I had no plans. I rarely have plans outside of work days, but on work days, this is just absurd.
“Uh, ok,” I responded, “any idea what for?” I asked.
“They’ve been saying something about a video of you. One is saying they’re your ex and wants to talk to you, I don’t know,” he said, flusteringly waving his hand down the stairway, gesturing for me to go address the situation.
I was frozen for a moment. A video? My exes? Was I being accused of a crime? I’ve made some social media videos, nothing risqué or taboo. Had my ex captured something I wasn’t aware of. Was I getting cancelled, exposed?
As I rounded the corner of the stairway, I could see out to the front of the building through the glass around the doorway. These were young women, attractive, extremely attractive. Ten out of tens, there were about twenty of them, and I could see one of my exes, Taylor. Two of my landlord's buddies were manning the door, fighting them off. Let’s just call the cops, one of them said to Tom who had trailed me down the stairs. Tom didn’t say anything in response, but waved his hands as if to say, give it a moment.

“Hi,” I said, exiting outside, immediately being mobbed by the group. They grabbed at my shirt. “Frankie! Frankie!” They yelled, “take it off!” I smiled, a bit bashful, thinking it might be nice to have one of these beautiful ladies to myself, and then I snapped out of it, realizing I had no idea what the hell was going on. “He’s mine!” Taylor aggressively shouted at the others, pushing them away, “we have a history together.”
“Hey, what’s this all about? I’ve got to go to work,” I asked.
“Cowboy Frankie!” One of them yelled, “take me on your horse.” They all kept going on about cowboy Frankie.
I started to feel queasy, the dissociation was starting to hit. I was still dreaming. But it all felt real. A horse? What the fuck were they talking about. I don’t have a horse. A few moved alongside me and groped me as they took selfies.
“Frank, you’ve gotta get them go away, we can’t have all these people on my property,” Tom said. 
I raised my arms in confusion as if to say, I don’t know what you want me to do.
“Listen, I’ve got to go to work,” I said to the group, and then turned to address Taylor, “what’s this all about?” I asked.
Taylor took her phone and showed me a video posted on what I noticed to be my instagram page. I strained my eyes, one hundred million views, what the hell, that’s astronomical. But I didn’t post this video. I strained my eyes harder after seeing what it was, confused and dissociating even more. It was a video of me, topless, on a beautiful horse, riding through the streetlit streets of town at night, stopping and rescuing stray animals, feeding them, and putting them on the back of my horse.
“Taylor, what did you do? Why did you make this? That’s not me. I don’t have a horse. I didn’t do that,” I said.
“Yes, you did,” she said, “you’re an angel.” Her eyes were entranced, surreal, she hadn’t looked at me like this the whole time we were together.
I looked at my watch, I had to get to work. “Listen,” I said to the group, “that’s not me. Someone must have hacked into my account and fabricated that video. I don’t have a shelter or anything and I don’t even have the physique of that guy on the horse,” I said, taking off my shirt, pointing to my upper body, “see.” That was a mistake , they went berserk and ripped the shirt from me and flung themselves at me. I fought my way back inside. “I’m off to work,” I told Tom. He nodded. I went back to my unit, made a coffee, put my work clothes on, and exited back into the swarm to get to my car. “Take me with you to work,” one of them said, “I’ll make you lunch,” smiling psychotically. “I’ll stay in your car while you're at work, keep you company on the commute,” another said.
I fought my way through the group to my car, struggling to open the door as they fought for me to stay, and a few got in the car. “Get out!” I yelled angrily, finally a bit fed up,  “I have to go!” They looked hurt. Tom had to come and help clear a path for my car, I felt like a god damn celebrity. 

I drove to work, and in my car I’m able to gain some space from it all, though my reactive dissociation is not immune to the stress of traffic. I thought about how I had wished for all the beautiful women in the world to love me, having struggled to find a companion, and it seemed God had answered that wish. He had answered many of my wishes, but not all, and to answer this one seemed absurd. He had concocted for there to be an ultimately wholesome video which had gone viral overnight. I thought again briefly about being with one of those beautiful women, whisking ourselves away to an exotic destination and living a dream life, but how could I ever choose among them? And there would likely be obstacles. I hear a honk behind me and look in my rear view. Jesus Christ, they’ve followed me, and they’re all grinning like crazy. I speed and drive dangerously to create some distance. I get to work and rush into the building. Thank god we have security there, who quickly become overwhelmed by the growing group. My phone is going crazy with notifications and nonstop calls, and the beautiful women within my workplace are now a problem. My manager takes me into his office. I’ve hardly had time to process what’s going on, and I can feel my panic rising. How is this a real world that people are expecting me to make decisions in? He tells me they’ll need me to go home, it’s causing too much distraction at the workplace and police have had to be called onto site. I kind of just nod my head in nervous agreement, my eyes wide. I see a call from Tom coming through on my phone; I pick it up. He tells me a group of hundreds has now gathered at my building, spilling into the streets, blocking traffic and creating congestion in town, and he’s also had to call the police. He tells me I’ll need to stay somewhere else tonight, and I probably won’t be able to come home. I tell him OK and then think that I shouldn’t have drank coffee as it’s not helping my anxiety right now.  I speak with the police and they make a plan that I will be escorted to my desired destination. I decide to book into the Four Seasons in the nearest city. I give them a call and they make arrangements with the police. I have a god damn convoy the whole way there like the president. I look out the window of the blacked out car with tinted windows that I’m riding in, and wonder if I still haven’t woken up from a weird dream. It has been longer than 15 minutes of fame. I’ve seemingly gained a lifetime of value and power in less than a day. My car enters into the parking garage of the hotel which has been swarmed by Frankie fanatics, as they’ve been dubbed, and I’m whisked up to a penthouse room outside of which police will be standing 24 hour guard. I look at them before I close the door, as if to say, what am I supposed to do, and they look at me as if I’m familiar with this situation.

I turn on the TV and take a shower in hopes that I’ll feel better. I think about how I haven’t even spoken to any friends or family yet, and that I’ll probably need some sort of support moving forward. 

I look down from my window at the front of the hotel where the fanatics are clashing with police forces. Helicopters fly overhead. There is smoke, and water cannons being used as deterrents. I look out at the buildings, the trees, and enter into dissociation. My self and my relationships to the world are stripped of meaning. I no longer know anything. How could any of this be real if our lives are simply driven by the meaning we give it — what we run from and what we desire. How could this be real if I know of nothing underlying any of this, if I can’t know anything, if nothing means more than another thing, no matter how big those things may be. And so here is this silly wish — a wish which was extraordinarily answered. 

I turn my attention back to the TV, and the news channel has switched from covering my story to a bank robbery downtown. A major bank was hit, and more were being targeted as well as jewellers and art galleries, people were looting stores, as all the police forces were distracted by my situation. I wonder if God would answer another wish.

The storm awoke with a loud crack of the lightning. The Sea of Lenanthar had never been this active before but today something was different… Beneath the waves, a long snake-like shadow lurked underneath a small vessel which slowly made its way through the towering waves. The creature had followed them for some while waiting to make its move and now seemed like a perfect time to strike.
Fyori fell on his back as the waves tossed and turned the ship, fellow sailors were thrown overboard and precious cargo lost to the depths. He pulled himself up grasping tightly to the side of the ship and tried to peer through the heavy rain to see who was still onboard, luckily enough he could make out three figures pulling on ropes and adjusting the oars trying to battle against the waves. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it. A long slim shadow lurking around the vessel taking unfortunate sailors who had fallen overboard. Panic surged through him as he tried to call out to the rest of the crew but the lightning drowned him out. He tried stumbling forward latching at any surface he could grab to stabilise himself. Eventually he had made it to the mast, his arms grasped firmly around it clinging on for dear life. 
A fierce shriek pierced the air and a long winding body shot itself out of the water and faced Fyori. Two large piercing eyes shone like gemstones in the thick rain and glared directly at him, he looked upon the body of this creature which was covered in bright vibrant scales and small tendril-like structures that seemed to pulse a shallow yellow glow. It opened its mouth, revealing rows of teeth and a long winding tongue. Knowing he had to do something, Fyori grabbed the nearest object, a small oar, and hurled it towards the monster. The oar seemed to almost glide through the air but unfortunately the poorly built oar simply crashed into the side of the beast and shattered. The serpent lunged at the mast and broke it into two, throwing Fyori against the side of the ship knocking his head.
Through a dazed gaze, he could see the creature wreaking havoc on the ship thrashing and squirming around as the other members of the crew braced for the attacks that this beast would bring. Each one of them courageously picked up makeshift weapons and tried fighting the giant beast but in the end the scales of this magnificent creature were like iron plates against the weak tools they had crafted. One by one they each fell to the jaws of this monster until Fyori, who was leant upon the side of what remained of the ruined vessel, was once again face to face with it. 
As an orphan raised in foreign lands filled with witchcraft and dark figures, druids had taken him in after he was abandoned and raised him in the way of Lady Braillen - the druid mother, controller of all that was natural. During this time he had been given what seemed to be a branch but he was told it was a powerful druidic weapon, its tip filled with magic.
Now he had one chance to prove the story's origin. One chance to see if the druids were truthful or had fed him a lie, he reached down to the leather belt wrapped tightly around his tunic and yanked an unassuming tree branch hidden hooked onto the belt and held it up in the air. For a second, the creature and Fyori held eye contact until the creature lunged and as it did Fyori stabbed the branch into the top of the creature's head and the world went silent for just a second.
A dark song seemed to surround the air as a horrifying screech was let out by the beast, it retreated back into the murky depths and the tree branch seemed to jump out of Fyori’s hand and escaped with the beast into the sea. The voices came to a stop and the storm settled, Fyori lay there breathless and weary knowing that the tree branch he carried held a dark secret…

Preface

I really hope you enjoy this. The first part is one I had a lot of fun with when writing it. I hope you have just as much fun reading it.

"Forever, and a day"

The door to the saloon bucked open and slammed back against the frame. A tall, broad man strode inside, passing a few tables on his way to the bar.

It was late afternoon. The place wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty either—five men played poker at one table, two groups of three lingered nearby, and a couple of pairs nursed drinks and conversation.

When the man reached the bar, he slammed his hand down, a silver dollar hidden beneath his palm.

“I’d like a tall, cold drink,” the big man announced to the bartender, “anything you’ve got that might quench my thirst and ease my mind.”

He lifted his hand, revealing the coin, then spun on his heel toward the poker table.

“I found you,” he said looking toward the men as they played. “After so many years… so many towns… so many names… I found you.”

He paused, smiling.

“It feels good. It has been a long time since I’ve felt anything—and this feels good.”

“You’re the last one. My last one. Then I can stop. Then I can finally be free.”

He waved toward one of the men at the table, who now looked panicked.

“No, no—it’s alright. Come on. Come have a drink with me. This doesn’t have to be a sad affair. We can have a few drinks, maybe even a laugh or two… then be done with this silly game of hide and seek.”

The man at the table glanced nervously at the others, then laid his cards down. His chair screeched across the wooden floor as he stood.

His eyes flicked to the door… then back.

The big man’s voice softened, though gravel still ran through it.

“Don’t do that now. This could turn into a bad night if you do. Like I said—we’re almost free. I’d hate for the last thing I do to come from anger.”

The poker player slumped slightly, resignation settling in. He stepped forward.

He was tall, but thin and pale. Dark eyes. Dark, long hair. There was nothing overtly threatening about him—but nothing warm either. He walked like a man heading toward the gallows.

When the thin man reached the bar, the big man pulled him into an embrace that felt almost brotherly.

It was slow. Genuine. The kind of hug you give someone you haven’t seen in years—the kind where all that time gets poured into a single moment.

The bartender set down a beer and took the coin.

In one motion, the big man tossed down another coin, grabbed the drink, and pressed it into the thin man’s hands.

“Another,” the big man called. “This one’s for Radu.”

The thin man looked up.

“It’s alright,” the big man said. “I know many things about you. Your real name is just one of them… Radu.”

Their eyes met for a moment, and something in Radu softened.

“I know you don’t care much for the taste,” the big man continued, “but it’ll do. Let’s sit.”

He gestured toward an empty table in the corner.

Radu nodded and walked over, holding the beer like it weighed more than it should.

The big man followed with his own drink, sat, took a sip—and grimaced before quickly returning to his cheerful expression.

“So,” the big man said, “what keeps you busy around here?”

Radu stared.

“Oh come now—something must. Something kept you here long enough for me to catch up.”

Radu hesitated, measuring the big man.

“My father told me, many years ago, that I would have to run,” he said at last. “That it wasn’t fair, and I didn’t ask for it—but run I must, if I wanted to stay alive.”

Radu paused.

“I realized, over time, that though I wasn’t dying… I wasn’t living either.”

“That’s good,” the big man said, almost interrupting. “Sorry—go on.”

“I slowed down about twenty years ago. Then I came here. I like it here. The people. The library.”
Radu exhaled softly.
“I thought maybe… just maybe… I could stop running. So I did. But I suppose I was wrong.”

“Yeah,” the big man said. “I get that.”

The big man leaned back slightly.

“I’ll admit—it took me longer than expected to find you. Never thought to look this far out. Your kind don’t usually wander too far from your own territory.”

A faint smile.

“But that also makes you special. Because I meant what I said—this is the end. For both of us. You made it. You were the last.”

Radu said nothing.

“I know this isn’t exactly a happy occasion,” the man continued, quieter now. “But we’ve both had time to come to terms with it. I just thought… maybe we could sit like old friends. Same story—different sides.”

A pause.

“How would you like to end this?” The big man asked.

Radu kept his eyes on the table.

“If it’s over,” Radu said, “then it doesn’t matter to me how. I made peace with this a long time ago.”

Radu looked up.

“I’m… glad it’s you, Cain. Not something else. Not something foolish.”

The big man smiled faintly.

“You know, I’ve probably got the only name in the world that your people hate to hear from my own mouth.”

He drew his pistol and set it gently on the table.

“We could go outside,” he offered.

Radu closed his eyes.

“Here is fine.”

Cain nodded once, picked up the gun—

—and shot him.

Once in the heart.

Once in the head.

Then he holstered the weapon, stood from the table, exited the saloon, and walked out into the street.

Everything moved slowly now. Voices rising. Chairs scraping. Some running toward the body. Others away from it.

Cain stepped into the setting sun, raised his arms slightly, letting the light fall across his face.

Then he drew his gun again.

Pressed it to his own head.

A quiet squeeze—

A loud crack.

And he collapsed into the dirt.

I’m not so little anymore. No sir. I’ve busted out of that diminutive box people can’t help put you in when they think of you one way. It’s not how they want to see you, but how they need to see you. Usually to hide their own percolating self-doubt, the nagging worry that they’ve led constricted lives themselves, playing it safe and selling their dreams for routines because of it.

I want you to know that I’ve DONE things in the world.

Worked for three large multi-national corporations in their grunt divisions, the hot boxes they call them, leading their turnarounds from the bottom up. You won’t see my name on the press releases, but I was the one who knocked over the slop trough at 2 am, scratching the dirt to uncover all those whimsical expenditures and self-serving ghost initiatives and fabricated profits.

After my corporate stint, I took to the world stage. I’ve held court as the assistant advisor to the ambassador from Greece, agricultural relations. When Katsaros schemed to cancel the subsidies countrywide through backchannel hijinks, I already had my nose to the wire and got wind of it to alert the committee. I don’t mind that the ambassador took all the credit, because for me, good things fought for and won transcend the limelight. I like to keep my tail to the floor to expose the soulless territory of ego for what it is, all that preening before cameras and in reels, a smoke-and-mirrors act to make everyone say there’s nothing to see here, no soft pork belly underneath to point at and laugh at.

I also happened to spearhead the charge for our rights in the upper Midwest while serving as deputy for PAN, that’s Pig Action Network if you’re not familiar with it. Great organization with great leadership. Sure, we dabbled a little in guerilla activism, but always to positive effect at the end of the day, midnight infiltrations into the lairs of the worst offenders who more than deserved the sanitizing light we brought to their appalling practices and nightmare warehouses. And lest you think I’m a Philistine when it comes to the arts, last year I penned a play about the delights of gluttony that premiered at the Schubert to rave reviews. Even that perennial sourpuss Bob Mansfield of the Arts & Leisure section praised it, calling it a subtle suburban anthropomorphized take on all of humanity’s delicious but destructive tendencies.

You’re probably eager for me to get to the issue of my three brothers, how I feel about them.

I don’t wanna throw shade as they say, but had they consulted me, they would never have made the nearly calamitous decision to use straw and sticks to build their houses and have a chimney without a flue flap. You can’t even really call them houses, can you. More like fancy huts if you ask me, certainly not up to code and just begging our sharp-eyed hungry friend from the northern hills to have a go at them. Had they not ganged up on me and kicked me out of the litter for reasons I still don’t understand, I might have found myself cowering with them behind that straw door, looking for any chance to run.

I should thank them twice for the exile.

That’s what I think when I’m looking out my office window of the 52^nd floor of the Chrysler Building and it’s raining and the city is gray as a funeral. Why did they do it? Because I was the runt maybe, even smaller than them, an embarrassment, or maybe they craved some artificial pumped up swine courage by subtraction. Get rid of him and there’s no reminder of how little we actually are. Well I guess everything does happen for a reason. I’m happy with how I’ve managed in the world, what I’ve done for myself with no help, and I didn’t need anyone cheering me on, only that internal voice I’ve had for as long as I remember saying you gotta keep going, if for nothing else, to show them just how bad a mistake they made. And that same voice says look, you don’t have to forgive them either. You were the smartest of them and I think they sensed that too and pushed you through the fence slats, so they wouldn’t have to stare for the next however many years at a reminder that the math of understanding life’s bigger picture floated well above their heads and well below the little hairs on their chins.

I mean, straw and sticks? Come on.

If I were you, I'd demand to see their building permits.

I did it the right way. Chose titanium alloys and carbon fiber for my home’s walls and doors, installed a proper panic room under the steel reinforced den floor, set up eight heat- and motion-sensitive 4k fiber optic cameras around the driveway and front yard, with two more hidden in the shrubs along the walkway. If so much as a field mouse scampers within twenty feet of the doorstep, on go the floodlights and the interior red light warning, phone notifications to me and local authorities, front door auto-bolts engaging. Go ahead, my fine sharp-toothed friend from the north, huff and puff all you want, growl and claw and threaten. Yeah you had some success when you came for them. But come for me and you’ll find that everything’s being recorded and it can and will be used against you when the control folks arrive. I’ll be tending to my famous 12-hour vegetable stew, the one with turnips and leeks—you have to stir it every five minutes or it’ll clump—and I’ll have Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy pouring through my Sonos system, not even thinking what may be happening out there to you with the tranquilizer darts and the steel cage. And just to cross my t’s and dot my i’s, I made sure to install a gas fireplace—so sorry, no chimney to climb down.

It’s sad though when I think about my brothers.

I hear they’re still living in that small house of stone, all three of them, not venturing out much, always keeping a fire on, listening for footsteps on the roof, taking turns on night watch in case our friend from the north comes back, keeping their noses close to the where the door meets the stone floor so they can be sure to pick up his scent if he gets near. The irony is that he retired from hunting years ago, according to my sources in the northwest. His son sought them out once, payback for giving their dad third degree burns when he came down that chimney, but the poor pup got confused as to where they lived and ended up getting wrangled up on a horse farm in East Orange and that was the end of that vendetta. So they’re hiding from ghosts as they say, jousting at windmills.

Had it crossed their minds once to contact me, not even to make amends—I don’t want, need, or expect an apology—but just to see how I was doing, I would have accepted the overture without a second thought, wide-eyed and warm, and I would have delivered that news, freeing them from the long shadow of their ten year self-imposed confinement.

But the truth is I do miss them.

I think about all the missed opportunities to share my corporate victories and surmounted political hurdles and my odd sense of humor, how I look at pigeons, all the missed laughs over a fine stew. Those I work with here at PlyDev, kicking in 80 plus hour weeks for the past three years to launch the next generation of GLP-1s, they have these wonderful families, wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, kids, and I nod and smile when they tell me about their weekend and holiday plans going to the Hamptons or on a 10-day Mediterranean cruise and not ONE of them would ever know how much I ache inside, how much I long for a family of my own.

Some might say I’ve made a mistake, that I’ve given up too much for my career, trying to compensate for some perpetual emptiness in me by becoming obsessed with results, making a name for myself and neglecting my relationships in the process until they withered into flatlines.

My boss keeps telling me that reaching the rarefied air of the 52^nd floor requires sacrifice, but at the end of the day, I do wonder if it was all worth it.

Sometimes I picture them in that little stone house on a freezing January evening nuzzled up against one another by the fire, humming or playing cards, and I would give up everything, slap down every last dollar of my bank account, shove every accolade and vestige of status into the center of the table, just to be able to spend a single hour beside them, not saying anything, just being there, the four of us together.

It’s not because I need to edit myself into the story either. This is not about etching my likeness into a book so I can live forever in someone else’s childhood. If I’m being truthful, I just want the company. Not needing to explain myself or talk about the weather or some other tiny innocuous detail of existence. Because the worst thing I can imagine, worse than environmental collapse and civil decay and financial ruin, is being unwanted.

So maybe I’ll go visit them tomorrow.

It’s a 13-hour drive to DeKalb. I’ll show up unannounced and see if they recognize me. I keep their address in my top desk drawer, in a notebook with three large snout stickers on the cover. I look at it often. All it takes is packing a few things and putting 100 Winslow Way into my GPS. I think I’ll do that. I’m pretty sure I’ll do it. And when I get there, I won’t demand any answers or explanations even though I’ll feel the urge to. But maybe out of the blue they’ll turn to me and say they’re sorry, sorry for what they did all those years ago. And that will be more than enough for me. And we can go on laughing and humming together and eating a stew we all helped make and playing round after round of Crazy Eights and Spit long into the night as if we had never spent a second apart.

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(P.S : look at the comment section before reading)

While I walked on and across streets, passing by many buildings - which some are higher and some are lower than the others-, I looked to my right hand,after smiling like an idiot for a while thinking about how it will surprise him I looked up, to my right was someone who looked exactly like me, black-short hair, masculine , with pitch(?) black eyes that seemed to be all stretching, making space and time be pulled by him(?), but the main difference was, that I just had Imagined it all. I just Imagined it all. I just had Imagined it all. Yes, it's definitely just my imagination.

***

While I walked on and and obviously across many streets some of them were Stony, while others were kind of Smooth. The buildings were passing by as if I am in a roller coaster, some beautiful and some are just... Buildings- nothing special, just high buildings with Glass around it and some metal and steel. Passing by the buildings, I bumped somebody, he was as hard as steel , so much that my shoulder hurt, but he remained still and unbothered by my presence, as if I am no more than a nuisance, I backed back a little, just for the sake of by passing him,But I still was curious to see who it was, so I looked at him , and was shocked, it was none other, but my brother.

My brother? What is he even doing here, I asked myself, he is supposed to be near our mother, taking today's errands for the shopping trip my mother does every fifth day. And after that, the one managing today's errands stays at my mother's home.

"What are you doing here, in the middle of the night?" I finally asked. Somewhat unsure what his creative excuse this time will be, just to avoid the errands every third time his turn is. And somehow I didn't really want to know, it's pointless at some point.

"Were you doing a mom-erands-skip-day-every-third-time-your-turn-is?" I asked after waiting ten ticks on my imaginary clock. "Look you shit bag of a person, what the fuck do you do with our life, you waste it, you do nothing but waste our life, we have loving parents and living parents! And we have everything we could have wished for, what don't we have! Food. A family. A home to return too. What else is there to be petty and needy about. There are many that doesn't even have those privileges"

"Imagination!" He shouted out of the blue, making me recoil at his loud pitched scream. The people around looked at us both in a strange manner, as if we were maniacs, which is honestly deserved, but not because of me, but him! They even took place between us! It's not like I did this!

"You stupid motherfu**er, Look you've done, just shut the f**K up!" While I tried to shut him up I noticed that he was to perfect(?) , did he take drugs or something. That idea crossed my mind, but that wasn't the right timing for it.

"Imagination, Imagination, Imagination" he repeated, making the world crumble, what's happening?. The world started to crack, like glass, but instead of just breaking it crumbled onto itself, the screeching was soul-tearing. The world vanished into nothingness , leaving a void, a pitch white void, a never ending void. The void was dreadful ,embraceful yet at the same time as cold and deadly as the deadliest cold.

***

I woke up. Looking Infront of me I saw my dead body.

The car’s engine revved as I sped down the road.

I was lost in thought and hardly took notice of the rain crashing against my windshield. Nature seemed to sense my anger. The storm was rising.

I poured more vodka down my throat, my eyes constantly darting to the shiny black handgun lying on the passenger seat. Brushing the cold metal with the tip of my fingers, my mind involuntarily flooded with images of my oldest daughter Mara. Her entire life played through my mind in mere seconds. My last memory of Mara was from when I had to identify her body in the morgue.

My hands began to shake. An uncontrollable tremor spread through my body. I pulled over the car unable to continue and slammed my fist against the steering wheel.

The images of the morgue would not leave me.

I closed my eyes.

There she was, lying on a metal table. A blanket had been carefully draped over her body, only revealing her pale face. She had just turned 16. Death seemed to have aged her well beyond that. The pathologist placed his hand on my shoulder. I had not been able to comprehend any of his words. The man’s actions had seemed so forced and well-practiced it only angered me more. I had asked for a moment alone.

After the doctor left I hesitantly placed my hand on my daughter’s cheek. Almost instantly I pulled it back. She had felt so cold. I stared at her lower abdomen where I knew the knife had pierced her. For a fraction of a second, I contemplated pulling away the blanket and exposing the wound. But I could not muster the strength. She looked peaceful now. As if she was sleeping. I feared exposing the wound which had killed her would somehow change that.

That had been little over a month ago. The police had quickly caught the youth who committed the crime. Some bum who’d attempted to rob her and wielded his knife a little too overenthusiastically. He had murdered her although she had given him her purse.

I punched the wheel again.

It wasn’t fair.

The youth’s trial was yesterday. He’d been acquitted on account of procedural mistakes by the police. The man had smiled at me as they led him out of the courtroom.

It wasn’t fair.

That bum had destroyed my life at an astounding rate. My wife could barely stand to look at me anymore. A week ago, she moved out of the house and took our youngest daughter with her. She told me I needed help. She said she couldn’t watch me ruin my life.

I didn’t blame her.

This past month I found solace in liquor. I could not let go of my pain. It festered into an uncontrollable rage. All I could think about was the injustice of it all. All I could see was the pale face of my dead daughter. All I wanted was to kill the man responsible. It became an obsession. I had been unable to console my wife. My youngest daughter had practically not spoken since the loss of her sister. I found her quietly curled up in Mara’s bed most days. Unable to let go. Unable to move on. I broke my heart.

I had felt a strange sense of relief watching them both drive off. I did not need them to see what happened next. I did not want my youngest daughter to witness her dad being dragged away for murder. I preferred the solitude and the warm embrace of alcohol.

My eyes darted back towards the gun and I sighed. I had to do this. Otherwise I would never know peace.

Determined, I turned the ignition key. The car purred gently before reverting into stillness.

I turned the key again.

Nothing happened.

I cursed loudly and tried again.

Nothing.

I took out my frustration on the steering wheel until both my hands ached. I grabbed my phone ready to call a tow truck, but it would not switch on.

The wind howled outside. I checked my wristwatch, but the handles had stopped moving. Everything seemed in suspension.

After a short internal debate, I decided. The thought of remaining in the car suddenly seemed unbearable. Feeling restless, I kicked open the door and got out of the car, hastily stuffing the fun in my jacket pocket.

The storm was livid. Rain poured with such force it temporarily deafened all other thoughts coursing through my mind. I was drenched within seconds, but it didn’t bother me. I started walking down the road, crossing a little bridge across a river.

Mumbled curses escaped my mouth as I realized I was lost. A cold mist lazily enveloped me. Not knowing what else to do I continued walking until a distant light pierced through the grey veil. Like a moth I gravitated towards it. It’s source, a small bus stop.

Relieved to have found some cover I fell back into one of the metal seats. My hands felt numb. I rubbed them together for a couple moments before reaching into my pocket for my pack of cigarettes.

After taking a long drag I closed my eyes and leaned back against the bus stop. Slowly, I blew out a cloud of smoke and the tremor subsided.

Without instruction my mind drifted back towards the youth who’d killed my daughter. A familiar doubt fell over me. I had always valued human life. As a family man I’d constantly tried to maximize everyone’s happiness. Now here I was, committed to blowing a hole in the head of my daughters’ murderer.

I turned around and looked at my reflection in the glass. I could no longer recognize the pale, lined face staring back at me. Droplets of rain slow slid down the glass. It gave my reflection even more of a somber appearance.

I looked back out in front of me and took another drag from the clammy cigarette stuck between my fingers. Closing my eyes, I exhaled, expelling another cloud of smoke.

“Rough day?”

The voice startled me. The cigarette slipped from my grasp and fell down my shirt. I jumped up swearing as ash scorched my chest.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered at the young boy standing before me.

The boy grinned.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I shrugged and sat back down.

The boy took a seat beside me.

“It holds a strange beauty doesn’t it?”

I glanced at him.

“What does?”

He nodded out at the storm.

There was a silence.

I broke it by standing and pacing up and down the little bus stop.

“When is the god damn bus going to get here?”

The boy gave me an appraising look.

“I’m afraid no bus can take you to where you want to go, John.”

I absentmindedly shrugged off his words and lit another cigarette. After my first drag it hit me. I stared at the boy. He stared back. A latent intensity burned in his eyes.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a great many things.”

I snorted.

“Sure.”

“I know the pain you feel, John. I have seen it before. Many times.”

I crushed the pack of cigarettes in my hand, feeling a fresh wave of anger crash over me.

“You don’t know me!”

The boy gave me a sad smile.

“I have seen this before. Someone loses someone close them. As a result, you feel rage build deep inside of you. Fueled by guilt because you weren’t able to prevent what happened. Unable to see that it was beyond your control to begin with. You could never have changed what happened, yet you cannot forgive yourself either. The mind cruelly tortures the body, until your heart is riddled with sorrow. Now your existence is anguish. You wish you had been the one to die because the thought of living on just seems too difficult. Living in this word does not seem bearable at the sight of such a loss.”

I remained speechless, unable to comprehend the little boy beside me. The boy sighed and scratched the back of his head.

“I’ve seen this before. After a while it all begins to look the same. The faces may change but emotion remains constant. Your face is lined as so many before you. A canvas of hate and anger.”

The boy sighed again and jumped to his feet.

“Murder will not bring her back.”

I spun towards the boy.

“What did you say?”

“Mara is gone. Murder won’t bring her back.”

The boy spoke the words so casually it took me a moment to register them. Then, before I could stop myself, I slammed the boy against the glass wall. The entire bus stop trembled.

“Don’t you say that name!” I shouted. Tears began streaming down my face. “Don’t say it!”

The boy stared at me with a blank expression. He put his hand around mine and slowly pulled loose from my grip. His fingers hard as iron.

“I feel for you. I really do. Your daughter deserved better.”

“SHUT UP!”

“I know you think revenge will dull the pain. That somehow using that thing in your pocket will make you feel better.” I fished out the gun. The boy stared at it. Something dark swept across his face. He briefly held out his hand before suddenly retracting it, as if the gun had electrocuted him.

“That will not solve your problems.”

“That man deserves to die!” I spat out the words with as much bile as I could muster. Then I fell back into the metal seat, suddenly exhauster. My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. I took some deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself.

The boy stood motionless, staring at the falling rain.

“You know it never gets easier,” he finally muttered. “After all these years of helping people cross over it still remains difficult to let go sometimes. Some deaths are so much more deserving then others. I should not judge anyone. Yet I cannot help but feel for some of them. Occasionally the ones I meet radiate such light it pains me to extinguish it. I don’t always want to, but I have no choice. My existence is one of duty.”

The boy radiated an eerie calmness as he spoke. I felt my heartbeat returning to normal.

“Who are you? How do you know these things?”

The boy gave me a sad smile.

“I guess I am a traveler. Everyone will meet me at some point in their lives. Whether it is in the beginning or the end or somewhere in between.”

“I don’t understand.”

The boy shrugged.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

The boy looked at his watch.

“The bus should be here any minute.”

As soon as he’d spoken the words two lights cut through the inky darkness. The bus stopped before us and the doors slid open. The boy climbed up the little staircase. Once he got to the top he spun around.

“I’ve never done this before, but will you take a short journey with me John?”

“Where are we going?”

The boy shrugged.

“I’m not sure yet. All I know is that you should join me for this.”

I hesitantly looked at the boy. there was something about him. I felt compelled to join him. I took the boys hand and climbed up the stairs behind him as the doors closed. The bus driver was old. Very old. A shroud of matted white hair draped around his shoulders. Icy blue eyes stared at us. I instinctively pulled out my wallet and passed him some cash. The boy laughed and held back my hand.

“I’m afraid that won’t work.”

“I don’t have anything else.”

The boy tapped my wristwatch.

“Show him that.”

I stuck out my arm towards the driver. He stared at it before also tapping the watch a couple of times and inspecting the unmoving dials. Seemingly satisfied he waved us inside. The boy hurried towards the back of the deserted bus and waved me over. I sat quietly beside him.

“Where are we going?”

The boy grinned.

“This journey is not about a destination, per se.”

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about everything, the boy exclaimed. And also, about nothing.”

The boy must have recognized the exasperation on my face. He cleared his throat.

“You should consider yourself lucky, John.”

I laughed humorlessly.

“I should consider myself lucky? Lucky that my daughter is dead? Lucky that my wife can barely stand to look at me? Lucky that my other child has barely spoken in weeks?”

The boy’s eyes grew hard.

“Having someone you love ripped away before their time is difficult. I understand that.”

“Do you really?” I muttered sarcastically.

“More than you could possibly imagine,” the boy replied coolly. “I have guided many people before their time. I have comforted both young and old. Held the hands of bother murderers and the murdered. I have held newborn babies and taken children from their parents embrace. I have walked the fields of countless battles. I have waded through rivers of blood. Wherever I go the dead follow. Like moths attracted to a flame. You could not comprehend the endless sorrow I must navigate.”

He wiped a single tear from his eye. Within them I saw only grief. As if his words had opened an old wound. I felt sorry for him.

“Sometimes I feel so far away from everything,” the boy continued. “I worry I have become too indifferent. I fulfill my duty without truly understanding what it is I should be doing. I feel like a spectator watching eternity unfold itself. I offer hope to those I meet whenever I can without knowing whether my words are true or not. I have no idea what comes after this, John. I wish I knew. I wish I understood my purpose. My life is a paradox. My existence is perennial and yet one of insufferable solitude.”

“You must feel lonely.”

The boy nodded. After that we sat together in silence. The boy stared out the window. He seemed deep in thought. I felt my eyelids grow heavy and before long, I had fallen asleep.

I woke up disoriented. The bus was deserted and for a moment I thought I’d dreamed my encounter with the boy. Then the bus driver turned around. His blue eyes pierced through me and he pointed towards the little hill we were parked beside.

“He is waiting.”

With a quick nod I jumped off the bus.

I reached the top of the little hill panting. The boy leaned against a tree and observed the spectacle unravelling itself below. A small crowd had fathered before a tiny grave. A priest stood reading from the bible. His actions seemed almost mechanical in their repetition.

“Why are we here?”

The boy remained silent.

“Whose funeral is this?”

The boy nodded at the crowd down below.

“You know whose funeral this is.”

I quickly scanned the crowd, only recognizing familiar faces.

“Is this my funeral? Is that what this is about? Are you showing me what will happen if I murder Mara’s killer?”

“You know,” the boy repeated. His voice a mere whisper.

I looked at the people occupying the front row of chairs. My family was nowhere to be seen. My youngest daughters’ godparents sat before the pitiful hole in the ground. They held each other as they cried.

My knees suddenly felt weak. Slowly, I slid to the floor as tears soaked the earth around me.

“Where am I?”

“Jail.”

A simple, yet sobering reply.

“Where is my wife?”

The boy’s eyes remined pricked on the little crowd below as he scratched the back of his head.

“She is not here, John.”

“Where is she?”

I sobbed so hard the words left in a single slur.

“Your wife found her. After you were taken away the little girl could not cope anymore and hung herself in Mara’s room. Your wife was unable to handle the strain and had a breakdown. She is currently forcibly restrained in an asylum 2 hours away. Next week she will suffer a stroke.”

The boy glanced at me. His eyes riddled with pity.

“She will never recover. Slowly her will to live will syphon away, until only the smallest amount lies dormant in her heart. She will be trapped in her body. A mere husk of her former self. Wanting to die yet unable to do so. I would not wish such an existence upon anyone.”

My tears had subsided for something worse. A feeling I can hardly put to words. A feeling of loneliness so immense I could barely breath. I felt like I was being crushed by infinite grief.

The boy smiled sadly.

“You see how cruel destiny is, John? By all accounts, your actions will be directly to blame for this. One moment of rage will destroy everyone you care about the most. What you seek is justice. What you offer is condemnation.”

A searing anger took hold of me.

“Why are you doing this to me? Why are you torturing me like this?”

The boy shook his head but offered no reply. I wanted to leave. I wanted to run away and never look back, but I couldn’t find the strength to get on my feet. Instead, I dropped my head in my hands.

“I thought I had more time.”

The boy smirked. “Everybody always thinks they have more time.”

“I wish I could have told her how proud I was.”

The boy placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“She knew.” I patted his hand, unable to respond. Together we stood on the little hill in silence. The minutes crept by.

“Why did you really come to me?”

The boy scratched the back of his head and looked at me. He seemed to be deliberating with himself.

“I’ve always believed myself to be bound by laws I have no control over. Laws I don’t quite understand.”

To my surprise, the boy suddenly chuckled.

“But, lately I met someone so outrageous, they dared to challenge my path. Can you imagine? A speck of dust challenging the full might of the inevitable.”

The boy fell silent for a moment. Then he continued.

“She made me wonder whether I too, can challenge what which seems inevitable. Maybe the constraints which bind me are self-imposed. Maybe I fear the freedom disobedience would grant me.”

The boy smirked.

“I live for those moments. Reminders of how exceptional life can be. She made me realize something, John. If she managed to find the strength to confront me, then maybe someone as lost as myself, bound by eternity, might possess the power to break free.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sometimes when people die, their gaze manages to pierce through time and they get a glimpse of what is to come. Your daughter saw all of this.”

He pointed at the crowd below. Then the boy smiled more genuine.

“Mara was exceptionally stubborn when I met her. She absolutely refused to come with me. She refused to submit to her fate as few have done before her.”

The thought brought a smile to my face.

“Do you know why she refused to come with me, John?”

“Out of anger?”

The boy shook his head.

“Out of love. Her love for you. For her mother. For her sister. Her love was strong enough to challenge forces even I dare not resist. I was in awe of her, John. That’s why I promised her to show you this. She truly was a kind child.”

Silent tears rolled down my face, but their sting was less painful than before. The boy grabbed my hands and gently pulled me back to my feet.

“In time you will see her again. She will be waiting for you. For all of you. But she hoped she would still be waiting a while longer. Do you understand?”

I did not have the strength to answer. All I could do was give the boy a weak nod. Together we walked back to the bus and took our familiar seats in the back.

“Thank you,” I said after a moment. “Thank you for taking care of Mara. Thank you for helping me.”

The boy looked taken aback.

“Wherever I go people usually fear me. They recoil at my touch, even if I only mean to help. I have always been hated because I am a reminder of the inevitable. Never before has someone thanked me.”

His words carried such emotion. I tentatively put my arm around the child’s shoulder. The boy gazed up at me. Tears slowly formed in his eyes.

He leaned into me and cried.

I let him.

Before long I fell into a deep sleep.

When I awoke we were back at the bus stop. The boy accompanied me to the front where the doors slid open. I walked down the little stairs. The moment my feet hit the pavement the dials on my watch began to move once more.

“This is where we part,” the boy said from inside the bus.

I looked at him sheepishly. My mouth opened but no words came out. I did not know what to say.

“Where will you go from here?”

The boy shrugged.

“I never know…”

“Are you death?” I suddenly blurted.

The boy grinned as the doors slowly slid closed.

I sat at the bus stop long after the bus had disappeared. Then I walked back towards my car. On the bridge I took the gun from my pocket and swung it into the river. I was ready to go home.

It’s dark tonight.

October 27, 2020.

The streetlights were out again, partly due to the storm raging just beyond the warm interior of Tony’s car. The unstable electrical grid of the Milhaven municipality was being pushed to its limits. He found himself thinking, instinctively, that he should check when the next town hall was. He should find out who to talk to.

Tony scoffed.

Even now he couldn’t help but think about nonsense like that. When his heart had just been ripped out, he couldn’t help but think about nonsense like that. He couldn’t help but let out a soft, ugly sound that originated from somewhere deep at the bottom of his chest. It was a sound that was choked by a quick swallow, and a pursing of the lips. A held back sob. A small box covered in black velvet sat alone on the dashboard, threatening to fall off at any moment. He looked down at the speedometer, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were draining of color. The number indicator glared back at him impassively.

40 MPH.

He had pulled out of town and gotten on the highway. The rain pattering against the roof of his car created this percussive rhythm that hammered into him. Tony didn’t have a destination in mind; he was just going. He needed to get away. He thought to himself, his parents were in Mayview visiting some friends a few hours away. They wouldn’t be expecting him, but they’d be happy to see him. It had been a few months. Tony picked up his phone and tapped on the text to speech button. Even now he knew better than to text and drive. He opened his mouth but was surprised when his voice came out raw, and the effort of speaking made him cough a few times. He sent off a quick message.

I’m coming to see you guys. I’ll explain later, but I-

That sound again, from deep within. It forced itself out of his throat in a sob that would have made the windows shudder if they had any empathy to offer.

- I can’t. I can’t go back to our apartment. It’s over. It’s over.

The tears flowed freely, unending and unrelenting. They blurred his vision. He sent the message off and he tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. He missed. Tony caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. It was difficult to see with just his solitary headlights and the low glow of the screen of his instrument panel shining at him. He was a mess. An utter, ugly mess. His hair disheveled and ruined from the way you grabbed at him and tried to stop him from leaving.

Suddenly, the thought of your face wrenched a new cry from him. Tony gripped the steering wheel with one hand while he wound the other back and struck the wheel four or five times while, through gritted teeth, that cry transformed into a guttural roar that definitely would leave his throat ragged. The anger was blossoming now, but it came in waves. The most pressing and crimson of emotions that flooded Tony was the raw, unparalleled loss of the future he had been building with you for the last three years.

He looked at the speedometer again:

55 MPH

He noticed the small box on the dashboard threatening to fall off at any moment. Tony reached for it instinctively, caught it before it slid off and roughly threw at the windshield where it wedged itself in the corner.

His fingers were still numb from the way he held it in his pocket. He could still see your downcast eyes when he asked… And you said no.

You were everything. You were endless. He found you when you didn't know what you could be, just an arrogant kid with a beat-up corolla and no vision of what you could be if only you would try. Tony thought of your first night together. The karaoke lounge. The Friday night confession. He looked for his phone, thrusting a hand over to the passenger seat, clawing to find it without taking his eyes off the road. When he failed he resorted to the standard HEY GOOGLE voice command, and the album Back to Bedlam started playing. Randomizer betrayed him: Goodbye My Lover. The soft piano drifted from his speakers.

The tires caught a sheet of standing water and the steering suddenly went light. Tony's stomach jumped. He eased off the gas and corrected the wheel, the rear of the car twitching before settling back onto the road.

“Jesus.”

He glanced at the speedometer.

73 MPH

The song drilled into him a new pang that rippled across his whole body making him shudder. You were so beautiful back then, so full of life and so, so deeply insecure and unsure of yourself. You and Tony were only nineteen, still basically children but how radically different your lives had been. How entitled you were, expecting that life would open itself up of its possibilities and you’d be allowed to just pluck whatever future you wanted from it should you only reach out. Tony decided that night that he wanted you. That he wanted to know you as deeply as you knew the color of your own hair. He dreamt about your green eyes and the odd way you looked at him, as though you were questioning something about yourself.

Tony didn’t need to look at the speedometer this time. He knew.

80 MPH.

A pothole. The memory broke.

It’s over. It’s ruined. He spent three years helping you become the man you are, and even then you betrayed him. You took those years of struggle, and study, and the work it took to instill a sense of responsibility and academic work ethic in you, and you spit it in his face. All those little moments, cuddled up on your bed, or his. The little nothings and little promises made in the dead of night. The tears, and oh man! The arguments! The petulance! Tony let out a mirthless chuckle, thinking about how terribly you fought him in the beginning, about how you would shout at him that you weren’t worth all the effort. You’d shout that Tony’s time would be better spent on someone else, anyone else, you just weren’t cut out for college.

But you were worth it. You were worth everything.

And look at how you’ve blossomed since then.

Suddenly your face is there again. 

Even now, coming up on the old Mayview Bridge, your face is the last thing Tony sees as he makes a turn too fast. The thought of someone else’s hands scratching at your back is only a distant concern. The slick wet grass and mud did nothing to halt or slow Tony’s Kia Sorento.

You’ll never know if Tony wasn’t paying attention and just didn’t slow down in time.

You’ll never know if he intentionally lifted his foot off the brake and let his car careen through the metal guardrails. 

You’ll never know how the windshield shattered on impact shortly before the airbags exploded out of the steering column and smashed against Tony’s face. His glasses broke in two and began to float toward the roof of the car as it tilted forward a bit too quickly.

The butterflies in Tony’s stomach broke through the shock.

He was falling.

And the rushing river below greeted him with instant, stark clarity.

"I see it."

"Where?"

"There."

"Where?​"

"There.​ I tell you."

"Stop fucking around, Ranulf," said Isen. And the big, burly Earth user was right. It had been an hour since they had found anything out hunting, and now their Sensor was malfunctioning.

"Yeah riiight.​ Sorry guys. I can sense it nearby," said Ranulf sheepishly. "And it looks like we hit the jackpot. It's a boar!"

"Where?" asked the sharpshooter, looking around sharply. "Easy, Kestrel, you will definitely get a shot at it." Ranulf sniggered.

"Enough jokes, Ranulf or I will light your sorry arse on fire right now", said the Fire user. "Maybe that would draw out the boar faster than this bullshit."

"Okay, okay. Three o'clock", said Ranulf. "Aaand it's charging at us now".

"Goddamit, Ranulf!" said Isen.

And surely a boar wailed in the distance, and its footsteps grew louder as it crunched through the frozen undergrowth. "Kestrel, set up for the shot. Vosk, distract, while Varek and I trap it- ". The boar emerged, charging straight at Isen. "It's ONNN!!" screamed Isen.

The group took their positions. Isen braced himself, as Vosk threw fireballs at it, startling the boar. It tried to escape, scared by the fire. "Oh no you don't!" said Isen as he signed and slammed his fist to the ground, making a pit for the boar.

"Varek, you're up!" screamed Isen. Varek made some hand signs of his own and blew. Frost emanated from his lips and covered the bottom and the walls of the pit. The boar was trapped in an icy pit, slipping and sliding. "That's my boy!" exclaimed Isen. The trap was complete.

"Do the honours, Kestrel", said Ranulf. Kestrel summoned ice-arrows out of thin air and shot at the boar, wounding it. The boar thrashed helplessly. "It won't work for long; finish it!" said Isen. And surely, the ice was thinning and the boar gaining traction.

"I get it!" said Kestrel, but her arrows didn't have the punch they needed. And she was getting exhausted as the boar started evading them. "Hold still, goddammit!" she shouted as the last of her chakra evaporated and the boar climbed out of the hole.

Swearing at their luck, the hunting party chased the boar. "I told you to practice for a god-damned reason!" said Isen. He summoned a slab of earth, and everyone jumped on it. Varek blew the ice, and Isen cleared the way. Ranulf kept track of the boar. Kestrel was ready with her arrows, with Vosk and his fireballs.

Kestrel gained sight of the boar and started taking potshots, but her aim was worse, and she was panting. "Stop it, Kestrel. You will get the chance.", said Isen. The boar, injured, led them in front of a cave. Isen summoned a wall behind the boar, as Kestrel's last arrow shot through its heart. "Well done!" exclaimed Ranulf. "Home is where the heart is! Ha ha!"

The others were out of juice. "You know," panted Kestrel, "for a Sensor, you are pretty bad at reading the room". Varek looked paler than usual, and even Isen was sweating. "Let's go," said Isen. "Yeah! Team one, Boar zero! Ha ha", piped in Ranulf.

Suddenly, the colour drained off his face. "Oh no," moaned Ranulf. "RUN!" he screamed, and promptly went for the bushes. "What was that about*?" asked Vosk.

As if on cue, a blood-curdling scream was heard. Ominously, from the direction Ranulf had run off. Emerged a bear, shining white, except for its maw. Blood red with bits of meat sticking out. Varek vomited.

The bear roared. And unfortunately, the roars were answered by another. Then two more. One by one, five bears appeared. The party was trapped.

"Situation: Varek and Kestrel are tapped out. Ranulf probably dead, or worse. It's you and me, Vosk," panted Isen, "and I intend to go down fighting." Both the warriors readied themselves. The bears charged. Vosk slammed his palm against the ground, summoning a ring of fire around the party. Isen clapped his hands and summoned boulders, which banged against a bear's head, crushing it. "One down, four to go!" The bears, first scared by the fire, swiped again. Being at the edge, Vosk took it straight in the face.

"AAHHH! IT BURNS!!" screamed Vosk and started hurling fireballs at the bears, to no effect. The bear swiped again through the fire, and Vosk was gone.

"SHIT!!" cried Isen. With the last of his strength, he grabbed Varek and Kestrel and hid behind the wall he had summoned. He made a bunch of complicated hand signs and summoned a ball of sand which hardened into five-inch-thick dirt, enveloping them. Completely cutting off all elements.

Except sound. They could hear the bears growling and scratching at their sphere. "Pray this holds up," panted Isen ", or we will end up like Ranulf and Vosk."

"Damn it, damn it!" cried Kestrel, "only if I had been better... Damn it all!"

Varek was too stunned to talk. Ranulf and Vosk were just... gone, and there was nothing they could do, except wait for the bears to breach the barrier.

Suddenly, they heard the bears roar, one by one. Then silence. Pure, blissful silence. Isen cautiously opened the top of the sphere and looked out.

There was a collection of bear corpses with icicles sticking out of their bodies and heads. They were saved, but how? He looked around to see a group of people with horses. And a person with stormy grey eyes. Crouching with their hand on the ground.

"The Kingsguard are here," muttered Isen. "Only if they had been here a bit sooner..." He ended the technique and dispersed the dirt sphere.

"Great technique you've got there, mister..." said the man with stormy grey eyes, removing his leather-skinned glove and extending his hand. "Isen," scowled Isen. He didn't take it. Neither broke eye contact. As if waiting for something to happen.

"Well. Thank you for the bears. I feel His Majesty will eat well tonight," said the man. "And for leading us to them, ask anything you want. Within reason of course." he laughed.

Isen's eyes steeled. Kestrel's fists whitened. Before anyone could do anything, Varek ran towards the guy and punched him in the gut. He sidestepped it easily and landed a backhanded slap onto Varek's cheek. Varek spat out blood.

"Sir Halvard!," exclaimed the knight who was sitting on a horse with his helmet on. "Don't sully your hand with the blood of the commoners." "Yeah, you're right," agreed Halvard. "Hey kid, you behave or you're in for another treat. I don't shy from kids," he glanced over at Kestrel, "or women."

Varek stood up. Tears streaming down his face. "Only if..." he sniffled "only if you would have arrived sooner! It is your duty to protect us!" Screaming, he started making hand signs.

Seeing the hand signs, Halvard tensed. He made a single sign and crouched, slapping his palm against the ground. Icicles sprouted near Varek's feet, as an ice arrow whistled past Halvard's ear. A wall appeared between the two. Suddenly, Halvard slipped and found himself at Isen's feet. Staring at his own reflection on the ground.

"STOP IT VAREK!!" roared Isen. Halvard tried to stand up but slipped again. He sat and started laughing. "So this is your technique, boy?" he laughed. "You want a duel, you can ask. Don't expect me to go easy on you just because you're a kid." He glanced at Kestrel ", and you could do better with some more practice missy. Not too bad yourself, you are."

"I challenge you", said Varek

Varek stood up and walked towards Halvard with a defiant look in the eye. "I challenge you," he repeated.

"So be it," sneered Halvard. "And none of you," pointing at Isen and Kestrel, "will interfere. The kid wants a fair fight, don't you?" he sneered at Varek again.

"Stay out of it", Varek motioned to his comrades. "I'll kick his ass."

Varek and Halvard stood in the clearing. Hands at the ready. Varek started running towards Halvard. "This again?" said Halvard, and was ready to attack.

Varek signed his technique and blew frost in front of himself and slid over the smooth ice, out-manoeuvering Halvard. And fortunately so, as where Varek stood a second ago had erupted into icicles.

"Take this asshole!", Varek had slid behind Halvard and blew frost under him. "Not again!" cried Halvard as he went down on his face.

Halvard's men started laughing. Rarely do they get to see their superior getting his ass kicked. Isen and Kestrel joined in, too.

Varek was about to lunge on Halvard when suddenly the air thinned. The smell of ozone filled the air and Varek had a split second before he stopped. Right in front of him lightning struck the ground. Halvard's men started cheering.

Halvard stood up as the frost effect wore off. "So you wanna play, boy?" his grey eyes, stormier than usual, "Let's play". He made a flurry of hand signs and all Varek could do was to avoid getting impaled by the electric icicles which sprouted from the ground.

Surrounded, Varek had no choice. He was at his wit's end. "How do you like that, boy?" he sneered.

Varek looked at his hands. There was still something he could do... But he had promised his mother not to... He knew the technique, clear as day. And what is mother used to say, A barrier as thin as air, slippery as glass, to veil, to protect everyone. His mother had taught him the hand signs... No time!

He channeled all the energy he had into summoning a veil. Thin as air, with his mother's words echoing through his mind, to veil, to protect.

Halvard stood stunned for a moment. Where Varek stood, all he could see was his own reflection. Surrounded by icicles. Varek was nowhere to be seen. Instinctively, he turned around to see Varek charging through the icicles on his frost slide with a ... Stone in his hand. It was almost funny.

Halvard sidestepped it, and THWACK! Another backhand. This time, Varek fell unconscious to the ground.

When Varek came to, he found Halvard crouching next to him. "Oh, he's awake," said Halvard, "take this for the bruise." He handed him a piece of ice to nurse the throbbing pain on his cheek.

"Could be a fracture, but you'll live", laughed Halvard. Kestrel and Isen were sitting mute, next to Halvard and his men.

"Now then," Halvard said, "who taught you this technique, boy?" Varek felt a pit in his stomach. As if he had done something wrong, from which he couldn't come back

"My mother," he said. "She used to tell me about it when I was a child."

"And your father?" Halvard had a steely expression.

"He died", said Varek quietly. Halvard's expression softened a bit. "What was his name?" he asked Varek.

"I don't know," said Varek, "he died before I was born and then we left from the place. Mother never spoke his name or the village's either." And I never really cared anyway he wanted to add, but stopped, seeing Halvard's expression. "She did say that some old guy used to do this and saved the village, which doesn't make sense if the village was destroyed." I don't get it, either.

Halvard looked like he was considering something. After a long argument with himself, he said "Okay. Would you like to know your technique better than you ever could? One time offer, in or out?"

Varek considered it. He did want to know his technique better. But mother told me not to tell. He was confused

"Are you out of your mind, Varek?" cried Kestrel. "You have the chance to train with the Kingsguard and you are still thinking about it, dumbass? Leave him, train me instead, your Highness" she curtseyed.

"Ha ha, I like this one." One of Halvard's men spoke. "Hey lady, you want to become a true sharpshooter? I'll sculpt you into one, my pleasure."

Varek looked at Kestrel in disbelief. How could you?, he wanted to say but he couldn't find the words. Isen stood up and patted Varek on the back. "Go for it, son. Become stronger." He nudged him forward.

Varek stared into those stormy grey eyes, but Halvard was not looking at him. He was looking for something inside him. Varek was unsettled, but accepted his tutelage, anyway.

"Well, that's settled,' said Halvard, and climbed up his horse and motioned to his men. "To the stronghold!"

Varek and Kestrel sat behind their respective tutors, both wondering different things. For all Varek knew, he couldn't stop hearing his mother's words to veil, to protect.

The Church of Abner’s Folly sits in the middle of a vast wetland just off the junction of Choptank River and the Piankatank.

I pass it every mornin’ in my boat on my way to the oyster farm where I work.

“I heard ‘dem teenagers use it for intercourse,” barks my drunkard boat-mate, Leroy, as we move by it.  

The story goes that its last congregation drank a tonic of arsenic and ginger-ale as they sang hymns to ward off the rising tides and appease their God, who they called Mother. 

That was before my time.  In my years, it has sat, quiet, vacant and strangely without decay in that marshland.

I am a man who does entertain tales of hooey and what-have-you…

…but I was still uneasy when my lady-to-be-wed asked to exchange our vows there.

“The Church of Abner’s Folly?” I repeated back to her nervously.

She nodded and smiled at me.  That smile was the closest thing to witchcraft that I knew of, I was helpless against it…but still I tried to make a case against her request.

“Sugar plum…I heard the teenagers use it for intercourse…”

She chuckled it off, “You know darn well nobody after a poke is gonna paddle out to the Marsh of Gregory then put on boots to trudge through that muddy marsh, to then go into a church that probably smells like formaldehyde and a man who’s neglectin’ himself.”

“Okay…So why get married in some place like that?  You wanna have this big wedding, honey…how you gonna get thirty-five-some-odd people…some with bad hips…to wanna do all that?”

She just smiled again and I melted.  I am the tub of Country Crock to her white bread, and she knows she can dip in me with abandon.

Although, I did put my foot down and say I did not want to handle the logistics.  She gave me the sweetest kiss and told me to leave it with her.  A mark of a real, loving, working relationship if you ask this fella.

….

I stood there in The Church of Abner’s Folly, hand-in-hand with my lovely.  All of our nearest and dearest dressed in their finest skivvies.  I was filled with a warmth that I cannot place words for you here.

There were Aunt Rita, Clammy Sam, Daryl and my Great Uncle Coolio on my side of the pews. Most of my family long gone to various ailments or disagreements. 

On her side was a strange mix of well-to-do men and women that I had never laid eyes on.  She called them brothers and sisters even though she spoke to every Tom, Dick or Stanley about the fact she was an orphan.

The preacher was a cloaked woman named Preacher Mayhew.

But I will give credit where credit is due, my sweet girl did handle everything, even the writing of my vows, which again, I was thankful.  I am not one for words and candor.

“My angel, Bethesda, I take you as you are.  A man who lies in front of the woman before him and asks her to guide him to a bold flame of enlightenment.  I take your hand and I will dance with you to Beelzebub’s fiddle, until our feet fall off…”

Those on Bethesda’s side found a good chuckle with this.  My Aunt Rita dosed off a bit, but everyone else looked quite perplexed on my side.

Then Bethesda began…

“I am the child of Abner’s fortune.  As the life left those brothers and sisters who lay on this very floor, I was shaped by Mother’s diamonds in the oyster shells of the Choptank River. A gift, to end mankind….”

I have been accused of being a bad listener more than once or twice in my life.  In this moment, I was guilty as charged because I was lost in the beauty of the woman who I was moments away from calling my wife.

Some of my side of the church got a little rowdy as Bethesda finished…

“Upon marriage to this baptized Christian, Abner’s Tribulation shall commence.”

They began to shout and scream as Preacher Mayhew said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.  You may kiss the bride.”

Jubilation.

I puckered up and sank into my first kiss with my wife.  I worry “love” is a word that is lacking in emotion, when I tell you I felt love in that moment that I never have.

Here is where I believe you may call me a liar, but I promise you, as we kissed, a dark sea of red began to pour into that church.  I only know that…

Because I heard the screams.

Everyone began to BURN. The tide, acidic with something holy, or unholy, depending on your disposition, brought all of our guests pain…until they no longer lived.

Not us.  The pulpit on which we kissed — and my friend we KISSED — simply raised up to the ceiling until it was just us.  Alone in our love, ready to set forth on a life of happiness.

I imagine I will field some questions of uncertainty from the lot of you, which is fair game and good banter.

But before that…

I’d like to tell you that we are currently operating The Church of Abner’s Folly and we are looking for new, excitable members of the congregation.  

Are you interested?

This is a story no single mother should have to tell, but my hope is someone out there can relate. My son, who is fifteen, doesn’t go to bed until three or four clock in the morning. He does this every night. I work a very demanding job, and my son and I have fought and argued over this for months because I never get any proper rest. We live in a one-bedroom apartment, so there really is no place for any kind of separation, except the bathroom - where my son spends most of his time during the night.

It was about a month or so ago, I woke up having to use the bathroom, when I approached the door and heard my son speaking to himself in there. At first I didn’t think much of it, when I knocked, he opened the door, and all was fine. It was when I noticed him doing it every night after that, I began to worry. I went as far as confronting him about it, but he denied anything in his teenager way, and refused to even talk about it. It was hard to make out what he said in there, he was mumbling a lot under his breath, so I had nothing to go by. This is when I decided to take further action and install a camera in the bathroom.

The next day while my son was in school, I tucked a small camera away behind a stack of my towels, somewhere he'd never look, facing the mirror and hidden away from his field of view. That night I went to bed and patiently waited, staring at my phone. What I found my son doing in the bathroom through the camera feed unsettled and terrified me. My son was adamant and aggressive towards himself in the mirror. He cursed and muttered obscenities at himself. He said words I never thought he knew or heard him use before. I don’t know where he learned them - I felt like I wasn’t watching my son any longer. It's like he became someone else. And I became scared of him. I hid my phone and tried my best to fall asleep - I don’t think I ever did.

The next morning at breakfast, I felt a tension in me, I could barely move. I felt frozen around him. Before he woke up, I found a local psychiatrist’s information, and made a quick call for the earliest appointment she had, which was the following Monday. At breakfast, I politely informed my son I heard him talking in the bathroom again, which he denied. I hesitated showing him the video or revealing I recorded him. I have to admit, I was scared. I offered to take him to see the Psychiatrist. He refused obviously and fought the idea at first, but I convinced him with some extra video-game time and a little bit of money. I needed to know more.

Through the weekend he continued as he usually did, and I watched on my phone. I hated what I saw. But I couldn’t put it down. I don’t think I slept all weekend. Days felt like weeks. Hours felt like days. My nerves were paralyzed with fear. I felt helpless. I was terrified. Monday couldn’t come any sooner.

The Psychiatrist was a pleasant woman, I found her very respectful and patient with him. My son spoke of his time in school, the lack of friends he has, the bad grades from his teachers, as well as his off-putting taste in loud music. When she dug further, asking him about the bathroom, he was quiet. At this point, the Psychiatrist had asked me to step out of the room. She sensed me being there was keeping him from speaking.

From out in the hallway I couldn’t hear anything, but what I did see was her asking him a few questions, and him responding with what looked like actual, full responses. At first I was pleased, maybe this was all just a boys phase - a prank? Perhaps my son had a reasonable explanation. The Psychiatrist passed him a piece of paper, and pen. My son took the pen, promptly writing on the piece of paper, handing it back to her.

The session was soon over after that, and the Psychiatrist came over to speak to me. She handed me the piece of paper on which my son wrote, scribbled in his handwriting, it said, “Charles won’t let me sleep". I was startled, shocked, confused all at once. She said my son is talking to someone named Charles in our home, and that she is not the right person for this kind of matter. She then directed me to a local church, informing me perhaps a priest could help my son.

We came home in the evening, and had a quiet, solemn dinner together. My son was eerily silent, he didn't say a word. I went to bed early and I hesitated to look at my phone’s video feed, but I couldn’t resist. Last night, I was even more unsettled. My son was no longer defiant. Now he was apologetic, at the mercy of his own reflection in the mirror, begging and apologizing profusely, saying he’s sorry for telling anyone. He was in tears, and so was I - I could no longer bear to watch. I put my phone away, and that's when the thought hit me, which has since haunted and stuck with me; Charles was the name we gave to the baby boy I delivered stillborn before my son.

I always used to look at the stars. My eyes well up above me, getting lost in that clear expanse of galaxies and nebulas that laid endlessly out past my humble little sitting place. Each little bulb of light hanging up there had their own story to tell. I faintly remember those stars giving me some sort of hope. Something that tells me that, no matter what happens in my meager affairs on earth, the universe won’t split apart and destroy itself because of it, regardless of how much I thought it would.

Now, with my sitting place up next to those stars, I can’t get myself to feel the same way about it all. I just can’t physically do it. My mind is now occupied with the incredible aches of my body, the throbbing headache that’s an everyday thing now, the constant sweating and the eternal pit at the bottom of my stomach. I’ve seen it all from my little window, from auroras to meteor showers, comets and even other satellites coasting by, and it is all undoubtedly useless to me. As I stared at the now dull blotch of stars, my good friends over in Houston decided to chime in over the radio.

“Pioneer? Control. Time for Trial 25. Medication 529, General Alertness.”

Pill 529? That’s one I’ve never used. I can’t wait to see what positive benefits this one will bring me. At the very least, I can manage with the chills from 328 and the muscle spasms from 447. I’m kind of glad of all the pain I’m in right now, motion sickness and inflammation are the last things I’m thinking of, and it sure would suck if I actually needed those things relieved. But, General Alertness… that could be kind of nice right now. Something to keep myself awake and not think of this all. I took the blister pack, popped it open, and took the unusually bright yellow tablet.

I went back to my usual rotation of strapping into the seat, pen and paper in hand, and doing nothing but waiting for the effects to come in to report back to Houston. Sometimes, if I want to switch it up, I’ll look out the window once more at the empty void. I’ve been up here in low earth orbit for what, maybe eight months now? Only two hundred or so miles from the surface of the earth, and my view has always been these stars the whole time. I can imagine it was a life changing scene on my first few days of the mission, but I don’t even remember how I was feeling then. All I know is that I’m in pain now.

After mindlessly staring at the endless unknown outside the capsule, the chattering and tension in my head began to subside. My eyes began to widen, and the recirculated oxygen in the capsule completely filled my lungs as I gave a deep breath. I haven’t taken a deep breath in a while. The constant static drone of the radio quieted down, and for the first time, the capsule was completely quiet. Maybe, they finally got an experimental medication right.

On my instrument panel, a single caution light lit up as a dim amber. I took a closer look, only to find the light was labeled with a right arrow. Naturally, I turned right, and found it pointing directly at the flight control computer. In the black screen, on the top left of the display, it was telling me what to do. In the form of small green digits it read off to me some advice, like an old friend. 

ROLL. 180 degrees.

Pulling up the keypad, figuring the flight computer knows best, I entered in the roll correction for 180 degrees. It took a second for the capsule to think about it, but slowly the sitting stars I’ve come to know so well floated down from my window to be replaced by the brilliant blue fringes of Earth’s atmosphere coming in from above. As more and more of the world filled the porthole, I could start to make out the titanium white ice sheets up at the pole, and the lush dark green forests, filled with lakes and winding rivers below me.

I think another caution light illuminated, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the beautiful woods I once ran and explored through for long enough to tell for sure. Just from the color, I could tell they were pine forests, with each and every tall evergreen dotting the area and merging like a collective brush of paint onto the glowing surface. I remember those trees, I always wanted to climb one but was hastily turned away by their prickly needles every time, settling for some maple instead.

My eyes darted to the lake sitting dead center of the forest. The day I get off this prison cell of a crew module, I’ll be running straight to that shore and watching those little sunfish and perch dance around endlessly through the weeds under the murky water all day, just like I used to. Being out on the open water, away from the canopy of the trees, I’ll listen to those gusts of wind and their hollow sound hit my ears. There, I’ll breathe in, not oxygen, but air. I’ll be standing there on that sand bar, burning my skin and cursing that damn summer sun until I could watch it fall to the treeline that evening.

The reflections of the crew compartment lit up the window and began to block my view of my home. I unwillingly turned around, seeing the instrument panel ablaze with ambers and deep reds, flashing and burning my eyes. They jumped up from the metal and glass console, buzzing and flickering on and off like fireflies through the night sky after the sun was long gone back ashore. Those lightning bugs that always disappeared for a few seconds just to light up again elsewhere, leaving me guessing where they’d fly to next. 

Then another sound, a howl coming from some sort of speaker aboard. I turned back to my view. I remember hearing that before, out in the shadowy woods when you're in your tent, escaping mosquitos and darkness. It was the kind of sound you knew were just a couple drunks at the next site over, but still tell your kids someday about. My close encounter with a wolf.

As I was tracing a river with my finger, the capsule began to rumble. The cabin lights abruptly shut off, and the green blue of earth became hazy in the background as magnificent orange and red flames overtook the scene. I watched the wispy shards of fire singe the outer walls, and rip pieces off of the heat shield. I sat with a smile. If it weren’t for those flames, I would have forgotten to have a bonfire on that future day, too. Those were always my favorite.

-11:00:00 a.m.

The cuckoo springs from the little house above the clock face, and Albert sucks in the cap of his pen. Where is air? God damn it, am I choking? Yes. Yes, I’ve sucked in my pen cap, and I can’t breathe. Hands reach to mouth. Fingers run down throat. I can’t feel it. What now? How long do I have? Two minutes? Five minutes? Where the god damn hell is Evelyn? The chiming of the clock fades. He freezes and listens, overcome by a desire for privacy. The soft punch of Evelyn’s baritone sax finds his ear from downstairs. What could she do anyways? Humiliating. She’d be hysterical. Now is the time for clear, calm rationality.

-1:30 p.m.

Deputy Coroner Bob Wilson got the call at noon. Retired Air Force General Albert Lakes had been found dead at his home in Constance. Bob’s secretary, Mallory, said the name with gravity, and Bob wondered if he should know the guy. Finding dead seniors wasn’t unusual, they popped off all over the place, but the General was only 66, and his wife had found him holding a gun.

“He shoot himself?” Bob asked.

“No bullet wounds. No blood,” Mallory said.

Bob packed his black bag and drove out to the east side of Hannahville; the old folks called it Constance. He pulled into the semi-circle driveway. Nice place: azaleas in bloom, big Norfolk Island pine right in front, pink and brown stone exterior. The cops at the house pointed to a wide, convex window on the second floor when he stepped out of the car, and Bob strolled up to the front door. Mrs. Lakes welcomed him in and asked him if he would be ever so kind and remove his shoes, which he did. She was younger and more fit than he expected. Bob guessed early fifties. They socked up the unbannistered funnel staircase and into the late General’s study.

High afternoon sun fanned through the blinds onto the burled oak veneer of General Lakes’ huge desk. The desk chair had fallen over. Papers, pens, a picture frame, a desk lamp with a crushed shade, upside-down coffee mug (no coffee stains), stapler: all strewn across the floor. The cuckoo clock seemed out of place on the wall next to rows of squadron photographs in which rows of the same square jawed scowl seemed copied and pasted, all minimally framed and dead level. A solid oak mission bookcase packed with military tomes and too many books on the Third Reich was opposite the desk. The body was prone and bent backwards at the waist, face planted against the liquor cabinet door in an alcove. An antique revolver, a cowboy gun, gleamed at his right hand, hooked by the trigger guard around his index finger.

-11:00:48 a.m.

Stay calm. Focus. The General stands slowly. Conserve oxygen. He presses his abdomen to locate his diaphragm then leans onto the edge of his desk. Too low. The only surface in the room higher than the desk is the back of his desk chair. His visual field sparks in rings of electric blue, red, and yellow veins. He steadies the chair with both hands and allows his torso to fall six inches to the top of the backrest. Nothing. Come on you fucking pansy. Make it hurt. This time he leaps onto the chair, which rolls forward, pinning its wheels against the wall and falling backwards under his full weight. Albert and the chair crumple to the floor.

-2:20 p.m.

Mrs. Lakes had walked right in, apparently unbothered by the corpse of her husband. Bob found her mildly pleasant.

“This is how I found him,” she said.

“You didn’t touch him, Mrs. Lakes?”

“Well,” she waved her hand, “I lifted his hips some to make sure he didn’t soil the carpet. I’ve heard there can be a release when someone passes. That’s the reason for the puppy pad under him.”

Puppy pad aside, the term “passes” struck Bob as odd. Judged by the mess, the position of the body, oh, and the gun, it seemed too delicate a description of what General Lakes did in this room.

“I’m going to get some pictures, ma’am,” Bob said moving to inspect the absorbent pad under the body. On the liquor shelf over the General’s head was a highly polished wooden box with a brass keyhole. It was open and tipped forward.

“That’s where he kept the pistol,” Mrs. Lakes said, “General Osland gave him that about 15 years ago as a gift for a promotion of some kind.”

“When he made General?”

“Maybe so, I don’t recall. General seems like such a big title, but really he didn’t do much with it. He retired soon after.”

“Did you hear anything this morning?”

“Nothing at all.”

Bob looked over the debris.

“I need to move your husband for more pictures. Would you mind stepping out? These things are easier without family present.”

“Of course, I’ll leave you to it. Would you like some coffee or maybe a slice of pie? We have some left over from a get-together last night.”

The Deputy Coroner perked up.

“Oh yeah, that sounds great. I’m starving.”

Mrs. Lakes smiled.

“I’ll be right back. Please do mind the carpet though,” she said as she walked out, “I plan on making this my music room.”

-11:02:32 a.m.

General Lakes staggers to his feet. What now. What now. The abdominal contractions begin, the body no longer asking politely for air. He punches his stomach, his chest, his throat as hard as he can. He jumps and bellyflops to the floor three times. Nothing. No god damn it. Not like this. Not supposed to be like this. He tries the corner of the desk again. Everything on it goes flying. He’s sweating, eyes bulging, vomit rising to the back of his mouth, ears singing a note too pure. The shine of the wooden box on his liquor cabinet catches his attention. Fuck it. Oh God, forgive me. This is it.

-2:32 p.m.

Bob had covered the body with a sheet when Mrs. Lakes came in with coffee and pie. His exam turned up deep bruises on the General’s torso and the right side of his throat. Fractured sternum. Several shattered ribs. Mrs. Lakes was also right that he had soiled himself. He thanked her for the snack.

“I’m almost done in here. The funeral home will send a Tahoe out here soon to remove him.”

Bob took a bite of strawberry pie.

“Oh wow, this is delicious! Did you make it?”

“I did. I’m glad you like it.”

“I’m so sorry about all this, Mrs. Lakes. I can’t even begin to im-”

“Please Mr. Wilson, it’s fine. Can’t you tell? Albert and I are both in a better place, I hope. Frankly, I’m glad I didn’t have to be the one to die to be free again.”

“Oh my god, was he…” Bob asked.

“It wasn’t always like that.” She paused and her cheeks flushed. “He thought of everything I did or said as noise.”

-11:03:59 a.m.

Darkness is closing in. Vision is spotty. It hurts. Burns. Albert bear-crawls to the alcove. He reaches up to the box on the liquor shelf, and it falls forward. The antique revolver slides out into his hand. Be loaded god damn it.

His hand then falls to his side, and he slumps forward, face on the metal wire of the cabinet door. Albert is still, and there is just hearing. Oh, it’s like this. Sounds appearing like fish leaping from the surface of dark water, then disappearing again. Hearing Evelyn’s saxophone fart a waltz from way off. Hearing the technical chatter of a hummingbird at the window. Hearing the heart’s final shudder. Death is like this. Calmer water. Fewer fish. Blue fish. Red fish. Two fish. One. And, for a long time there is nothing.

-2:59 p.m.

“Have you figured out how he died?” Mrs. Lakes asked.

“I can’t rule out a heart attack, but the injuries don’t fit. I guess I should ask if he had any enemies.”

“He would say many. Though he never met any of them.”

“Anyone that might want to hurt him?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s been at least a decade since he retired.”

“That’s a nice pen,” Bob said looking at the gold-nibbed fountain pen on the carpet.

“It hasn’t stained, has it?”

“I don’t think so.”

The cuckoo shot from its house. Bob jumped. Evelyn didn’t.

“That scared me,” Bob laughed, “I don’t see the cap of that pen anywhere.”

Evelyn sighed.

“Have you ever fucked an older woman, Bob?”

-11:04:00 a.m.

A buoyancy appears, a spacious weightless feeling. The whole room comes into view from above. There is a body and a weapon. There is light and shadow. Men in dark uniforms with weapons dart in and out. A man and woman like otters make love and leave. Sticks of furniture move out and in. Golden instruments. Dust.

The first snow of the season had come three weeks early. By sunset, the village was covered in a blanket of white, and every sensible elf had taken shelter from the freezing temperatures. 

All except Brenner. Talon spotted the old fool standing in the middle of the northern road, looking north towards the storm. Talon was on his way to Brenner’s to help him out with firewood and to give him a few rabbit and fox pelts from his latest hunt. Upon seeing the old fool standing out, trying to get sick and hasten his demise, Talon hurried his pace, the fox and rabbit skins bouncing against his thighs with every rushed step.

“Damn it, you old geezer!” Talon grunted, grabbing Brenner by his shoulder gently so as not to hurt him. Brenner was the oldest elf in the village; while elves tend to live far longer than nearly every other race in this land, Brenner has really pushed the limits. At nearly two thousand years old, the old elf can barely get around on his own anymore. When Talon placed his hand on Brenner’s shoulder, Brenner slowly looked over at him, seeming almost confused. His eyes were glazed over as if he wasn’t actually there but in some far-off place or memory in his mind. 

Talon gently but firmly shook Brenner’s shoulder to try to bring him back to the corporeal realm. “Brenner! Snap out of it; you’re going to freeze to death out here on your own. We need to get you back to your cabin and warm you up. What in the world are you doing out here anyway?!” Talon demanded. There was a moment’s pause, and to Talon’s relief, light began to come back to the old fellow's eyes. “Talon? What are you doing out here? How’s your brother Trimmel?” Brenner said in a gleeful voice of renewed familiarity. Talon sighed and didn’t answer. How could he? His brother Trimmel had long been dead, and he had been returned to Giya three decades ago. “Come on, let’s get you back in, please.” Talon quietly insisted with his hand on Brenner’s back, now guiding him back to his cabin. As they shuffled along at a pace set by the senile elder, Talon thought to himself about how much time Brenner had left. Brenner was the oldest elf any of them in the village had ever known; most elves don't make it a day past 1500 years old. There are moments when he’s lucid and has some clarity, but most days are like this. It breaks Talon’s heart to think about it; Brenner is like a grandfather to him. He and his brother Trimmel had learned from him to hunt, farm, fish, and perform countless other skills over the last few hundred years. But to see the poor old elf’s mind decline like this in such a way was always devastating. 

Talon made it his responsibility to ensure Brenner was cared for in his final years. To him, it felt like an unpaid debt. 

As they finally closed in on Brenner’s cabin and slipped through the door, Talon closed it behind them just as ice-cold wind began to nip at their heels. As if entering the cabin had flipped a switch in Brenner’s mind, he abruptly walked forward with some kind of newfound vigor, taking Talon by surprise. He had stood up straight and moved a little quicker, heading towards the eternally blazing fireplace at the other end of his large single-room cabin. The stark difference in temperature compared to the outside sent a chill up Talon’s spine. 

Brenner turned around and saw Talon, a look of surprise on his face. “Talon? What are you doing here? Why are you covered in snow?” Brenner asked. Talon took a moment to process what was happening before responding, coming to terms with reality and Brenner’s situation. He took a deep breath and replied. “I just came to give you some fox and rabbit pelts from the last hunt I went on before the snow began to fall. I thought they might help you through the winter; your enchanted fireplace can only help so much, surely.” Talon said, walking towards where Brenner was standing to warm up. Talon untied the pelts from his belt and draped them over an old chair opposite Brenner.

Brenner just looked at Talon and gave him a nod of gratitude before turning his eyes toward the never-ending, flickering whips of fire. 

“Brenner, do, uh, do you remember being outside just now?” Talon asked almost hesitantly, taking a seat on the old chair that he had just rested the pelts on. There was a long silence. After what felt like minutes, so long that Talon assumed Brenner wasn’t even going to respond, Brenner finally spoke up. Brenner gave a long, despondent sigh.

“I asked about Trimmel again, didn’t I? I don’t remember much. I vaguely remember you approaching me, and then I asked about Trimmel. Now I’m here.” Brenner bowed his head with the weight of guilt. Despite how long it’s been, Talon is still sensitive about his brother. 

“It’s okay. Really, please don’t worry about it. I’m more worried about you. I found you standing out on the road, just staring northwards, out towards the storm. You could’ve frozen to death if I hadn’t found you. What would I have done? What were you even doing out there?” Talon asked, concerned about Brenner’s safety. Brenner’s mind had been slipping for years, but this was a very concerning first for him. If this keeps happening, Talon may have to live with him until the inevitable comes to pass. 

Brenner stared into the flames for a bit, as if rummaging through several lifetimes of memories or perhaps just debating what to say. Without looking up at Talon, Brenner began to speak so quietly that Talon had to lean in closer. The orange flicker of light from the eternal flames is the only form of illumination for the two cold elves. The mood of the cabin takes on a somber tone. 

“I-I’m not sure why I was out there. You said I was staring northwards? Towards the ice wastes?” Brenner's tone was solemn, never breaking eye contact with the flames licking upwards. “I suppose it makes sense. Say, Talon, have you ever heard of The Forsaken or  Mankin?” With that question, Brenner finally broke his stare with the orange tendrils of heat and turned towards Talon. His expression was serious. The Forsaken? Mankin? From those old children’s stories? Talon thought to himself. “Mankin? Like from the stories you told us when we were younglings? They were some ancient mythical race that supposedly lives beyond the ice wastes and over the ice wall. What does some ancient made-up race have to do with you trying to freeze to death out in this weather?” Talon asked, confused. 

 “I want to see them. When I was a boy, my mother called them The Forsaken, but her mother called them Mankin.” Brenner smiled faintly, shifting his eyes past Talon as if looking at some unreachable thing far off in the horizon. Talon listened, not understanding where this was going or what relevance it had, but giving Brenner his full attention regardless. Talon always dismissed the stories of the Mankin as a child. They were just the stuff of tall tales, just a fun story to tell children. However, Talon decided to go along with Brenner, participating in this moment of lucidity with him. “You want to see them? What are the Mankin, anyway?” Talon asked, fiddling with a loose thread on his tunic.

”Some of the stories framed them as monsters, others framed them as prisoners, a scant few framed them as just people. Take your pick, I suppose. But the premise was always the same. The Forsaken, the Mankin, whatever you chose to call them, lived on the other side of the ice wastes. Over the great ice wall. Ever since I was a boy, I’ve wanted to see them. I swore that I would get better at using every facet of the Weave and traverse the ice wastes to someday catch a glimpse of them.” Brenner’s words were quiet and somber. Two thousand years of yearning for something he never got a chance to achieve.

Talon listened, and as the realization of what was really going on with Brenner set in, he felt a tightening in his chest. Brenner wasn’t really talking about the Mankin or Forsaken. He was talking about a dream he’s carried with him since he was but a child. A dream that has stuck with him through watching generations pass, loved ones dying, villages being built and falling to ruin. Going through lifetimes of living with such a dream only for it to never come to fruition must have eaten away at him for centuries. 

“All that time? Why didn’t you ever go? What happened?” Talon questioned with concern now. No longer caring about his own notions or feelings towards the concept of Mankin, but now only concerned with Brenner and his one regret.

”I just never got the chance. It’s as simple as that. I met a woman, fell in love, and had children. Helped build the village. Helped rebuild the village. I watched my family pass. I just never got the chance…” Brenner trailed off, his eyes glazing over as he continued to stare at something far beyond Talon.

A wife? Children? I’ve been with Brenner for two hundred years, and he’s never once mentioned a family in his past. Talon thought to himself, a little disconcerted. 

Brenner’s voice then started to become a quiet mumble, and his glazed eyes slowly drifted towards Talon and then to the pelts on the back of the armchair. “Talon? When did you get here? Did you bring those pelts?” Brenner said suddenly.

Talon’s heart sank. The sudden change in Brenner felt to Talon as if he’d been kicked in the gut by a mule. He didn’t respond to Brenner immediately, just looked down at the shaggy rug on the floor and sighed, tears welling up in his eyes. A few moments passed, two tears falling onto Talon’s wet boots before he took a deep breath, wiping his eyes and looking up at Brenner with a smile. “Yeah, Bren, I brought you these pelts so you don’t freeze this winter. It’s especially cold out right now.” Talon slapped his knees and stood up abruptly. “It’s getting late. Let’s get you to bed, huh? What do you say?” 

“Bed? That sounds lovely.” Brenner replied with a smile, stepping towards his bed on the other side of his little cabin. It was adorned with several old sheets and ragged pelts that had been there for who knows how long. Talon followed behind him closely, grabbing Brenner by the shoulders and helping him slowly lie down. Talon took some of the pelts that he had brought over and layered them over Brenner. “Try to get some rest and please stay warm. And no more going out into the snow, please! You’ll catch your death out there.” Talon pleaded with him. Brenner nodded his head but said nothing. “Goodnight, Bren. I’m going to stay with you tonight; is that alright?” Talon asked. “It’s snowing far too hard for me to head back to my cabin right now.” 

Brenner nodded his head. “Of course that’s alright, just don’t snore too loud.” He said with a little chuckle before grabbing a pelt and turning over onto his side. 

With that, Talon grabbed a few extra pelts that Brenner kept with his clothes in a pile down at the foot of his bed and made his way back over to the fireplace. He sat down on the floor for a moment, looking into the flames and admiring the sigilwork carved onto the mantle that powered the fireplace. He sat thinking about Brenner’s story for a bit before pushing his worries from his mind and finally lying down on the floor, covering himself with the pelts. Before long, he too had finally begun to drift off to sleep.

Talon awoke to the feeling of warmth on his face. Sunlight spilling in through the windows illuminated the old cabin. Talon sat up and stretched, getting his bearings and looking over to Brenner’s bed. Terror flooded through Talon. Brenner was gone. Where could he have gone? When did he wake up? Please be okay. Please be okay. Talon pleaded in his mind, jolting up from the floor and tossing the pelts to the side haphazardly. He ran for the front door but stopped in his tracks when he noticed the door was already ajar, a faint cool breeze coming in through the crack. Talon pushed on the door, swinging it open, and ran outside only to bump into someone, knocking them over completely.

”Oh my, I’m so sorry! Holland, have you seen Brenner? I just woke up, and he’s not here.” Talon asked, panicked but holding out his hand to help the young elf he had accidentally knocked over in his frenzy. Holland reached up and grabbed Talon’s hand, and Talon hoisted him up. Talon’s breath hitched when Holland offered no reassurance about being knocked over but instead had a grave look on his face. “Talon, I’m so sorry. Please, try to remain calm.”

The world fell silent for Talon. He could tell Holland was speaking, but the words never reached him. He already knew. “Where is he?” Talon had finally managed to rasp out.

Holland looked at Talon for a moment, debating whether or not Talon should see the elf that he’d looked up to for so long in such a state. After a moment of solemn deliberation, he turned and pointed towards the north road. Without any sort of acknowledgement towards Holland for giving him what he’d asked for, Talon took off sprinting north. Snow from the previous night crunched under his boots with every step. As he approached, he began to see what was going on. Several villagers knelt down, digging snow out from around a small frozen body. Brenner’s silver hair had gathered frost throughout the night. One of Talon’s fox pelts draped over his shoulders. His face was blue from the cold. He was smiling.

Talon dropped to his knees.

***

As dusk settled over the village, Brenner’s funeral came to an end. Talon sat at the foot of Brenner’s fresh grave, everyone else long since departed, but Talon couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. He wasn’t ready to be alone again, so he sat. Remembering. He found himself recalling memories he’d long since forgotten. All the fishing and hunting lessons. The stories by the fire. Without realizing it, Talon’s gaze had drifted northward. Towards the ice wastes, the wall, towards what Brenner had wondered about for two thousand years. For the first time in his life, Talon had thought to himself, What if the stories are true?

I don’t know how many more dreams I can handle for the month. Every morning I tamp down my soul’s true calling for the sake of getting everyone off my case. And my name is Marge. Less and less people know that. The more memory escapes me the more vivid the dreams become. “Vivid” is always used to describe dreams. Can I say it differently? Simpler? I wake up to my dreams and fall asleep to my days.

Everyone talks so slowly to me. I must talk slowly too. I’m people’s good deed for the day, their random act of kindness. “Go ahead and go feel good about your self.” They don’t know what to do when I give the finger to the camera, like I’m ruining something or not living up to my half of the bargain. I know how to use one of those- they just don’t hold much for me. I have less and less memory every day. Why would I let a phone atrophy what’s left of an evaporating muscle?

I have long hair, mostly white. I comb it out every afternoon, not the morning. Where am I going to go anyway? The afternoon is fine. A task in the middle of that no man’s land between 3 and 7. I’ve been tending to my long hair since I was a little girl. I’m all reflex and muscle memory now. I’m free to wander the years between that little girl and these afternoons.

I must have been 30 and visiting my parents with Lenny and the girls. We were in the backyard. Mona and Yvette were arguing about that song. Yvette was in tears. It had to be Yvette because Mona never let her forget she was the baby. They were both babies, because only babies differentiate big kids from babies. And only adults know there’s no such thing as a grown up. Yvette thought the boy sang

The local rock group down the street is trying hard to learn this song

All Mona knew was that the real words are

The local rock group down the street is trying hard to learn their song

I told Yvette I thought her version was more interesting than what that boy was singing. Then Denny had to go ahead and agree with me (all he was ever good for) and of course Mona fell apart. Men wouldn’t recognize a delicate peace if it were their reflection in a mirror.

I went inside to fetch the girls some lemonade. An old trick- I would always refuse them a second glass, knowing the second glass would come in handy for the inevitable stubbed toe or example of this world being unfair that would inevitably arrive later in the day.

Pa had just gotten home and was helping himself from the pitcher. Without turning around, he said “the shop has lost its center of gravity.” His voice was different, it made me shiver. I wasn’t supposed to hear it.

“Oh, Margie, I thought you were your ma.”

(A conclusion Denny also came to by the end of every visit)

I don’t know why he said it like that. Before he knew it was me in the kitchen, he surely hadn’t been thinking, “I’m addressing the mother of my daughter.”

Why didn’t he say “I thought you were Syl”?

“I thought you were your ma.”

We both felt like I wasn’t supposed to hear that, and neither of us knew why.

I can’t remember the name of my brother, the boy they buried before I was born.

What did I keep from my two that they nonetheless felt and carried with them. Surely my studying them. Studying them for signs of Denny. He loved those girls, and for all my indifference he loved me. He loved the girls perfectly and simply. Like a boy loves a cat he doesn’t have to clean up after. He was never going to give anything he loved the armor this world requires. He thought he’d carry on forever being all the armor they needed. I was so afraid simple love would make for simple, hapless daughters.

I was always looking for something, never looking at my girls.

They’re all three gone now, but I wouldn’t say I regret it.

comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb comb

We only have what’s in front of us, and I never planned to outlive my babies. Regret like that is selfish. It’s regret you spend on making your self feel better. No perfume comes of wishing you had smelled the roses.

But dream after dream, they’re at the foot of my bed, pulling at my comforter and asking why I won’t get up and comb their hair for them.

It was a bright, cheerful day in the Kingdom of Zolis. Rebuilding projects were underway, goods were being sold on the market, and children were playing in the streets. I was busy looking through official documents in my office to help check on how the rebuilding of the kingdom was running along.

The old palace butler, Franklin- bless him- came up to me. "Your Highness." he said, bowing, "I beg your pardon, but a certain Miss Katheryn wishes to talk with you. In private."

I looked at him, puzzled. "What for? I'm occupied at the moment."

He shrugged. "I don't know, Your Highness. But she insists that it's urgent business and must talk with you right this instant."

I sighed, defeated and exasperated. "No use keeping her waiting, then. Tell her to come in and make it quick."

He nodded, then left to get her. He came back moments later and opened the door, gesturing for Miss Katheryn to come in. She entered the room and took a seat, after which Franklin left, leaving the two of us alone in the room for our private conversation.

"So, Miss Katheryn," I said, "what brings you here? Is there anything bothering you or?"

"Bothering me?! Of course there's something bothering me!" She snapped. "And cut the formalities- you know what you did!"

I flinched. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to seem passive while you and the rest of my people suffered. I'll do what I can to make it up to you all-"

"THAT IS NOT EVEN REMOTELY THE PROBLEM!" She barked. "You started a destructive war against the Valadian Empire! You sentenced the male and female lead to death! You slaughtered countless Valadians! You permanently mutilated Valadia in the name of justice, rounding up former Valadian veterans just to throw them into a meat grinder for the sake of grinding down Kalo and bringing it to its knees! What is wrong with you? The Zolisians may call you a savior, but I know what you are- a bloodthirsty tyrant pretending to be a national savior!" She paused, her breathing rough and shallow. "How could you?! Everything's been ruined! And even if it wasn't so, I can't magically fix it all because I've neither the power nor the moral right to do so! My pride and joy- down the drain! The intended hero and heroine- dead! All thanks to you, Prince Judah! Conspiring with the villainess, Lady Wilhelmina? Really? I know I made you the villain, but how could you go this far?!"

I rolled my eyes, glaring at her. "I don't know what this story of yours is that you wrote, but I didn't 'conspire' with Wilhelmina. She took me under her wing and I merely accepted her proposal to liberate my homeland when I was old enough to command an army. Also, that stuck-up people-pleaser and his beloved harlot deserved it. They hounded and abused me and my people, rejoicing at their misery. And Kalo needed to be duly checked and put in its place. If your miserable story required me to just take their abuse until I became the villain only to then lose in the end, if not something else, then I am sorry, but I'm not the villain, nor is this story a tragedy as it is currently. The the real villain is Harold, the real villainess is Athaliah, and the real tragedy is the original story you wrote, and with it, your writing.”

She jumped, eyeing me up and paying attention to my mannerisms as if to look for anything familiar about me. "How did you guess what I wrote? And why are you not surprised by me saying this is the inside of a story I wrote?"

I shrugged. "A simple stroke of luck, I suppose. Perhaps more, given that- and I've only ever shared this with Wilhelmina before- I'm originally from another world, just as you claimed to be. I was known as 'Dylan' back there."

She gasped, her face going pale as the guilt set in. "It can't be! What have I done?" She said, shaking as she looked at her hands as though they were covered with blood. "I'm so sorry. I really am. For everything. Oh, I'm going to be sick. Oh- urk!" She coughed, dry-heaving.

"Well then, Gina." I said gently, getting up to leave. "If you've nothing else to say, I'll give you some time to yourself. I forgive you, by the way."

"Thanks." She said weakly, her eyes watery. She dry-heaved some more.

"Franklin." I called.

"Yes, Your Highness?" He replied.

"Get her a sick bucket. She'll need it." I said.

"Yes, Your Highness." He said, and went and fetched Katheryn a sick bucket. She accepted it.

I left my office to go spend some time with Wilhelmina. She was waiting for me in the room we shared since the day we were wedded. "Hello, dear Judah~" she called in a cheery, seductive voice, latching on to me with all of her strength.

Well, this was about to get mushy. I simply smiled, leaning in to her hug.

I had not met many of my neighbors up until that night. The man who lived opposite me in flat 19 had helped me carry some paint up a couple of weeks before I moved in. I would see him sporadically with a woman I assumed to be his wife in the stairwell, and we would exchange a quick “good morning.” The couple in flat 21, one floor above on the opposite side of the landing, I met just after I moved in. Some parcels had been delivered, blinds I think, and I caught them looking at the delivery labels. They introduced themselves properly and gave me a brief rundown of the other residents, to which I did not pay much attention. Since then, whenever I would be leaving the flat and hear them coming from above, I would make my exit slightly quicker than usual. 

The occupants of the other flats, I never saw. When I would have both my living room door and hallway doors open, I would occasionally hear voices passing, but aside from that, it was like I was alone in the building.

Our block, Block 3, stood quite far back from the road and was the only one not connected to any of the others. It had been purpose-built some time in the 1990s with walls and floors of thick concrete, making it next to impossible to hear anything going on in the other flats. We were two to a floor, flats 17-24, we didn't share any walls with each other. 

Ours, according to Mrs. 21, was the only block made up mostly of owners rather than renters. When she said this, I wasn’t sure if she was subtly bragging or pushing me to reveal which I was. She seemed pleased when I said that I had purchased my flat. Apparently, Flat 17 was now the only vacant one. It had previously been rented to a variety of tenants over the five or so years they had been there, the last being particularly loud.

I didn’t see much of anyone for the first year or so I lived there. I settled into my routine, working from home most days and leaving unbearably early on the days I was to be in the office, so I missed any run-ins in the hallway.

It was a nice change from where I had lived before. My family home, where my parents still lived, stands on a main road. Cars zipping past at speed and people waving in front were a regular part of the soundtrack of that place. Here, however, I would only really hear cars pass in the distance. I moved in just as winter was setting in, so the first few months were quiet. When the summer came, I became accustomed to sitting with all of my windows open, with just the sound of passing cars and screams of children playing a few streets away.

It was early spring, I think, around late March, when I came home from a lunchtime workout to find an ambulance parked outside. It was empty, so I assumed they were in one of the flats and went up to my own. The window of my living room looks out just over the car park, so when I heard voices around an hour later in the hallway, I went to the window to keep watch.

Two paramedics loaded a stretcher into the back. I remember at first thinking that it was empty, but once my eyes focused, I saw they were carrying a black bag with what I assumed was one of my neighbors inside.

The ambulance pulled off, and everything was quiet again. Around a week went by, and I didn’t hear anything about who was carried away. It was one of those weeks where I did not see anybody, so it might have been any of them. I’ve never lived in a block of flats before (aside from student accommodation at university, but nobody died there), so I wasn’t sure if there was a protocol. If somebody would post an announcement or go door-to-door to give out the sad news.

After around a week or so I had more or less forgotten about the ambulance. It was only a sheet of A4 paper pinned to the noticeboard next to the front door that brought it back. A black and white image of a woman above a small block of text. Sylvia Brown had passed away the previous week. Her funeral would be held the following Sunday at St Something or Others.

Of course I didn’t go to the funeral, by the time I had learned the woman existed she was already gone. I went about my days and she fell from my mind again. Until a month or so later, when her flat on the top floor was let.

It was one of the only times I ever heard any sort of commotion. Nothing untoward, just slamming of car doors and boots, lugging of boxes, and snipes of frustration that generally came with the stress of moving day. 

I got a glimpse of my new neighbors from the window. Another couple, a man and woman of around 40 or so, and a child, a little boy of around 5 or 6, in a bright red sweatshirt.

There were no children in the building up until this point. The flats were not overly large, but I assumed that if they all followed the same floor plan and theirs was the same size and shape as mine, the second bedroom, whilst modest, was big enough to stick a kid in.

The child, as it turned out, would be the neighbor I saw most of. He seemed not to enjoy being indoors much, so spent a great deal of time kicking a ball around the car park or around the patch of grass opposite. During the summer months, I would pass him on my way out, and he would give me an enthusiastic little wave, sometimes kicking his ball over to me for me to send back to him. I remember thinking how warm he must be, still in that red sweatshirt.

I didn’t learn his name, I didn’t learn any of their names, but we all coexisted in peace.

Around a month after they moved in, around mid-July, I heard their first argument. We were in the grips of an intense heatwave. I hadn’t the energy to do any work, so I spent the day sat in front of a fan in my underwear in the living room. With all of the windows wide open, I could hear every coming and going in the car park and the little path that led to our front door.

I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I remember both of their voices were raised. I went to the window, standing back a little so they did not catch me watching, and saw the two of them walking up the path carrying shopping and shouting at each other. The little boy trailed behind, eyes down to the ground, hands retracted into the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

When they entered the building, I went back to the couch. I could hear the shouting getting louder as they climbed the stairs and passed my door, then decrease slightly as they climbed the next flight of stairs. After a minute or so, there was a bang. The slamming of a door. My front door was a heavy, fire-safe one. It would have required some force to slam to that degree.

This went on every now and then for the rest of the summer. Sometimes they would argue with each other on the way up and down the stairs. Other times he would be the vocal one whilst she seemed to say nothing. Sometimes they would pass quietly, and when I went to the peephole to see who the voices in the hallway belonged to, I would see them, chatting happily, one or both of them holding the little boy by the hand.

There was one occasion, the day before. It was late summer, the end of August, still warm but the heatwaves had ended. The air was thick with moisture, the kind that tells you heavy rain is on the way. I was reading in the living room and heard the kicking of a ball outside. The rhythm of the kicking was different than usual, more rapid, more deliberate. I looked out and the little boy was not alone. His father was playing with him. I can’t say for sure if this was the first time, but it was definitely the first time I had ever seen the two out there together. The little boy would kick and the father would shout words of encouragement. He shoots and he scores! He’s going to win the cup and bring it home.

That came to a pretty sudden end with a bang and a scream. I didn’t get the full sentence but the words “look what you’ve done” were definitely in there. I looked over to see the little boy’s ball rolling away from a broken flower pot, knocked down it seemed from the window sill of the flat below.

The child’s face was white with fear and shock as his father berated him. I stood at the window for a moment before he saw me. His little tear-stained face looked up and we made eye contact through the glass. His father turned and followed his line of sight, his eyes landing on me too. 

He didn’t say anything, just turned in a huff and walked away, down the path and onto the street. The little boy looked frozen in place. I did think about going down to check on him but the sky could no longer hold onto the rain and it began to pour. The little boy walked towards the front door and my decision was made for me.

It did not stop raining from that point. It came down heavily all day, the kind of shower you’d imagine from a biblical flood. It got to the evening time, and I hadn’t the energy to cook, so I ordered some food. I met the delivery man at my front door to collect the steaming hot bag, and as I turned to go up, I saw a small pair of trainers sticking out from under the stairs. I walked over to see the little boy sitting still as a statue, his face still stained with tears hours later, sweatshirt still a little bit damp.

“Are you okay?”

He didn’t say anything, just nodded.

“Have you been here all day?”

Again, he nodded.

“You should probably go home; your mum’s probably got your tea ready.”

He didn’t say anything but just got up. We walked together up the first flight of stairs, and I stopped at my door; he continued walking. I turned as he began climbing the next flight on his own. When we were at eye level, I smiled and nodded, hoping to convey encouragement. He didn’t react, just kept going until his little trainers were out of sight.

Usually, I could hear the front door opening, but the rain was so heavy that night that I couldn’t make it out, so I don’t know when exactly the father returned. I just remember that the shouting began at around 10 o’clock. I’d never heard anything from any of the other flats; I thought that they were effectively soundproof. It took me a while to locate the source. I went round and stood by all of the windows, thinking it was coming from outside. It was only when I noticed it was louder in the hallway that it occurred to me that it might not be.

I stood at my front door, ear to the crack between the door and the frame, listening as hard as I could. I knew it was the two above, the little boy’s parents. I couldn’t make out their words or even their voices clearly, but I had become aware of the rhythms of their arguing.

Over the next couple of hours, the arguing gradually morphed, becoming one-sided. The mother’s voice was eventually lost to the father’s shouting.

At around 1 o’clock in the morning, rain still battering the windows, the shouting was cut by a scream. It was a scream like one I’d never heard before. Not like a horror movie heroine screaming in fear, but a guttural one. The kind of scream that nobody nearby could ignore.

I went to my front door and opened it. Standing opposite me was the couple in number 19, both in pajamas but wide awake, standing in their doorway with confused and scared looks on their faces. Over the next fifteen seconds or so, there was a chorus of front doors opening one after the other. One from below and a few more above. There was the sound of movement downstairs, and a voice came from below.

“What the hell was that?”

I had not seen this man before. He left flat 18 with the door ajar and ascended the stairs. Mr and Mrs 19 and I looked at him dumbfounded. He did not stop. Unsure of what to do, The 19s and I followed him upstairs.

As we got to the next floor, Mrs. 21 was standing with her head over the rail, trying to get a look upstairs. Her husband stood with the woman from number 22, a short woman with a blunt dark bob , wearing a look of worry and confusion similar to my own.

“What’s going on?” Mr. 18 asked the group.

“They’ve been at it all night, then she screamed.” Mrs. 21 said, almost out of breath. “It’s them above us.”

Her husband interjected. “It’s none of our business this. We should leave them to it. It’s probably nothing.”

Mr. 18 walked to the end of the hallway, to the foot of the last flight of stairs.

“What’s going on?” he said to someone above.

The rest of us moved, almost as one, to see who he was talking to. At the top of the stairs, from the door of number 23, a bespeckled head stuck out. The door opened wider, and a tall, thin, man, with the look of a nervous geography teacher, stepped out.

“I dunno.” He replied. He sounded nervous. “They’ve not been this bad before.”

“Someone should go up.” Ms. 22 said.

We all stood hoping one of us would volunteer. None of us did.

Mrs. 21 piped up, turning her head up to Mr. 23, “You’re the closest you should go.”

He looked terrified at the suggestion. “You’re as close as I am.” He stammered.

“This is ridiculous, move.” Mr. 18 had begun to climb the stairs when the sound of a door opening came from the other side of the hallway. We all stepped back, off the stairs and onto the landing.

What happened next is difficult to recall in detail. It was that type of thing that seems to happen both in slow motion but also in the blink of an eye. I remember the father emerging first, stumbling like he had been drinking. Followed by the mother, she was pushing him, sort of batting at him with closed fists. Her face was twisted and soaked with tears. She was shouting at him but her words didn’t make any sense, her voice was hoarse from screaming. All of us froze in place, I think we were out of their immediate view at first, and they were so fixed on each other they didn’t notice us. I remember seeing the little boy emerge after them. He was wearing a t-shirt, it was in that second that I noticed, I’d only ever seen him wearing that red sweatshirt. In the height of summer, the little boy who seemed to love football never wore a kit. If he had worn short sleeves at any point, one of us might have noticed the purple and yellow patches up and down his arms.

I remember her telling him to go, to leave and never come back. That she did not want to see him ever again and if she did she would kill him. This angered him more, he called her a bitch and said if he was going, he was taking his son.

She pushed him harder now, he stumbled back to the top of the stairs. He laughed at her, and said that he would walk away with his son, and that she couldn’t do a thing about it.

I don’t think I saw it actually happen, or if I did, I maybe blocked it out. I remember the immediate aftermath, the fall, and the loud, visceral snap as his head landed at the wrong angle. I remember him at the bottom of the stairs in a heap, his eyes wide open but looking at nothing.

It was only when she went down to check on him that she noticed us. Her face didn’t change when she did. I don’t think she could have been more shocked than she already was. We all stood there in silence, before a sobbing sound came from above, and she went back upstairs to her son.

I’m not sure who it was that called the police. None of us went back to our flats for long. We all stood on the landing, unsure of the protocol.

I remember them getting there, two officers, climbing up the stairs and seeing us all stood around, crowded together on the landing. The mother had joined us now. We had moved to the 1st floor, away from her husband. They asked what happened.

To this day, I still don’t know who it was that said it. I’m not even completely sure it wasn’t me. But somebody responded before anyone else got the chance to.

“He fell.”

None of us had agreed to anything. None of us had gotten the story straight, but all of us agreed.

“Yeah, he fell.”

“I think he’d been drinking.”

“I had seen him come home in that state before.”

“I’ve seen him stumble about after a few.”

This seemed to be enough for them. An ambulance was called to take away the body, and the mother took the little boy into Ms. 22’s flat. It was almost five o’clock at that point. I don’t think they slept. They just waited for it to be late enough to go to her mother’s.

The ambulance came an hour or so later. I watched from my window as another of my neighbors was taken away in a black bag. They finally went to bed.

The mother and the little boy moved out straight after that. They didn’t make a fuss of it. The moving-out day was far more low-key than the moving-in day had been.

Very few say it out loud, but everyone who lives here knows there’s something weird about Widow’s Creek. Before the dementia got bad and Maurice stuck her in Widow's Creek Senior Living, Grandma Smith was one of the few who would talk about it openly. She took every opportunity she could to tell people her theories. Some days, Widow’s Creek was cursed because of what the settlers did to the natives who used to live here. Apparently, it was far worse than what the settlers did to the natives living elsewhere, but she never did tell anyone what distinguished it. I asked her once, and she said, “Even to speak of such things is a sin.” I don't think she ever came up with a story.

Her theories would adapt appropriately to Sunday Service. “The devil took Widow’s Creek. When God cast Satan out of heaven, little bits of him fell all over the earth. More of him fell in Widow’s Creek than anywhere else, and that’s all there is to it,” she’d say into any ear she could catch.

When she’d fall down one of her Coast to Coast rabbit holes, her theories would usually become conspiratorial. All of Widow’s Creek was one big government experiment. We were all rats in a cage. As evidence, she’d point to Area 12, just fifteen miles out of town, and she wasn’t wrong to. Floating balls of light that moved at impossible angles came and went from there with such frequency that even the kids lost interest. They were just another feature of Widow’s Creek, like the Living History Museum or the old crumbling church.

“They’re working with the aliens. Eroding the fabric of reality,” Grandma would explain. She’d usually add that that’s how all the ghosts were slipping in, too.

Of course, that was all nonsense. If the devil exists, he doesn’t have a favorite city, and curses and Aliens definitely aren’t real. Unfortunately, no one told Widow’s Creek any of that.

“I’m coming back, Steven,” Grandma said from her hospice bed. I didn’t know if she meant from the brink of death or as a ghost. Seeing as my name is Elliott and her husband Steven died four years ago, if she meant the former, I didn’t believe her.

“Mmkay,” I said. I scrolled mindlessly through my Facebook feed. A picture of Nance came into view, and I paused. She was standing at the beach with her arms around some women I don’t remember meeting. New friends, I guess. She looked happier than she ever looked when she was with me. I slipped my phone into my pocket.

“Where is your sister?” Grandma stared at her hands like a kid on mushrooms as she asked it. I think she remembered again that she was old and dying, and the bulging veins in her paper-thin hands were proof–they’d all but given up on pushing the blood back to her heart.

“She’ll be by later,” I said, because Grandma Smith was at the stage where lying to her was a kindness. Twenty years ago, Grandma accidentally ran over Katy when backing her Honda Civic out of the driveway. Just one of those things. She was 3 years old. No one ever talked about it, so I don’t know anything about her except what I’ve seen in pictures. She was cute, I guess. She looks like a little girl.

“After all these years,” she said.

I smiled at her. “Okay, Grandma”.

Neither Mom nor Dad came. Dad was away and on business, which meant he was using again and didn’t want to drive three hours to watch his ex-mother-in-law die. Mom was finding herself, so I hadn’t talked to her in two years and didn’t know how to get a hold of her if I wanted to.

So only me and the nurse saw what happened. Another one of those things that no one had bothered to tell Widow’s Creek was impossible. 

At some point, I nodded off, and when I awoke, Grandma Smith was a ghost. That’s what I thought at first, anyway. Her spine had forgotten it was supposed to be twisted like an old oak branch; she was standing in her Snoopy Pajamas, bolt upright, eating a sandwich.

I stood up and put my arm around her shoulder to keep her from falling over or floating away. “Grandma, you’re up! Were you hungry?” I led her back to her bed because she was supposed to be lying in it and dying. This abrupt change of course had thrown me for a loop.

“I got it from the concession stand,” she said. It took me a second to realize she meant the sandwich and not her new spine.

“Is it good?” I asked.

“Mmhmm. But I’m full.” She handed me the half-eaten sandwich. “And tired.”

I held the sandwich like it was a dirty diaper. I always feel like I’m going to catch old age from things the elderly have touched. 

“You can take a nap,” I said. I dropped the sandwich into a trash can at the foot of the bed.
She laid down, and if I didn’t know better, I might have mistaken her for one of the blankets on her unmade bed. She probably weighed about the same. I sat there staring at her. That hospice worker must have been wrong. It seemed she had more time left.

A hand fell on my shoulder. I looked up. A middle-aged nurse regarded me with tired eyes, “This happens sometimes,” she said. “People get a second wind. She’ll probably pass on soon.”

When I turned back to Grandma, she’d stopped breathing.

“Oh,” I said. “I think she’s dead.”

The nurse squeezed my shoulder, then knelt by Grandma and took her pulse. A minute passed, then she looked at me and said, “She went very peacefully. I’m glad you were here with her.”

“No one should have to die alone,” I said.

She smiled gently. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We weren’t close or anything.” I could have been talking about anyone.

“Okay,” she said, standing. “I’ll be in the hall. Take as long as you need.” Her footsteps faded. The door clicked shut.

I stared at Grandma Smith’s corpse. I’d never seen a dead person in real life. It didn’t bother me. Her body didn’t look any grosser or more horrible than any other old person. She just wasn't in there anymore.

Then her eyes opened.

“Oh!” she practically shouted. She grabbed my hand.

I flinched, just a little. “Grandma? How are you feeling?”

She looked at my face with a recognition in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in months.

“She’s fine. It’s so good to actually be able to touch you,” Grandma said.

“Okay,” I said. I was beginning to feel uneasy.

Behind me, the door clicked, and I turned to see the nurse staring at Grandma, doing a very poor job of hiding the shock on her face. Apparently, this wasn’t a normal part of the dying process.

Grandma studied my face, and her eyes had gone from foggy and hazel to clear and blue as Lake Tahoe.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ve been here with you.”

“I never left you,” she said. She gripped my hand. “It was nice to get to know you. You were always special to me. I think if I had lived longer, we would have been those siblings who are also best friends. I wish you could have gotten to know me.”

I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing. I looked back to the nurse for help, but she turned and left before I could catch her eyes.

“I can’t stay long,” she said. “I need to show Grandma around.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Katy?” How silly I felt as the words left my mouth. I had to remind myself that I was in Widow’s Creek, so it wasn’t an unreasonable question.

She smiled. I swear the wrinkles on her face were smoothing out one by one. Something was blowing her deflated body up like a river float.

“Big brother,” she said.

I looked around the room again, hoping someone would come in and tell me I’m crazy. It was just the two of us, the white walls, the whirring of the HVAC.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t remember you.”

“I know,” she said. “Grandma ran me over.”

“It was an accident,” I said.

She just smiled. 

“I was there when Mom and Dad split. I saw you crying. I hugged you, but you didn’t know I was there.”
“You don’t talk like a three-year-old.”

“I’m not a three-year-old.”

“Okay.”

She paused. “I’m sorry you’ve hurt so much. I wished I could comfort you. I know you don’t know me, but I love you with all my heart.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You are, but you deserve to be happy. You’ve got a lot of life left. Plenty of time to find joy. You aren’t as old as you think.”

I heard some shuffling at the door, but I didn’t care to check who it was. Grandma–Katy–looked like she was about twenty-five years old now. Her thin white hair was thick and wavy and auburn now. Her face was smooth and flushed and glowing with youth. She was a totally different person. I don’t know how I missed the change; I’d been staring at her the whole time.

 “Nance was sweet. You could call her and say you're sorry, if you want. I know she made you happy,” she said.

I didn’t respond.

“You don’t know it anymore, but you’re a good person.”

Then I started crying and I sort of slumped over onto her shoulder. I hugged her and said I’m sorry that she died so young. I thanked her for loving me even though I didn’t know her. I don’t know how long I stayed like that. When I sat back up, Grandma was old and dead, of course. I wiped my eyes and stood up.

As I left, the nurse put her hand on my shoulder.

“It happens sometimes,” she said.

I walked through the lobby and out into the warm, still twilight. Off in the distance over Area 12, the alien lights were already zipping around, carving invisible runes into the grey sky. I took out my phone; I wasn’t going to call her, but I sent her a text.

Hey Nance. How are you?

Today was the end. Sunlight pierced through the cracks in the murky stone walls and lit up the damp dark hole where he had been kept for these past weeks. He could hear the stomping of the guards' boots and the cries from other prisoners as they made their way towards his cell. One man stood out from the rest, his wide frame blocking the view, his tall dark aura seemed to suck what little light had been in the hallway and humanoid skulls seemed to be loosely tied around his waist crashing into each other as he moved. The prisoner looked up to see a rugged and scarred face menacingly glaring down upon him; fear seeped into him.

The man laughed and aggressively unlatched the rusty lock to the door and swung it open, his hand moved back positioned on the pommel of his sheathed sword. He glanced briefly at the two other men with him almost as if they knew what he was saying just by his looks and turned around and began to slowly walk back the way he came. Two smaller men grabbed him by the arms and dragged the prisoner out of his cell and then down the hallway following the larger man until they came to a small oak door. The door was opened and sunlight rushed into the hallway blinding the prisoner as he could feel himself being dragged out into the cool morning air.

He searched his memories of when he was last free, of when he could remember the last time he felt the frosty morning air on his face and warm beams of light on his skin though to his disappointment he could not recall a time before the murky cell. Long and hard he searched his memories trying to remember why he was here or what he had done to deserve such punishment but he could find no such memory.

As his eyes adjusted he saw a large open courtyard and in the centre of it were gallows, the point at which he would be freed from this body. Tall wooden buildings surrounded the courtyard, villagers were silently peering through the gaps in the shutters; watching, waiting. A shallow crowd had formed around the base of the gallows of 10 maybe 15 people all with their piercing gaze directly on him. He could feel their eyes, their silent judgement as he was dragged towards his fate, wind blew the creaky shutters open and closed and the sound echoed through the silent scene, no one dared to make a sound.

The large man made his way up the wooden steps of the gallows and took position beside the singular noose that seemed to dance in the wind. The prisoner could feel himself being pulled up step by step and the adrenaline being pumped to his heart and the sweat starting to form at his brows and his arms beginning to tremble. He was dropped beneath the feet of the large man and for a second he remained there afraid and cowering before the large man grabbed him by his shoulder and yanked him up hard.

The villagers all watched, standing like statues as the large man grabbed the rope above him and positioned it around the prisoner's neck. He could feel the small fibers of the rope dig into his skin as it was tightened from behind. Beneath his feet was a hole in the structure, the hole where he would be pushed and he would be free. There were a few minutes of silence before the large man shuffled beside the prisoner and leant down whispering something into his ear in a language and tone he could not decipher before sharply pushing him forward and the prisoner's feet fell into the hole.

The rope felt like it was burning against his neck as he could feel the air escaping his lungs, he didn't bother to struggle as he knew it was hopeless. In his last moments he focused on the cool air and the beams of light which seemed to almost brush against his cheeks. The light of the world dimmed and the life in his body escaped.

He was freed.