Another body washed ashore today, hand-delivered by the sea, just like me. There was no wreckage nearby, but it is normal for broken vessels to get buried in the depths. Survivors are few out here near the Island of Abyss. When their initial lifelines sink, there is no driftwood nor buoys to cling to; not even the birds flew out this far. Most often, they sank into the deep darkness exhausted from trying to keep their head above water. Sometimes a fortunate beast happened upon them and swallowed them whole. Some would say the latter is a greater mercy since they did not have to struggle much and it was soon over. This morning’s offering came in low tide as the waves receded. I spotted him through the morning fog as I made my rounds of menial chores. They were all necessary tasks, but their main purpose was to keep me sane. People needed a purpose to survive. My first duty to the new visitor was to check for a pulse. Even the faintest of quivers set resuscitation in motion. To find a body still breathing is the rarest of gifts for us Keepers. We try our best to save everyone, but most often they are too far gone, either bloated or half-eaten. Our gracious task then is tying a windswept stone to them with dried kelp and returning them to the ocean for good. Since land is scarce here on this island a sailor’s grave is the best we can do for proper burial. Today, I could see his stomach rise and fall as I approached. He was unconscious, so I carried him to higher ground and propped him up against a large boulder. His head flopped back and forth as I gently slapped his face, trying to help him wake. It did no good, so I sat with him awhile before returning to my duties. I chose the work nearby to keep an eye on him as best I could. As I was harvesting seaweed offshore not far from where I found him, I heard the loud gasp of the man coming to. There was some retching of saltwater as I rushed to his aid with some freshwater gathered from the rain. His eyes were wide, searching for answers, but they settled a bit as the water brought him back to life. “Who are you? Where am I?” he asked between pulls from the bladder. “You have washed ashore the Island of Abyss and I am its Lighthouse Keeper.” I smiled with pride as my eyes shined with joy. “How’d I get here? I don’t remember much of anything right now.” he coughed through a raw throat as he began to get frantic again. “You came here much the same way they all do I reckon. Lost at sea with no wind for your sails nor fuel in your tank. There is no evidence of a boat here, so I imagine the waves ravaged it in the storm not long before you arrived.” I explained. “Yes, I remember being out on a boat, but not much else. I’m not sure why I was there nor if I was with anyone,” he admitted with dismay. “Do you remember your name?” I asked. “William Stig,” he answered with certainty. “Do not worry Mister Stig. The details should return to you in time. For now, let us get you inside to warm up and have a bite to eat.” William followed the Keeper to an old arched door set in the stones of the towering lighthouse. It took some effort to move the heavy oaken door turned gray after years of exposure to salty air. To William's surprise, the door opened without a sound. After taking a closer look, he noticed the hinges showed no rust and had a velvet sheen to their blackened iron. The Keeper caught him looking. “Part of my duties is to keep those lubricated with whale oil. I use this door often throughout each day and learned long ago the pain of sticking hinges.” “I am impressed at your attention to even the finest details. Had I been more in tune with my boat as you are with the things of this island, I may have never wrecked in the first place.” “Learning to appreciate the small things often requires hard lessons. It also helped to have a good teacher. Come, the table is up the first flight of stairs.” The only light on the bottom floor came from the open door. William made out some shelving tucked under the stairs and around the perimeter of the walls. This floor must be for storage he thought to himself. The Keeper led him up several stone steps set into the walls which led to the floor of the second level. The ceiling was much higher in this room. William noticed a wooden ladder descending from a hatch above them on their right as they walked in. He imagined it led to the lamp. A small bed with a nightstand was on the opposite side of the room. There was an iron stove nearby with its chimney fed out a small window behind it. A rectangular table sat next to the wooden ladder with two chairs underneath. Humble accommodations for such an important job. William sat at one of the chairs as they passed by the table. The Keeper started the wood stove and shucked oysters he had pulled from a bucket. At the table sat a leather-bound book. William glanced at the Keeper and saw his back was towards him, so he ventured a look. The only inscription on the cover was a lighthouse insignia in the top right corner. He opened to the first page and read what it said. The Lighthouse Keepers serve a vital mission. Cast light into the darkness to save those with hindered vision. William raised an eyebrow and leafed through several more pages. None of it made much sense to him, but it appeared to be a part manual & part logbook of sorts. The Keeper had returned to the table without William noticing. He set a plate of oysters and dried seaweed chips in front of them. “I see you could not resist The Companion’s call.” the Keeper said. William started and almost knocked the plate from the table. “I’m sorry. It’s rude to go through a stranger’s belongings. I hardly gave it much thought, to be honest.” “Do not fret my friend. I had planned to show it to you anyway." “What do you mean?” asked William. “First, let us eat together. You should have a clear head.” said the Keeper as he set an oyster on a seaweed chip before tossing it in his mouth and then smiled. William followed suit, though seafood was not his favorite. He did not want to be an ungrateful guest. It did not take long for William to finish then ask for seconds and thirds. Being famished, he hardly tasted the food as he shoveled it in his mouth. The salty meal had him drink through another flagon of water before he was content. William expressed profuse gratitude and offered to clean up for them. The Keeper welcomed the help he had not had in a while. “We will have our discussion upstairs,” said the Keeper when they finished. “The ocean air brings clarity.” He put The Companion in his belt and led William up the ladder. The hatch could be tricky to open depending on the draft up there, but the winds had favor on them today. For the lamp to not blind, there was put a shielding wall in the entrance. The Keeper still kept his back turned as he entered out of old habit and William did the same. They met out on the gallery and William would have slipped had the Keeper not reached out his hand. “Thank you for catching me,” he said as he tried to catch his breath. "I didn’t realize how slippery it would be.” “It has been a while since another has walked here with me, but the instincts remain.” replied the Keeper. “Are you steady now on your own?” “Yes, I have a firm grip on this railing with no intentions of letting go.” “Good. Let us begin--” “Hold on, I realized I never got your name. If we are about to have some serious conversation, then I should at least know your name.” “I already told you my name. I am the Lighthouse Keeper on the Island of Abyss.” “That’s not a real name, but your occupation. What is your real name?” “I understand what you mean, but I gave up my old name long ago. When one becomes a Keeper, they surrender their old name. The occupation and the new name are the same.” “Very strange. Is there a shorter version I can call you?” “You may refer to me as Keeper if you like and you will not think it so strange if you choose to understand.” “Understand what, Keeper?” “Allow me to show you.” Keeper pulled The Companion from his belt and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and recited the creed under his breath. William recognized it from the first page of the book. “Before I begin, you must know you have a choice. There is a supply plane that arrives every other month and the next one is due to arrive next week. You can return to the mainland on said plane and go back to your old life. I would then hope you had learned your lesson when you cheated death. You could also choose to stay and become my apprentice to learn the ways of the Keepers. I only ask you not to choose in haste. Give me your ear right now and shadow me for this next week before deciding,” said Keeper. “You saved my life, the least I could do is hear you out,” replied William. “Good. I will start by explaining the purpose of this island and its lighthouse. I am sure you know why lighthouses exist, so I will spare you those details. This one is particularly special though. Many ships became lost to the Abyss long ago with nothing guiding their way. When airplanes started flying the skies, they often would get lost out here too. They would run out of fuel and crash into the Abyss. There are a lot of different vessels that make up the bottom of this part of the ocean. There was an Order of Keepers established at the building of the first lighthouse. They sought to solve this problem by putting a lighthouse out here. With no land for many leagues, they could not think of a way to build it. A very brave group of those Keepers came by ship to this area and sounded the depths. When they started to run out of fuel, they made the hard choice of turning back home empty-handed. One of them suggested they continue to sound as they returned home. That is how they discovered a mountain buried in the sea. It was on this mountain they built up the island and set up the beacon of hope this lighthouse has become. Now, planes can find help navigating the skies. They look for the light to determine their trajectory. Ships gave up these waters long ago due to the difficulty traversing this area. Those who make it here by accident though find this a haven as they get pointed in the right direction. Then, there are those like you and me; our ships did not make it, and our fates seemed sealed. If it was not for this island and those who keep it, certain death would have been how our stories ended.” William nodded his head as he listened with intention. It was easy for him to see what this island meant to many, but was it the place for him? He decided to see how the week went, but he was already torn on the choice set before him. Keeper was a capable man, he could see that much. As William watched him talk and gesture though, he could also tell Keeper’s time here was short. “It’s a great story you tell Keeper and I look forward to learning more. I admit the choice is a more difficult one now, but I will still need the time to think. What do you have for me in the meantime?” “We can start with this,” Keeper said opening The Companion for William to see. Page after page was explained in great detail. Keeper gestured to different parts of the island and the lighthouse below their feet. He spoke more of the Order of Keepers who had established themselves centuries ago. They had a vast network of lighthouses spanning the globe. It often took a survivor to become a Keeper having been lost before someone came and guided their way. The shot at redemption is what drove them to service. Keeper closed The Companion having explained enough for now. He decided to show William an average day of life on the island. At the end of the day, they retired to sleep. Keeper took the floor with a blanket and pillow he pulled out of storage. William was grateful for the bed and spent the night dreaming of a shipwreck with dread. The rest of the week went by in a flash. William lost track of the days and was surprised to hear a plane one morning. He was out collecting seaweed and whatever shellfish he could find. The shore had a higher tide than before, but William did not mind. Keeper walked down the beach from the lighthouse to join his Brother from the plane. “Well William, the day has come for you to make your choice. The plane must take off as soon as we offload its cargo. Will you give us a hand?” "Sure!" said William with enthusiasm. He grabbed a wooden crate the pilot had thrown on the beach and followed Keeper to the lighthouse. "Okay, I have made up my mind." "Have you now?" asked Keeper. "Yes, I have decided to stay and follow in your stead. Fate brought us together and let me survive, so it wouldn't be right to turn my back on this now." "Alright then," Keeper said with a knowing smile. He retrieved The Companion from the second floor and handed it to William. "A Keeper you will be."


The span of my childhood could be separated into two categories: Knowing and Not-knowing. In fact, everyone in my family, even the adults, could split similarly: those who knew and those who didn’t. Regardless of which category you fell into, everyone knew Grandma had certain... proclivities . It was an unspoken thing, yet you felt how heavily it threaded into every conversation and side-comment at family gatherings. No one really talked about it, not outright, but it was always there, lingering between the lines. The Not-knowing part of my childhood wasn’t all blissful ignorance. Like the Not-knowing adults, there were always hints of restlessness whenever we visited Grandma's House of Mirrors. That’s what everyone called it--though, to the public, it was Gertrude Inn, a quaint, three-story, hundred-year-old ten-bedroom house operating as a Bed and Breakfast, run by someone in my family since its inception. Despite how often she smiled, Grandma had this way of putting the house on edge. In a way, the Inn was a reflection of her. Aged, unique, beautiful. But full of secrets. Everyone walked on eggshells around her, though I'd never witnessed her so much as raise her voice. She smiled warmly, yet her eyes held a cold indifference that felt like she was seeing right through you, guts and all. Gertrude Inn sat in darkness during the day, supposedly to save on electricity; one single window and a shining beam of light brightened the winding corridors on each of the second and third floors. Those single sunrays felt so lively compared to all the shadows, with dust particles dancing in the warmth. My cousins used to make a game of only trying to walk in the sun lest your legs get snatched by some faceless monster in the dark. There was some speculation that Gertrude Inn was haunted. Creaking floors and dim lighting aside, people reported strange sounds at all hours. Some guests even claimed to see ghosts. The Inn had its own cult following amongst supernatural enthusiasts, who shared photos of specter light orbs and ghostly apparitions of small girls and old ladies online. Because the old lady ghosts looked eerily similar to Grandma, it was widely accepted that it must have been the ghost of a woman in our family tree. But the thing that really made Gertrude Inn feel like a horror movie set was the mirrors. My great-grandfather built them, and over the last hundred years, the walls became filled, nearly every clean inch coated in aluminum reflection. That single sunray from those lone windows on each floor bounced about, decorating the halls in a disorienting, masking glow. Around the time when I transitioned from Not-knowing to Knowing, I gained a unique fascination with the mirrors. My cousins, aunts, and uncles liked to pretend they didn’t exist. When we were delegated to help out around the Inn, I’d watch the others stalk the halls ahead of me, carrying buckets of cleaning supplies and fresh sheets, never looking from left to right at the mirrors, gazes fastened directly ahead. But I couldn’t help but look back and forth, short as I was, fascinated by the different heights and styles of the framed mirrors around me and how different and distorted they made me look, my face contorting and reshaping with each step. I liked to take my time in each bedroom when I cleaned--those walls equally covered in mirrors--making faces at myself and imagining someone else staring back at me. The year after Grandpa died, Grandma became more reclusive. One evening, my parents sent me to track her down, as she'd been missing since lunch, and it was long past dinner. Up to the third floor, past the guest rooms, the further along I crept, the more the walls narrowed. A single sconce poorly illuminated the dark at each turn, but that one small light bounced off the mirrors, casting a dizzying glimmer, my reflection echoed all the way down the hallway, thousands of me watching back. Finally, I approached her room, and my hand shook as it clasped the vintage crystal door knob, which spun loosely like it needed a repair, then pushed my way in. Her bed was made, complete with a crocheted white doily adorning an old quilt, another draped over a little red table, and a lit desk lamp that glowed beneath the stained glass lampshade. A soft humming caught my attention, but I couldn't tell where the sound was coming from. She wasn't anywhere in the tiny bedroom. I circled the space, trying to locate the source. The humming grew louder as I neared the armoire. I wouldn't consider myself a brave kid, but my curiosity was piqued, and no matter how hard my little heart rattled in my chest or how sweaty my shaky hands felt, I pressed my ear to the closet door and listened. I gripped the metal handle, and the moment the door cracked open, Grandma's humming grew louder. Shoving dresses and shirts on coat hangers to the side, I stepped through a hole at the back of the closet. "Grandma?" I called out. The humming paused, then picked up again. I kept climbing, stepping over mounds of boots and boxes, until I emerged into the brightest-lit room in the house. And there were mirrors everywhere. "Hello, darling Mercy," Grandma gestured for me to join her, not the least bit surprised to see me. "What is all this?" I looked around in wonder at all the beautiful ornate mirrors, some framed in elaborate gold filigree, some in thick knotted wood. Grandma stood in front of three large glass panels resting on a massive open-backed easel. Paintbrush in hand, she elbowed me playfully. "How'd you find me, little bug?" "Is this how you make mirrors?" I looked around in wonder. Grandma didn't answer. Her humming resumed, as did her painting. I glanced down at the table and saw three identical empty frames, all silver with intricate faces painted along the edges. The faces resembled cherubs, but their teeth looked more like fangs, smiles distorted. I looked back at the glass she was painting and noticed something odd. "Grandma, how come you can see through these mirrors?" Her humming continued as she painted a silver metallic sheen on the glass. On one side, the silver allowed your reflection to stare back. But on the other, the glass was see-through, like a window. I wasn't a mirror expert, not like Grandma or my Great-Grandpa, but I broke a mirror when I was cleaning once, and I remember the backside being dark; you couldn't see through it like you could these. Grandma kept humming, and I was hungry, and that room creeped me out, so I shrugged and waved goodbye, reminding her my mom was looking for her. I dismissed the strange room, letting it remain tucked away in the recesses of my memory. Then, one weekend, I got assigned to room cleaning. We all took turns helping out at the Inn, but it was more of a chore as I got older. The secrets of the old house held less interest for me. That is until I took a bottle of Windex into a room on the second floor, spraying down one of the many mirrors, and I recognized the silver metal frame, intricately painted cherubs with fang-like teeth and distorted smiles staring back at me. The one-way mirrors. I tried to pull the mirror off the wall to look behind it but was surprised to find it securely stuck. No matter how hard I tried to pull it off, it wouldn't budge. A cold chill ran down my spine as I recalled the secret room. That was when I realized there were two kinds of people in this family: those who knew and those who didn't. Grandma passed away a couple of years later, but still, I kept her secrets. My family argued about who would take care of the Inn. It had been in our family for so long no one wanted to give it up, but no one wanted to take responsibility for it, either. Finally, they came to a compromise and decided to share the duties. So, one of our families would move into the Inn each season to take care of the guests and keep Gertrude Inn up and running until someone stepped up and decided to take over the House of Mirrors. It was summer when it was our turn. Mom and Dad claimed a bedroom on the first floor, and though no one wanted to sleep in Grandma's old room, I claimed it greedily. Gertrude Inn had a presence, a sort of sentient awareness like you could feel her breathing. She tensed and held her breath, and so did I when I crept into the armoire that first night. I palmed the back of the old wardrobe, my hands sweaty as I searched for the secret knob. When I entered Grandma's secret room, it was pitch black. I stumbled around in the dark, seeking out the hanging lamps I remembered briefly from my only previous visit. But in my search, as my hands felt along the walls, I found another door knob. My heart racing, I slowly twisted the tiny metal handle, the creaking sound like a thunderclap, considering the height of my nerves. My foot padded out ahead, testing the floor, and as both hands pressed against the narrow walls, I discovered a light switch. Though the light cast was dim, like everything else at Gertrude Inn, it was enough. Slowly, I stumbled into the corridor, merely three feet wide, between the bedrooms, floors creaking loudly beneath my bare feet. And then I watched in horror, through the backs of the mirrors, as guests slept the night away. I held every gasp and breath, as my brain tried desperately to comprehend what I saw. A shriek tore out of my throat when I came upon a couple having sex, and the man stopped mid-thrust to whisper, "Did you hear that?" to his partner. My hand clasped over my mouth, terrified they'd know I was there. Know what hid behind the mirrors. I turned around and ran back to the secret room. I turned off the light, banged my knee against a table in my rush to escape, and when I returned to my new bedroom, I stared at the armoire in screaming silence until the sun came up. It took hours to calm my racing heart, and in that time, I thought back to every interaction I'd ever had with my Grandma, all the puzzle pieces and bits of memory I tucked away slowly clicking into place. Walking over to a mirror, I stared back at my reflection until I no longer felt scared or uncomfortable. The following morning at breakfast, I watched my parents, Not-knowing, move around the kitchen in blissful ignorance, shaking cereal into bowls and discussing their days over morning coffee. "Mercy, you feeling okay?" Mom placed the back of her hand over my forehead, frowning. I cleared my throat, "Yeah, I'm good." "Must have been a little weird to sleep in Grandma's room last night. No one would blame you if you decided to stay in another room. We can rework that one into a guest room--" "No!" Their eyes widen at my reaction. "Sorry. No, I'm good. Actually, it made me feel closer to her. And you know, I was thinking... She showed me once, how to make the mirrors. I think I'd like to take it over. Learn the family business." I shrugged and dug my spoon into the milky cereal, ignoring my parents' tight smiles. They don't want me to become like Grandma, even if they don't know precisely why. What I do know is that Gertrude Inn breathes for me. And I'll keep her secrets. Maybe make a few of my own.


Writer’s Note - Trigger Warning: Story contains elements of suicidal thoughts. The nine o’clock train came and went. So did the quarter past nine train. They kept zooming down the tracks, one right after the other at dizzying speeds. Trains passed by all evening in the filthy subway station, and kids coming back from trick-or-treating rushed for the doors in their costumes every time with the innocence of childhood, unaware of what tragic anniversary it was. They had no idea of what happened last Halloween and would probably never know. The Widow knew very well what price had been paid the previous year. She sat on a bench in perfect silence, motionless as a statue in her plaid topcoat, waiting for the last train to come. Soon, the running kids were nothing but colorful blurs dashing across her field of view, mere disturbances in a steady river of sorrow. It was scheduled for a quarter to midnight. Time could not fly fast enough. Every five minutes, the Widow glanced at her watch, hoping for an hour to have gone by. A cleaning employee stopped by her side around half past ten. “Are you alright Ma’am?” he asked, putting the mop back in his bucket. “You’ve been here for a while now, I saw you getting in when I was washing upstairs. Waiting for someone?” “Yes,” she answered. “My husband.” “Alright then. He’s a lucky man. My wife definitely would have ditched me if I made her wait for two hours.” “I suppose he is.” Her answers were as absent-minded as spoken words could be. Not once did she look him in the eyes. The janitor asked no further questions and left. Children had now been replaced by club-goers. They laughed heartily and drunkenly, wobbling from side to side, still high from the thumping music at the Halloween venues. The Widow remained perfectly impassive, even as one man ogled her. By a quarter past eleven, the dock was perfectly empty. The hands on her watch ticked ever so slowly from that point on. She looked at them every minute with unbearable impatience. The sound they made seemed ten times louder than it usually was. Tick. Tock. Tick Tock. To stay focused, she examined every detail on the station walls. Not a hint of disrepair went unnoticed: the cracks between tiles, the outdated advertisements, the fading station labels... all of these numbed her brain and prepared her for what was soon to come. A quarter to midnight came. The train still wasn’t there. Panicked thoughts stormed her mind. Had she missed it? Was it just late? Could service be delayed. Minutes passed, and there were still no signs of the vehicle. Just as she was about to rush upstairs to question the man at the ticket booth, a noise grew louder from the tunnel. It was coming. She wasted no time and ran for the rails, ready to jump. There was no need for her brain to process it, for all reasoning had been cast aside. The Widow closed her eyes and found herself hovering over the edge of the dock. The train zoomed by. She could still hear the noise. How could she still hear the noise? It was impossible. One wasn’t supposed to hear noises in the afterlife, that’s what the medium said: all senses are expected to go numb. She opened her eyes and found herself on the dock. Doors closed along every wagon, and train pursued its journey down the tunnels. The Widow struggled to believe it. Somehow, she had survived. Her heart was still beating, and her lungs were still breathing. “That was close. Real close.” The Widow got up and turned around. An old man stood by her side. He must have pulled her away from the train. “Did you--” she began, unable to complete the sentence. “Stop you from jumping?” completed the Old Man. “I certainly did. Couldn’t let a beautiful woman like you end up in a situation like that.” “You had no business meddling with this. It meant something to me.” “Whatever it meant, I’m sure we can find better meaning elsewhere. Let’s sit down.” “I’m not sitting down with someone like you. The last thing I need right now is for someone to pretend to be my savior.” “Did I say such things? I never said I saved you. I said I stopped you. Let’s talk it through.” He sat on the very bench that had been her home through the night. Reluctantly, the Widow put one foot in front of the other and assumed the same focused position again, avoiding any form of eye contact with her benefactor. “I suggest we go straight for the heart of it,” he whispered. “What did all of this mean?” “Nothing.” “You said it meant something to you.” “Nothing that concerns you, that is.” “Do you have children?” “Yes, not that it’s any of your business.” “Should your children be concerned with this mysterious meaning you sought so desperately? I’m sure they would have asked a lot of questions.” The Widow lowered her head, shadows of embarrassment drifting across her face. “Deep down inside, they would have understood. They’re grown up now, they don’t need me.” “I doubt it. One never understands these things. I’m afraid they leave puzzles behind that can’t be truly solved. Besides, you always need your mother, no matter how old you are.” “I just wanted to be with my husband again.” “There you go, we’re getting somewhere.” The Widow pulled out tissues from her pockets and tried to dry the sobs that were surging inside of her before they could even appear on her face. “What happened to your husband?” asked the Old Man. “He died here a year ago precisely. A kid tripped on the tail of his dinosaur costume and fell on the tracks. He jumped to save the kid and had time to put him back on the dock. He didn’t have enough time for himself though.” The sobs intensified. For a moment, the Widow felt as if the Old Man was about to put his arm around her shoulders, but he remained distant. Something was holding him back. “That’s a tragic story for sure. The last thing we need is a second tragic story to go with it.” “I miss him so much, I can’t even explain it. It’s like a void that can’t be filled.” “Your husband was a brave man. You’re just as brave, and the best way to prove it is to go hug your children tomorrow morning. He’ll hug you through them. I’m sure that’s the hug he really wants. The hug of life and love.” The Widow’s sobs finally dried up. As unexpected as it was, the Old Man’s words had touched her heart. Perhaps he did save her after all. “Thank you. I mean it.” “Don’t worry about it. You should go now.” “Yes, I should.” Slowly but with certainty, she walked up the stairs leading back to the outside doors. The Old Man watched every step of the way. Once he knew for sure the Widow was headed for safety, his face transformed into that of another man, slightly younger, and his body glowed with a ghostly light. He walked back towards the edge of the dock, vanishing as he reached the rails. For the second year in a row, he had saved someone on Halloween night. All was well.


Note: This is my first short story I have written since high school. I know the writing isn't great, but this is also my first draft so let me know how to improve and what you think. “Brandon wake up” “Brandon we gotta get going wake up” “Here’s your socks and coat, we gotta get going now to get you enrolled bud, lets go” Brandon stumbled out of bed, confused, but following his mothers orders and she prepared him for the day. He gazed around the room. Brandon had an impressive collection of model bridges and buildings. “Brandon, get teeth brushed, and put on deodorant ok?” His mother said. Brandon did as he was told. Brandon looked in the mirror, surprised for a moment, forgetting his mother had buzzed off his curly brown hair the day before to about a half inch in length. He ran his fingers through it before grabbing his toothbrush and bubblegum flavored toothpaste. He loved bubblegum toothpaste. He wouldn’t use any other kind. “Brandon we got 5 minutes before we have to leave.” His mother called from the room over, “Finish up in there quick ok bud?” “OK mom!” Brandon shouted from the bathroom. Brandon didn’t talk much. He didn’t make friends at school too well. He was always much bigger than the other boys at school and he hadn’t quite grasped how to maneuver his large body yet. Brandon fumbled out of the bathroom, teeth brushed, deodorant on, and grabbed his coat, his eyes still foggy from a good night’s sleep. Brandon’s bed time was 8:30 and he always fell asleep fast and deep. Brandon slept only on his back, he snored loudly, and he could not sleep without his blanket. “Ok hop in the van Brandon” Brandon did as he was told. He always listened to his mom. “We are ready to go.” Brandon said to his mom with a smile. His mom hopped into the driver’s side of the 4 door, gray minivan. “Did we brush teeth?” his mom asked, “Let me smell.’ He breathed into his moms nose, proud he knew she would smell his bubblegum toothpaste. “You did good bud. Promise me you will be good today?” “We promise!” “Ok.” Brandon’s mother said with a slight smile “ Can you take this please?” She reached out with two small green pills in the palm of her left hand and a water bottle in her right. Brandon grabbed the pills and swigged them down with water as he had done many times before. He finished the whole bottle. He always finished his water bottles. Pills mean mom is serious, he thought to himself. He would try his best to be good. “Brandon really? Wake up bud.” Brandon’s mothers voice rang in his ears. He had fallen asleep on the way to their destination. The pills always made Brandon sleepy. “Just take these ok?” His mother said as she handed him 3 small white pills and his water bottle. He threw all three of them in his mouth, and then washed them down with the whole bottle of water. He always finishes the whole bottle. The white ones made him excited. He liked those ones better then the green ones. The green ones made his eyes feel funny and made it hard to walk straight. His mother took him by the hand into a large grey building. Brandon recognized it as the building where he went to class last year. She led him down a hall, doors on either side. The hallway had the long white lights. Brandon hated that kind of lights. He liked yellow light bulbs better. He looked into the windows of each of the classroom doors, trying to get a glimpse of the blocks and toys he knew he would be able to play with after school started. At the end of the hall his mother turned a corner and knocked one of the wooden doors. The only door without a window, Brandon noticed. It’s different from the other ones. A women led the two of them into a small room with cushioned chairs. He, his mother, the woman who answered the door, who was now sitting behind a small desk, were the only ones in the room. A second door on the opposite side swung open and a man walked out. Brandon remembered the man from his previous school year. He knew if you saw him you were in trouble. He avoided eye contact. “You must be Brandons mother” the man said , grabbing his mother’s hand and shaking it firmly. “Follow me. Brandon, your mom and I are going to talk for just a few minutes ok?” Brandon was very worried for his mom. Nobody talked to that man for a good reason. The door slammed back shut and Brandon read the word, **PRINCIPAL** “Mom’s in trouble” Brandon whispered to himself. “Mom’s in trouble, mom’s in trouble, moms in trouble” The woman behind the desk offered him a candy from a wooden bowl. “Mom’s in trouble” he continued, ignoring the offer. He could hear parts of the conversation coming from inside the room. “Brandon has a histo.....and violent.........” The mans voice floated through he thin door “He just doesn’t know his own strength.” His mother was raising her voice. Brandon didn’t like it when his mom raised her voice. She only did it when he was in a lot of trouble, or she drank mommy’s grape juice. “Your son” Now the principal was raising his voice. When Brandon raised his voice indoors he had to take some of the green pills and go to his room to calm down. “Your son, injured 3 students last year alone. He is a liability. I’m sorry but we can’t let him continue to attend our school” He could hear his mother begin to cry. “How am I supposed to work? I can’t keep him at home.” Brandon knew what this meant. His mom really was in trouble with the principal, and it was his fault. I needed to explain. He could be good! He got up and started pounding on the office door has hard as he could. “How am I supposed to work? I can’t keep him at home.” His mother continued to cry. “Im sorry but there is nothing more I can do...” Brandon heard the principal say as his fists continued to collide with the door. The door opened swung open and Brandon found himself face to face with the tall, imposing man that was the principal of his school. He saw his mom sitting in a chair, crying. Brandon had sat in that chair before. He knew what the principal was like. He was a bad guy. He had to help his mother. Brandon suddenly swung a fist at the principal, his knuckles colliding with the side of his principals nose. “BRANDON” His mother’s angry voice rang out as she stood from the chair. She grabbed him by the hand and led him out the door they had come in. “You can’t act like that Brandon.” “We didn’t mean to!” Brandon raised his eyebrows and tears started to form in his eyes. “No there is no we this time Brandon. YOU did this. And now what are you going to do Brandon, huh? What are we going to do?” “Just take these and get in the van” She said to him as they reached their van. She handed him 4 more of the green pills and 2 of the yellow ones. He didn’t get the yellow ones very often. He took them, climbed into the passenger seat, and before the van had begun to lurch forward, his eyelids grew heavy and he was asleep. Brandon’s eyelids fluttered open. He felt the weight of the seatbelt across his chest. Looking out the windows he realized he was still in his mother van, but now he was alone. And it was dark. Brandon was afraid his mother and left him. He unbuckled and stumbled out of the car. He knew this place. He was his driveway. He walked to the front door and saw his mother through the window. He knew he was safe. Brandon opened the front door and saw his mom laying on the couch. He called to her without a response. He looked around the room, and noticed several tall glass bottles on the floor. He recognized them as the grape juice that he wasn’t allowed to drink. He knew his mom drank them when she was really sad. Mom was mad at him. That much he knew. But she still needed to read him a story and tuck him in before bed. He shook her reluctantly. He never liked physical contact much. He shook her again. He would live through the touching if it meant he got his story. “Brandon...” His mother muttered as she slowly came to. She sat up suddenly and began to raise her voice, ”Brandon what the FUCK are we gonna do know. Hm? I cant work if youre not at school! We are going to FUCKING STARVE Brandon. You almost broke the principals FUCKING NOSE Brandon, what were you thinking? NOTHING Brandon when do you EVER think? I don’t even know if you CAN.” She was standing up from the couch now, and grabbed one of the bottles from the floor. She walked around the back of the couch that took up most of their tiny living room. She fumbled up the small wooden steps into the kitchen. She opened a drawer and pulled out a small orange pill bottle. Pouring a handful small green pills from the bottle into the palm of her hand she to the now shaking Brandon. “Just fucking take these.” She said handing the four pills and the green bottle to Brandon. “No story Brandon...’ she hiccupped out. “No more stories. Mommy is too sad for stories tonight Brandon. Just take them.” Brandon did what he was told. He took the green pills and washed them down with the strange tasting juice from the green bottle. He felt warm. He watched his mother stumble to her room and begin to snore. Brandon continued to drink. He didn’t like the taste, but Brandon couldn’t take his pills without finishing the bottle.  In all of Brandons 25 years, he had never felt like this. His eyelids were growing heavier. He was finding it hard to see straight. Like the green pills only much stronger. His arms and legs were getting warm. He kind of liked the feeling. His breathing slowed, and he drifted slowly off to sleep, on the couch, without his bedtime story.


This is my first time posting on Reddit and the first time ever really posting my work on anything. This is a story called Screwball. Screwball. Chapter 1. The large rusted steel double doors creaked behind him as Detective John Price stepped into the lobby of Darkwood Sanatarium. He saw the secretary typing away at her typewriter. She must have been filling out some paperwork of some kind because she keep kept pausing to mutter to herself before grabbing manila folders and shoving papers lazily into them. As Price approached her adjusting his brown plaid neck tie she finally looked up to acknowledge his presence. Price was a tall man, standing at roughly 6' 2". He was always seen as a strikingly handsome man by most who knew him. He never went to work without wearing his brown three-piece suit and matching trench coat. Price had been working at the precinct as a criminal investigator for about five years now. He was moved from being the Darkwood police departments active sheriff after a unfortunate injury he substained while trying to subdue a enemy. "Detective Price, good to see you here again" the secretary said in a sarcastic tone. Everyone at the Sanatarium knew Price, for he had been there many times trying to investigate a case that everyone thought was closed. "Good evening there miss,"John said, "I'm here to see Dr. Peterson again. He has agreed to lead me to room 110 to conduct an interview with the patient occupying it". "He told me to expect you. Just a moment while I let him know you're here" the secretary said standing up and adjusting her dark blue and wrinkled dress. She walked down the lobby to a door leading to a corridor with a sign above labeled "Minimum security wing". Price looked around the lobby noting that Darkwood was still as rundown and forgotten as it had always been. The small town was not known by most. They never had anything worth mentioning in the news or had anyone recognizable until the power plant was built. It was the first of its kind and held a new electrical reactor core powering most of the city. Well, that is until the unfortunate accident occurred causing the core to explode killing all of those people. The secretary had opened the door leading to the wing. A man in a white lab coat with matching khakis wearing a blue surgical mask entered through the doorway. He approached Detective Price saying, "Hello detective. Abigail informed me you had just arrived. If you'll follow meme, I'll be more than happy to lead you to the room you're looking for." "Thank you, Dr. Peterson. As always, it's a pleasure to see you," Price responded. "This way please" the Doctor said, leading Price through the doorway as the secretary closed it behind them with a soft bang. The footsteps of Detective John Price echoed through the corridors as Dr. Peterson led him to room number 110. The dark sanatarium wasn't the most pleasant of places and Price couldn't think of a worst place to be spending his day. As he heard the muffled voices of the patients through every door on his way down the corridorcorridor, he couldn't help but think, "How condemned must one soul be to end up in a place as sad as this? The poor tortured beings that must reside behind these doorways; the whole thing is just traumatizing". Dr. Peterson was silent; it seemed as if the voices and the sad laughter of the clinically insane didn't phasefaze him one bit. "But of course, it doesn't", Price thought to himself, "He's had to deal with these types for 10 years as the lead psychiatrist here. I don't know how one could deal with it all". Darkwood sanitarium was just about the only place in the small town of Darkwood that anyone with any psychological problem could get any bit of treatment; if any sense of the word even existed in a place so rundown and forgotten. Detective Price had but one reason for his visit on this day: the criminal who was formally known as Carl Williams Bell and to investigate the crimes he committed. Price had had plenty of run-ins with Bell before. Bell was wanted for Aggravated assault, Battery, Homicide, First-degree murder, Arson, Domestic violence and many other crimes. The only reason Bell wasn't charged and convicted for any of the horrible crimes he had committed is he was deemed clinically insane by the state of Missouri. Price had always thought theis judgement was a load of crap. He had thought Bell knew exactly what he was doing. For he had slaughtered many innocent victims no matter how mentally unstable the state had said he is. "The guilty always walk away free around here" Price had always said. Dr. Peterson had finally broken the awkward silence by saying in a matter of fact tone "So Detective, it has come to my attention that the case against Bell still hasn't been dropped by the Chief? I don't know why you lot keep pressing the matter. The man has been deemed mentally unstable. Let things go will you"? "The families of those he tortured and treated like play things in his little game want justice. It doesn't matter what the judge, or the state thinks; Bell knew perfectly well what he was doing while he was doing it", Price respond in a monotone voice that clearly gave Dr. Peterson the impression the Detective didn't have the same opinion as the judgement showed. "Bell has been a patient here for well over 2 years now. I have been personally assigned to him and have seen for myself the man isn't all there. Half the time he sits in his room mumbling complete nonsense. If you ask me, I'd say the man is quite unstable" Dr. Peterson said. "It doesn't matter to me how unstable a doctor with some degree from some University claims someone is. If a man or woman commits murder; no matter how mental they are, they deserve to pay for the crime." Price responded. "Very well than. If that is what the precinct has declared I do agree that those poor families deserve justice in anyway they can get it" Dr. Peterson said, ending the discussion. " Great", Price thought, "Another person who thinks this man deserves to just rot away here while those families loved ones have been burriedburied six feet under and they don't even get to see the criminal pay for the crimes". They had entered a staircase at the end of the corridor now and were climbing up to the second floor. As they approached the door leading to the second floor a dimly lit sign read "Medium security wing". Dr. Peterson opened the door and motioned for Price to walk on through. As they entered the wing a musty, almost moldy smell entered the air. The lights kept flickering to the point Price thought someone must had been flicking them on and off. "I apologise for the flickering of the lights. They really haven't worked since the accident at the power plant all those years ago" Peterson told Price. "You'd figure with all the other problems you guys have they'd have fixed the lights and got power back within the five years, huh" Price asked Peterson, to which he responded with a slight shrug "Again I apologise. I'm just a doctor here, not an electrician". Dr. Peterson started to lead Price past the rooms in the corridor until they finally reached where he was headed. Room 110 looked like all the others. The door was a faded black; almost to the point it looked grey. There where small iron bars covering a wire mesh window that was too dark to see through. The doctor reached into his coat pocket to pull out a ring of keys. Fumbling with the keys he finally held onto one saying to himself "Ahh, there you are" before inserting the key into the slot and opening the door with a small creak. As they stepped into a hallway leading to yet another door Price noticed a armed security guard. "Hello Price, you old gunslinger" said the guard. "Jacobson. So this is where you ended up when you left us you old dog" said Price. "Yes sir, been here about a year now. Beats getting chased by old perps and getting fingers cut off, doesn't it", the security guard asked glancing at the covered stump that was Price's finger. On his side in a holster he had a standard issue Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum along with a small billy club strapped at the hip. "As I'm sure you know it is protocol here to have a armed guard outside every room no mater who the visitor might be detective" Peterson told Price. "Not that it bothers me any, can't really shoot one of those pistols with the injury I substained. And seeing as how it's my on my dominate hand I'd rather have the company in case things get dirty",Price responded with a small smirk towards Jacobson who smiled back. "This old gunslinger got assigned to this job? Man, couldn't find anyone better?", Jacobson asked Dr. Peterson. "I don't assign anyone to anything here, sir", the Doctor responded, "And may I ask just why you keep calling him 'Gunslinger'"? Jacobson laughed with a deep rumble that could wake the dead itself and said "It's a old joke with everyone in the precinct. You see, after the crazy guy that old John Price was trying to subdue took a slice at his finger and chopped it off we started calling him Gunslinger as a joke. Seeing how he can't really even hold a gun anymore we all thought it was fitting", said Jacobson, still chuckling as he spoke. "Well, moving on from your reunion, Detective Price is here to see patient 110. Per usual protocol, Jacobson will be accompanying you into the unit" Peterson said to Price and Jacobson, fumbling with more keys as he approached the door to unit 110. Muttering to himself Peterson fit the correct key into the lock and turned the doorknob. "You know who and what awaits inside Mr. Price. I would give the the old 'You're waisting your time' spiel but I'd be wasting both of our times. Good luck, detective" Peterson murmured as he away without a second glance. Price approached the door to the now unlocked unit 110 and turned the handle to enter the all to familiar room. What awaited him inside was nothing he could have ever predicted. In all the years he had been on the force nothing prepared him for what was behind the door. The door creeked open as Detective Price and Jacobson entered into the small 6' by 8' room. In the corner of the room was a small bed with blue sheets and a white blanket. The bed had a rusty metal frame with springs underneath. It was bearly big enough for a large child let alone a full grown adult. The walls were painted a dull off white. The paint was peeling off of the celling to reveal a dark grey plaster underneath. A white porcelain sink with rusted copper that Price was pretty sure is the cause of the small puddle underneath with a cracked mirror hung at a awkward angle; almost to the point it was falling off of the wall, sat upon the wall opposite the bed. There were no windows to allow any outside light inside and the only light came from a small blub placed upon the center of the celling. A dirty looking man was kneeled down in the corner next to the sink facing the wall. He was dressed in the standard Darkwood patient clothing; a white wrinkled shirt with grey trousers. The shirt clearly showed its age as it had dark brown and green stains upon it the color of old oak bark with mold. The grey trousers he wore where more of a faded grey and had stains of yellow that made it appear as though this man had wet himself a few to many times. His dark hair was very mangled and stood up at all ends. It was almost as if he had the worst case of bedhead that Price had ever seen. His arms where caked in dirt and grime the kind that even the worst earthworms and ants wouldn't dare traverse in to make a home. A smell like a infant that hadn't had a proper change was wafting from this man that made Price gag. This made it clear indeed; the town of Darkwood was surly forgotten about if it kept the poor state of the mentally ill this bad. The man kept mumbling to himself nonsense that Price could not make out and was fumbling with his fingers. He had faded numbers in black paint sprayed along his back to make out a faint 110. "This is all the man ever does now, sit here and mumble to himself. Hardly ever eats. Never showers, never bathes, I don't think I've ever seen him sleep on my rounds neither. The man just sits there fumbling and mumbling. It's hard to believe he committed those crimes y'all are trying to incarcerate him for" Jacobson said as Price's eyes drifted around the room and back to the man again. Price remained silent for a moment while examing this man until he responded to Jacobson. "I've been on the force for 15 years here Jacobson. After my incident where I lost my finger about 10 years back they made me a detective. I know mister Carl Williams Bell very well. It's the only case they ever gave me that I feel didn't get proper justice. This whole mumbling act, it's as fake as my first wives love for me. I've seen this man before they declared him as 'Insane' and I see him clear as day now. He was, is, and always will remain brilliantly minded; all anyone has to do is open their eyes and see past these lies he's ensnared us all in. We are all but tiny little insects in a web, and he is the spider hunting his prey". Jacobson stood in silence as he took in what Price had just said. It took a moment for the words that he had heard to settle in and process. 'Brilliantly minded? How can he be brilliantly minded; all he does is sit there and rock back and forth mumbling complete nonsense to himself! Price must be as insane as mister Bell here if he sees him as some genius mind!' Jacobson silently thought to himself. Both Price and Jacobson stood in awkward silence for a moment until the silence was broken by yet more loud nonsense mutterings by Bell. "You really think this guy has some beautiful mind? That there is a genius hidden somewhere deep inside of him? Well, regardless what you think he's still insane. All the lights are on but no one's home if you catch my drift there mister Price" Jacobson said, finally breaking the silence. All Price did to respond was let out a low sigh, shrugging his shoulders and looking down at his feet. "Well, might as well ask him what you need to ask him. Not that he'll respond to anything you do ask. He never does. I don't see why y'all waste your time here honestly" Jacobson told Price. Price crossed the room to the corner that Bell was facing, gently starting to knell down to his level. He looked over him for a moment, noticing the amount of grim covering him and the foul smell drifting around him. He gently put his hand on Bells shoulder and noticed when he did Bell stoped muttering. In fact, he even stopped the awkward shakes he kept issuing the moment Price's hand hit his shoulder. Price spoke to Bell saying "Hello Carl, I don't know if you remember me. My name is John Price, I'm a detective with Darkwood Police. We've met before; many times in fact. I'm here on a case; your case. I would like to speak with you about the crimes you've been convicted of". A moment of silence followed Price's words until Bell muttered something that Price couldn't hear properly. He could've sworn he heard him say "You're wasting your time again". "I'm sorry, what was that you said?", Price asked Bell. Bell didn't respond, instead started to rock back and forth again. "Did he actually just speak?", Jacobson asked Price. "I could've sworn he said something just then, but it could've been more nonsense mutterings", Jacobson said to Price. The lights flickered suddenly, surrounding the room in a moment of darkness. In the darkness Price heard a sudden scurrying and felt something brush past him. When the lights came back on Bell was not in front of Price anymore. Price turned around to see Jacobson hunched over and Bell holding a shard of glass to his throat. Jacobson had a look of horror on his very pale face as his hand was around his pistol on his hip. "I don't think that would be a very wise idea to unholster that weapon there, I could slip and slice a vein here" Bell said, pushing the shard of glass more into Jacobson's throat to the point it drew a little blood. "What are you doing just standing there, shoot the psycho"! Jacobson said to Price. "Don't you dare make a move or I'll splatter his blood all along these walls Detective"! Bell said as Price started to move his hand toward his pistol, stopping as he realized Bell could very easily do as he had just said. "Ah, that's better there, settle down. We wouldn't want me to commit another murder now would we? Detective Price, you where always a smart one seeing that this was all just a simple act. The world is so dull; so full of unsharpened minds. You and I, we are the sharp ones. Not like this idiot Jacobson here. It's almost sad. Like the screwdriver that drives the screw into the wood, everyone can rely on these tools we use way to much. No one just uses there brains anymore"! Bell exclaimed. "Now Bell, settle down. All anyone wants to do here is talk to you. What's going on? Why are you doing this?" Price asked Bell as Jacobson was stuck with a look of horror on his face. "Why am I doing this? The one person in this room besides me that should already know the answer to that question is you, Detective. You've been on my case for how long, five years now? You know why I do the things I do. I know what they call me. Screwball. Fitting, isn't it? A brilliant mind goes a little crazy after a accident kills his daughters and her friends. If only I had forseen what was about to happen. I tried to warn them, but all these dull minded fools wouldn't listen. I told them it wasn't ready, but they just didn't listen! Let me ask you detective a simple question; have you ever lost something very near and dear to your heart? Have you ever had to watch as something you cared for and created just vanished in a flash of light before your eyes? Because I'll tell you Detective, I promise if you ever had to it would drive you to the edge as well"! Price gently started to advance towards Bell and Jacobson saying "I have lost many near and dear to me too, Bell. I've lost many partners while on the force. It makes you think you won't be able to carry on anymore. I've watched many partners get killed right before my eyes because of criminal scum. It's not a easy thing to go through. But we can get you the help you need. You have many doctors who have devoted their lives to studying the human mind and what makes it tick. Carl, before the incident you were one of the most brilliant engineers this world has seen. You where the pride and joy of Darkwood. I was astonished at what you could create. It's a shame what happened during that field trip. But ask yourself, is this really the way to remember your daughter by? Murdering innocent people, tearing families apart much like your own? Stop to think about what you are doing. This isn't the way to go around everything" Price said, still gently advancing in Bell's direction. "You don't think I've thought about what I've been doing? What do you think I am, some kind of idiot? Some insane man who just kills for fun like the papers say? I'm not doing this for fun; I'm doing this because it what has to be done. The world is so full of dull minded idiots. Only those of us with sharp minds should be allowed to thrive; to survive!", Bell said pressing the piece of glass more into Jacobson's throat, causing more blood to be drawn. "And now, tonight, my plan shall be set into motion. All you idiots do is look at us like we are all some insane people. But the funny thing is, we aren't. I've met plenty of brilliant minded men and women inside this very bulding. And tonight, I shall be leaving here with them. But not before I cleanse the world of some more dull minded fools. Tonight, unfortunately, this mans life ends. Say your goodbyes, it's going to be a messy one". Bell flicked his wrisr, thrusting the shard of glass into Jacobson's throat, slicing deep into it. Jacobson gagged, blood spraying from his throat as Bell stood behind him letting out a howling laughter, his eyes wide in bewilderment. The main lights in the building turned off as a alarm echoed through the bulding with a red light flashing. The door to the cell opened as men stood with the same uniforms Bell was wearing outside the door. All of them where patients at Darkwood. Laughter and gunshots echoed through the doorway as Bell ran for the door. Price ran for Jacobson, catching him before his body fell to the floor in a limp state. Blood poured from the slice in his throat as tears started to stream from Price's eyes. "Another one of your friends dead Detective. And now, if you'll excuse me, I must help mine escape from this wretched place. We will meet again, I feel. Until then, may the dull be sharpened until all is set right, Detective" Bell said, slamming the cell door behind him as yet more screams and gunshots followed outside. Price held Jacobson with tears in his eyes, mouth open in disbelief. "I'm sorry Jacobson, I'm sorry. I didn't see the glass in his hand when I approached him before. I didn't see it. Why didn't people believe me five years ago when I told them what he had done! This all could've been avoided!" Price said to Jacobson, still holding his dying friend in his arms. Jacobson gasped for air, and with his last dying breath, said to Price "Don't blame yourself for anything that's happened here. Just promise me that. And promise me you'll make the world see this man for what he truly is". With a last gasp Jacobson was dead. Covered in blood and tears over the lose of his friend, Price could only blame himself for what had happened. If only they had listened to him five years ago. If only they had seen Bell for what he truly was back then. Back then, if only they had seen him as what he was, The Screwball.


what used to be the Fries family home a young woman awakens much like the others, dizzy, confused, and nauseous. As she rolls onto her back, Teagan and Dexter enter the home. (Kim) “Who...where...” (Teagen) “Rest, Ms. Fries. It’s a troublesome ordeal the three of us have been through as well.” (Dexter) “Fries? Like that crazy doctor?” (Teagen) “Mhm, before us lays the great granddaughter of Nora and Victor Fries. Her grandfather was adopted by members of the Fries family shortly after Nora fell ill. Between Victor dedicating his life to finding a cure, and his eventually transformation into Mr. Freeze, the young man was raised never knowing his real parents.” (Kim) “You...you...” (Teagan) “Help her up Dex, she can recover in the car. “ Once in the car the trio head back towards Gotham. Kimberly comes to fully halfway to their destination and Teagan catches her up to date on everything. They arrive at a long abandoned apartment building. (Dexter) “I don’t think that’s up to code...” (Teagan) “Adrian should be done with a quick search...they should be out here waiting for us.” (Kim) “If what you told me is correct, they should be able to handle a situation shall it arise.” (Dexter) “Yeah Adrian’s a badass, I’m sure they’re just waiting for us inside.” Teagan sighs and the three exit the car. They enter the building and Teagan immediately calls out for Adrian. (Teagan) “I can’t feel them...Adrian!” Teagan takes down one of the hallways before Dexter and Kim can stop her. (Kim) “There’s more to their relationship then meets the eye?” (Dexter) “I think so, neither have said anything but I got lost my first night in the headquarters and found them sleeping in the same bed sooooo...” He shrugs sarcastically and motions for Kim to follow him down the hallway and after Teagan... Teagen glides slowly through the first floor, looking in every room for any sign of Adrian. As she gets closer to the stairwell she finally picks up on a presence but it’s not Adrian. She flies up the stairs in a flash. She flies into room 2A and once again finds it empty. But as she turns to leave she’s grabbed by the face and forced down to the ground. Someone holds her arms down while the other covers her face. ‘ (???) “Calm down little dove...I think we can help each other.” (??? 2) “Hurry up I can’t hold her for long.” (???) “Right, here’s the scenario. We have Adrian and clearly they mean something very important to you little dove. So we’ll let them...and you go without any problems if you just help us find-“ (??? 2) “Company!” The person jumps to the left to avoid being hit by a green cannonball that destroys the balcony door and coats the floor in glass. (Kim) “Be careful you twit Teagans over there!” (Dexter) “I’m still new to this lay off.” He goes to fire another at the strange holding Teagen down but the stranger stands up and holds Teagen out in front of her. Dexter quickly pulls back, almost hurting himself in the process. The second figure tackles Kim and takes her into the hallway. Dex takes his off the masked stranger in front of him for a split second. When he turns back, they’re gone and Teagen s on the ground bleeding. Dex begins to dry heave and double over in repulsion. He’s suddenly grabbed by the stranger and forced against the wall. (???) “Hard to play hero when you can’t stand the sight of blood...” The stranger uses their free hand to rip a chunk off their mask off. Dex kicks and tries to scream as the strangers face proceeds to bleed profusely. Debs starts to hyperventilate as he feels it...his own face is bleeding. Slowly, it washes over his vision and he comes close to passing out. With this, the stranger throws him into the bathroom. (??? 2) “And here I thought you said you weren’t crazy like your great granddaddy?” (???) “I’m not...but sometimes extreme measures are needed. Where’s the Fries girl?” (??? 2) “Knocked out stone cold in the hallway. No trouble at all.” (???) “Perfect, come we must find the Luthor boy before they come to.


Gabby double checked the address in her phone as her small Toyota climbed over rocks and roots down Orchard Road. After confirming she was indeed going in the right direction, she squinted at what appeared to be a massive, ivy covered, red brick building in the distance. The morning sun was cutting through just enough autumn fog to allow her to see it must have been built ages ago. The brick was crumbling, the ivy stretching, the windows coated with dusty memories. She had received an email giving her a heads-up that a very worthwhile estate sale was taking place Saturday morning. She often received announcements from realtors, and was on several lists to be notified when local sales would be taking place. Gabby had a keen eye for antiques, and the ones she didn’t hang on to, she sold for top dollar. It wasn’t so much the money she was interested in, but in being able to earn enough to keep investing in more treasures. Every old vase held memories of flowers long gone, perhaps given by a doting husband, or an enamored lover. An antique sewing machine hummed its stories of a struggling mother, making clothing for her children in the late night hours after a full days work. Depression glasses were filled with the tears of hungry children, opening the boxes of Quaker Oats to find the free glassware placed inside as an incentive to buy their products. So many stories, so much history. It was the people Gabby had in her heart, their lives and what they had to say. And she wanted to know all of them, all their stories. She slowly pulled closer to the once majestic home. It surely was a sight when it was cared for and maintained. Now, the grass was overgrown, the flower beds filled with weeds, and the shrubberies threatened to overtake the entrance. Gabby pulled all the way up in the long driveway adjacent to the house. She must be the first to arrive, she thought to herself. Which was just how she liked it. Gabby was not a haggler, or one to try to outbid another interested party at estate sales. It just wasn’t her nature. She had the mindset that if it was meant to be, it was meant to be. If she was the one meant to take home a piece, then she would. She closed her car door, and began to approach the front door, an old wooden one with cracked paint and splinters spiking out, daring one to knock. From the corner of her eye, Gabby thought she saw someone move past a second story window. Likely the person in charge of the sale. Gabby lifted her hand to knock on the worn door, but it seemed to open before she could make contact. Just as well, she thought, she probably would have ended up with wood in her knuckles. “Hello? Anyone here?” Gabby slowly took a step inside, and tried to adjust her gaze to the dimly lit rooms. She looked to her right for a light switch, just as a voice echoed down from the long stairwell in the foyer. “Good morning, Gabby. Thank you for coming today. I knew you’d be interested in this sale,” the voice called out. Slowly, a figure descended the stairs, almost appearing to float downwards. “Oh, hello! I received an email about the estate sale today. It seems I’m the first to arrive,” Gabby replied to her host. She extended her hand in greeting, and the old woman accepted it with a wrinkled smile. “The first, and only. I’m Genevieve. I’m taking care of my sister’s estate now that she’s passed. Helen has a house full of very special, very unique things. Why don’t we look around.” “I’m so sorry for your loss, thank you for having me here today.” “No, thank you for coming. Let’s get started,” Genevieve said and began to make her way into the parlor. Gabby followed, and gazed upon a room filled with paintings, china, handmade blankets and quilts, and...something caught her attention on an end table. Gabby walked toward the table, and glanced back at Genevieve. “May I?” she asked, gesturing to the table. “Please do.” Gabby picked up an ebony box, crafted of wood, with ornate patterns carved into it. Despite its age, it was far from faded. “African Blackwood. Open it,” Genevieve instructed, as she soundlessly appeared at Gabby’s side. Gabby opened the Black Box, and inside found a mirror on the inside of the lid. The interior of the box was lined with black velvet. She ran her fingers over the smooth material, seamlessly attached. “This is gorgeous. Such a treasure...is it part of the sale?” Gabby hopefully asked. “Yes. I was hoping you’d like this piece. It was very special to Helen. I believe you will find it special, as well.” “How much are you asking for it?” “Not a thing. Only the promise that you keep it, and use it as Helen had. That will become clear soon,” Genevieve said, closing the Black Box in Gabby’s hands. “Are you...sure about this? I really don’t mind paying you what it’s worth,” Gabby said, taken aback by the thought of having the Black Box for free. “It is as Helen would want it. Please, on your way out, stop in the garden where her memorial stone is placed.” “I most certainly will do that. Thank you so much, Genevieve.” Gabby left the house, Black Box in her hands, and saw the memorial Genevieve had told her about. She stopped to read the words written in the stone. “Our Beloved Helen” was clearly visible. But then, something underneath appeared to be written backwards. “How strange. I wonder what that says...” Gabby whispered, as she traced her fingers over the cold stone. Then she realized something. “Wait! Maybe if I...” Gabby opened the Black Box, and used the mirror to read the cryptic writing. She saw in the mirror, “Our last secrets, secret no more.” What could that mean? As Gabby furrowed her brow in thought at this message, she heard something coming from the box. Quickly, she looked inside. Rather than the mirrored message, she now saw a face. It was the face of a woman who had a striking resemblance to Genevieve. Could this be, Helen? “You’ve discovered the secret of the Black Box, Gabby. It’s a very special box indeed. It reveals the last thoughts, the last words, our loved ones wanted to share right before they left the world. To use the box, simply allow the mirror to reflect their picture. They will appear, as I am now, and reveal the last thoughts they have for their loved ones. This box will help with healing after a loved one passes on, and Genevieve and I knew you were the one to have it. She will be gone soon too, and will join me. It’s now up to you to help others,” Helen said. “But, why me? Why did you choose me?” Gabby asked, not knowing if she was experiencing reality or a dream of some kind. “We’ve known you since you were a child. The mirror has let us see your life, just as you will see the life of the one who should inherit the Black Box next,” Helen gently said. “How will I know who needs my help? Who needs closure?” “The mirror will show you that too. Once you see who is in the mirror, you will find them and ask for their loved one’s picture. Only you will be able to hear their last words. Then you must tell their loved ones,” Helen told her. “But what if they don’t believe me? What if they think I’m crazy?” “Trust me, they won’t. This will be what they need, how they can move on. And they will only be thankful to you for giving them that gift. And now, take the Black Box and trust in yourself. Goodbye, Gabby.” And with that, the box closed. Gabby sat staring at the box in her hands. Did that really just happen? She stood up, and tried to collect her thoughts. As she went back to her car, she saw a white light start to slip from the carving in the front of the box. Gabby opened the box, and saw an image in the mirror. It was not someone she recognized. Then, as if someone were writing on it, she saw the name “Charlie Gardener” appear below the image. This must be the first person she needs to find. Gabby closed the box. She started her car, and set out with her new responsibility. One that she felt honored to now possess. Gabby paused on Orchard Road, typed “Charlie Gardener” into her phone, and found an address. Placing her hand atop the Black Box, she drove to the main road. It was time.


Completely change life. Completely change attitude to life. Completely change outlook and way of thinking. Ignore everyone who is negative don’t get drawn into any negative situations. Those people can all take a running jump this year. You have had enough. Be strong. Listen to and learn from everyone. Especially listen to Harry and appreciate that while I don’t understand why he does what he does, that he has good intentions but just can’t express himself without being the most annoying person on the planet. But listen to him anyway and try to learn something, difficult as it might be. Study more. Sleep more. Go to the gym. Relax more. Take time to be good to myself because if I don’t then nobody else will. Take long walks in the countryside. Pick up litter. Find woman from car park and put litter in her car. Make food plan and stick to it. Keep bottle tops and make a craft out of them when I have enough. Get revenge on Sally. Don’t let it get to the stage where I forget what she has done and start being all nice to her again because she will only do the same thing again. Stand up for myself. Get even with the woman with the eyebrows at the shop. Maybe buy something without paying for it and return it and say that it wasn’t what I bought even though I didn’t pay for it and then watch her face when I ask her well how does it feel now eyebrow woman? Look for the good in everyone. Call customer service and block Sally. Invite Sally to my birthday party and then cancel her on the same day. Make sure to invite Brenda from inbound. Find a way to guarantee that she will come and Sally will know she came but Sally didn’t. Buy myself flowers and post them to myself because if I don’t then nobody else will. Introduce Harry to family. Prepare everyone beforehand, especially mom. Explain to mom that Harry is affected or has memory loss; think of a good one. Make sure Harry doesn’t swear. Practice conversations with him beforehand where he doesn’t swear in the conversations. Reward him with beer. Do something nice for mom because if I don’t nobody else will, especially not dad because he just sits on his behind all day watching TV. Stop drinking coffee and start drinking rose hip tea. Wait to see if Harry books somewhere to go out for 21 st February or Valentine’s Day and if he doesn’t, book somewhere myself and go alone and take photos and shame him completely. Get in touch with inner self. Plan and execute astounding birthday party for myself because if I don’t then nobody else will. Order cake, organize music. Make birthday party list. Make invitations. Give invitation to Brenda and Will but make sure Will doesn’t come but he won’t come anyway because he won’t want to be there just as much as I don’t want him to be there. Be honest with myself. Make lunch with salt sandwiches and leave in fridge at work so that Mandy will eat it. Meditate. Practice Temperance. Learn Spanish but don’t tell anyone and then I will understand everything the Spanish girls are saying but they won’t know. Don’t get new job because let’s face it I am not going to do it so why put it on the list. Just do another year of mindless, robotic labor without thanks or satisfaction and in the company of coworkers who are all backstabbing liars, for hardly any money because that’s my life so just get used to it and stop complaining or else do something which I am not going to do so shut up. Update C.V. Buy lots of flowers and plants. Stop being so nice to everyone. Develop thick skin. Look for the beauty in everyday things. Take up photography. Take pictures of everything I see that is yellow. Then red. Then blue and so on. Remember that I am not what other people perceive me to be. I am not defined by what other people think of me. I am a good person. I want to do good things. I try to live my life in the most honest way and I am a generous and loyal friend and partner. Do not give what I do not get. Stop being so damn nice to everyone and being a doormat. Do not share with people who will not give me a single thing in return. Smile at strangers. Help people in need. Be more difficult to read. Maybe take up poker. Ask Harry to teach me. Do my own thing and stop following the crowd like a human sheep. Buy a hat and start being the kind of person who always wears a different hat but nobody thinks it’s weird because that’s just my ‘thing’. Get some kind of ‘thing’ even if it is not hats so people will say ‘what are you doing at the weekend?’ and I will say ‘oh I’m doing such and such a thing, you know’ and they’ll think of course you are because that’s your ‘thing’. And people will automatically think of whatever ‘thing’ that is when they think of me because that’s what I do. Don’t turn down opportunity. If I get asked somewhere, go. If I meet new people, be proactive and ask them to join me on my ‘thing’. Be a magnet person who attracts people to them but in a positive way, not like Sally who has her coven of witches and only spreads nasty gossip and negativity. Don’t wait for life to go speeding by. Jump on the passing train. Find out about events and go to them. Go alone because Harry won’t go anyway and don’t wait for him to do anything because he won’t do anything except sit on his behind and play computer games. Emancipate myself from the living room. Even if it is only to walk into town in the evening, do it. Speak my mind. Don’t be afraid to tell the truth. Don’t bite my tongue when people say bad things. Be the kind of person who is not afraid to say what they think even if it is not the so-called ‘right time’ because if I don’t then nobody else will. Be more like Brenda. But not in the way that she talks over everyone and doesn’t respect what people say and that everyone has their own opinion and who’s to say who is right and who is wrong because I have my truth and someone else has their truth and neither of us knows the full background of the other and the nuances of what is not said because everyone has a different life history and experience and we can learn a lot just by listening instead of talking over people all the time, like Brenda. Confront Sally. Tell her that I am not going to be walked over and a true friend is not someone who disrespects someone else by spreading gossip and telling them one thing and doing another thing, but instead is someone who is loyal and generous. Tell Sally that she can take a running jump off the end of the pier and I won’t be going in after her until she apologizes and tells everyone the truth which is that I am a good person who would never do what she said I did and why is nobody talking about Will anyway and only me? Alternative plan: Start nasty rumor about Sally. Make sure it’s a good one. Somehow make it untraceable to me. Don’t tell anyone, especially Harry and Brenda. Wait for rumor to do the rounds. Then defend Sally in front of everyone so everyone for sure knows it wasn’t me and Sally thinks I am great and feels really bad and apologizes to me in front of everyone and they all know I would never do what Sally said because I am not like that. Get promoted. Work really hard. Throw myself into work and be dedicated and learn the ‘system’ because if I am not going to get a new job then at least I can try to get more money in the job I am in and I could even become the boss of Sally and Mandy and Brenda and all those hateful minions and then when I get promoted I will be really nice to everyone so they will say ‘oh yeah you are actually a very nice person, we were so wrong about you, we are so sorry’ and I will say ‘that’s no problem, everyone makes mistakes. we never know the nuances of someone’s life history, don’t worry’, but secretly I will keep an eye on them and when the chance comes I will be ready. I will play a long game, like a world champion poker player because I will be difficult to read and they won’t know what I really think. Be a force for positivity in the world. Be the kind of person I would like to be friends with myself. Be good.


I love my new apartment. It’s a hard loft, converted from a slaughterhouse that closed up back in the sixties. It’s a corner unit where three of the walls are covered in exposed brick. Original rebar posts run from the polished cement floor up through the sweeping, timber-lined ceiling. Huge, warehouse-style windows provide a beautiful view of the lake. All in all, it’s not a bad place to be, especially with its proximity to the downtown core. It was eye-wateringly expensive. It took me five years to save for the down payment. Five years of living in a cold, humid basement with three roommates beside me and twin toddlers upstairs. I spent nearly a year searching, and I didn’t buy until I found a place that made my heart leap with joy. Notwithstanding the realtor’s boast that the slaughterhouse used to kill over 6000 pigs per day before it burned down, this converted loft felt like home the moment I stepped into it. Like all first-time homeowners, there were things I didn’t expect, which took a little getting used to. I didn’t sleep a wink the first few nights I spent there. It was something - perhaps the one thing - I hadn’t thought to ask about during my search. The noise. Every night, I could hear something moving inside the one plastered wall, and perhaps the air ducts. It didn’t worry me too much: it didn’t sound like bugs or mice. It was the soft but distinct sound of a large volume of what sounded like sand. Sand that would slide behind the re-plastered wall and accumulate behind the baseboard. Sand that seemed to move as though caught in a draft. It wasn’t completely continuous - there were breaks once in a while, then just as I was falling asleep, it would continue again, just loud enough to wake me up again. I thought I could try to get used to the noise, but something about it was so oppressive and persistent that it was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t overwhelmingly loud, yet it still penetrated any kind of ear plugs I could find at the drugstore. I actually left the apartment after the first sleepless night and stayed at my friend Jessy’s, but after a couple of days, I realized I was overstaying my welcome. Jessy didn’t understand why I couldn’t just go to sleep in the new apartment I had raved about the week before. So I went back, and tried again. I couldn’t make it work. After two more sleepless nights, I asked Jessy to sleep over with me. Nighttime rolled around, and she settled down on the futon. I turned off the lights and lay flat on my back, not expecting to be able to fall asleep. I heard it as soon as my eyelids started to feel heavy. The rush of sand behind the walls and ceiling. Moving, dribbling, settling here and there around the place. Jessy stirred. She could clearly hear it, too. Neither of us slept that night. The next day, Jessy let me sleep over at her place without a fuss. Once we had both rested up, she offered to take a look inside the wall. She wasn’t a construction worker, but she had helped family members with home renovations before and thought it would be worth it to see if there was something in there, like sawdust, that was being pushed around by a draft at night. She arrived at my apartment and taped a plastic tarp down on the floor in one corner to catch any dust or plaster that came from the wall. She measured out a small rectangle, marked it with a pencil, then used what looked like a box-cutter to slice through the drywall. As she drew the blade across the penciled line, what appeared to be incredibly fine black sand began to pour out. Jessy paused, waiting for the sand to stop. It poured and poured from the tiny wound onto the plastic sheet below. It was dark grey and uneven. Some particles were heavy enough to make a skittering sound, while others were nearly invisible and whirled upwards to hang in the air. It was also unstable. I touched one corner of the mound gathering on the tarp and felt the larger particles collapse under my fingers into fine, dark, dust. Several more moments passed, but the flow of sand from the wall wasn’t stopping. The mound below Jessy’s incision kept growing larger and larger until it surpassed the edges of the sheet and spilled out onto the polished concrete floor. We waited for a long time. I don’t remember exactly how long, but it felt like the stream of particles coming out of the wall would never end. Eventually, it did stop, but when we tried to pick it up in the tarp, it scattered all over the place. I almost cried. Black dust covered my furniture, and our clothes. It was all over the walls. So I stayed at Jessy’s place for the next few nights. I was dreading the return to my apartment, afraid of what ash-covered disaster I would come home to. Jessy offered to let me stay until I found a renter, but I refused. I had paid so much money. I was determined to make this apartment work. So I went back the following afternoon. I was surprised to see that the mess I had fled several days before was completely gone. The hole in the drywall was still there, of course. But I couldn’t spot a speck of black dust anywhere. Even the tarp was clean. I didn’t have an explanation for it, and neither did the building’s concierge. He assured me that no one had entered my apartment while I was gone. I asked if someone from maintenance might have come in, but the concierge denied it. I had an uneventful afternoon. I showered and unpacked a few more things. I set up my new coffee table and topped it with a blown-glass fruit bowl filled with fresh apples. I rolled out a thick-pile shag carpet and positioned a few chairs on top of it. I still needed a sofa, but the place was starting to shape up. When I went to bed that night, I couldn’t hear anything coming from the walls. I supposed that the hole in the wall allowed the sand to escape and that the noise issue would be gone. Unfortunately, I was wrong. The sand wasn’t in the walls anymore though. I could hear it rushing around in the main room of my apartment. I rolled out of bed and opened my bedroom door. The dark dust had swirled into the shape of what appeared to be a slaughterhouse pig. It snorted, and shook its head a little to help the last bits of ash settle into place. I couldn’t move. I was afraid to let the ash pig out of my sight, even for the moment it would take to reach backwards and turn on my bedside lamp. I just stood there, my body stiff, my eyes locked on the creature. The pig, by contrast, seemed completely relaxed. It shuffled around the apartment, bumping into furniture and rubbing dark ash everywhere it went. When it turned its back to me, I managed to gather the courage to reach over and tap the button at the base of my lamp. For some reason, I expected the pig to disappear when the lights turned on. It didn’t. Now apparently able to see, it moved with more energy and began exploring the apartment with greater enthusiasm. It sniffed at my unopened boxes, then wandered to the kitchen. I slowly released the breath I had unknowingly been holding, and tried to massage the tension out of my shoulders with my fingers. Ok... it’s a ghost pig. It could be worse. I muttered some small comforts to myself as I tried not to cry. As my heart rate started to return to normal, I heard a crash from the main room. I couldn’t help but let out a small scream. Something fragile had broken, and I could hear it crunching under the pig’s hooves. It must have been the glass fruit bowl on the low coffee table. I could hear the pig crunching on the apples for about ten more minutes before it settled down. There was no chance that I was going to go back to sleep. I waited until I couldn’t hear anything coming from the next room. Then I waited another half an hour. Once a full hour had gone by, the fear had largely passed, and I felt ready to venture through the half-open bedroom door. The pig was still there. It had nestled into the white shag carpet, apparently sleeping. It was surrounded by broken glass and apple cores. My fruit bowl was destroyed. Black ash covered the coffee table and hung in the air. I stood there. Who was I supposed to call? The concierge wouldn’t be back for another three hours. The pig lay on the shag carpet, occasionally stirring in its sleep. I began to carefully sweep up the broken glass. As the hours passed, the sun began to rise over the lake, and as gorgeous golden light flooded the room, the ash on the furniture that I had been trying to clean began to fade away. I turned to the ghost pig and caught one last glimpse of it as it disappeared. The pig had been back every night ever since. As the days have gone by, I found myself reconciling with the spectral intruder. I mean, most days I wouldn’t wake up in time for the sunrise without *his* help. Of course, I had to make a few changes in my life to live in harmony with the ghost pig. I now know to avoid leaving fragile crockery out on the table. I make sure to leave some easily accessible fruit on the floor; that makes it less tempting for him to try to open up the cupboards and make a mess. Most nights I sleep well, now. My advice for other potential condo buyers is to keep an open mind. When you walk through the right door, you’ll know it. And don’t ever let a building’s quirks stop you from following your heart.


He sat on the couch. Eyes plastered to the TV, but not retaining anything he was seeing. His stomach growled at him, but he didn’t have the energy to move an inch, much less eat something. His eyes were red and swollen from crying. Tears were already pooling in the corners waiting for the next bout of sadness. There was a hole in his chest. A hole that was now pumping out numbness to every corner of his body. What happened? Where did I go wrong? How can I fix this? These thoughts bounced across his damaged mind consuming him. His mind was a hellscape. Where once there was happiness, there was now despair. Only sorrow’s ugly shadows remained where joy’s light once shone. Nightmares sat taunting him on the pieces of his once unbroken dreams. He cried, pleaded to God, the universe, anyone that would listen, to give him another chance to make it right. He was suddenly jolted back to reality, confused by his new surroundings. Wait these surroundings aren’t new. I know this restaurant! He thought, still processing what was happening. He looked across from him in the booth and there she was. His heart sank. There she was. It suddenly hit him. This is our first date! Were his cries answered? Does he have another shot at making this work? “Are you still with me over there?” she said, slightly puzzled. “Oh...uh yeah sorry.” He said followed by an awkward laugh. “So....siblings?” She said getting the conversation back on track. “Um...yeah, one brother.” He quickly quipped. Is this possible? Am I really being given a second chance? Still confused he gleefully went along with the rest of the date. I won’t spoil this chance I’ve been given. The next few months flew by, as if no time was passing at all. Awash in the pure ecstasy of being with her again, he was able to relive the good moments he had already had with her. Fixing any of the mistakes he had made the first time around. Being there for her when he was not before, giving her space when before he smothered her, thoroughly enjoying moments he had once taken for granted. What was once months flying by was now years. He had now long passed the point where this relationship had failed the first time around. He was living the dream. Living from happy moment to happy moment. Every day he thanked...whoever...for allowing him this unbelievable opportunity. For allowing him to make his dreams come true. He looked down at the ring. He couldn’t believe this moment had finally come. He quickly hid it away in his pocket as she returned from the restroom. She sat down across from him in the booth. The same booth where he had once been given a second chance. His body was exploding with emotion, joy, anxiety, bliss, nerves. He motioned behind her, “Is that a new painting over there?” She turned to look as he went to the side and onto one knee. “I don’t think s....Oh my God!” she turned back around and knew what was happening. Tears welled in her eyes as a smile stretched across her face. “You make me the happiest man in the world. Honey, will you marry me?” He felt almost relieved, but couldn’t be fully until he heard the response. He looked at her wide-eyed waiting for her reply. “As if you don’t already know the answer. Ye...” The shrill sound of the alarm clock pierced through his ears. He got up from the couch and looked around confused by his new surroundings. Wait these surrounding aren’t new. The TV was still on playing the show he wasn’t paying attention to. His eyes still swollen from the tears they shed. Still groggy, he instinctually went to his phone to text her about the crazy dream he just had. He went to messages, went to her name.