Just Don’t Forget Young Mario Della Faye sat at the edge of his bed with a pencil in one hand and in the other an old sneaker with a hole in the sole. A pair of scissors and an empty Corn Flakes cereal box were beside him. He tore away one side of the box, placed his high-top on it, and traced the outline of the sneaker. He picked up the scissors, cut out the tracing of the sneaker a quarter of an inch inside the outline, and carefully slipped it into the sneaker. His mother called from within the kitchen of their flat. “Mario, where were you yesterday afternoon? You were supposed to help Mr. O’Leary clear out his basement.” He was in a cable car admiring a very beautiful, young, blonde-haired woman, who returned his smile. And strangely enough he was not intimated by the presence of the woman, who seemed to be at least ten years older than he. He was, however, distracted by the three blonde, children dressed in lederhosen dashing about the car as though they were playing on the grass of the valley below instead of frolicking suspended hundreds of feet above and soaring towards the peak of a snow-covered mountain. Although his recollection of his presence on the cable car seemed quite familiar, he knew he never in his life had been on one before nor had ever been up a foothill, let alone a mountain. And so he offered his mother what he felt was the probable location of where indeed he had been the previous afternoon. “I was with Stan and John. I’m sorry. I forgot all about Mr. O’Leary. I’ll stop over there later and see if he still needs help.” Once into those old sneakers and out on the playing fields of the stadium located up the block from his apartment building, Mario asked his mates where they had indeed been the previous afternoon. Stan reminded him that the three of them had used their newspaper delivery boy passes to take a free ride on the trolley down the trestle from Union City to Hoboken, a trip very much like a slow motion descent on a roller coaster. John added they had gone to Hoboken to watch the filming of a scene from the movie starring Marlon Brando. “I don’t remember that. I thought I was someplace else.” “Where do you think you were?” asked Stan. “On a cable car in the Alps with a beautiful blonde.” “Right, in your dreams.” “But I wasn’t dreaming. I was wide awake. And besides, my dreams are usually in black and white. This recollection was in full cinemascope color.” “Then you were day dreaming,” John added. “I guess you’re right. I must’ve been day dreaming.” He assumed Stanley and John were right again four years later when the three of them attended their high school basketball game against city rival, Union Hill. As usual Stan showed up dressed casually, this time in a t-shirt with a major tear in the shoulder; John, eating a sandwich picked up at the last minute from the alleys where he racked up bowling pins to earn spending money; and he, gaining entrance with a free pass hustled from his uncle who collected tickets at the gym. Upon his arrival, he was greeted by Stan. “You catch any hell for losing your winter jacket?” “Losing my jacket?” “At the dance!” “What dance?” “The Sunday night dance at St. Michael’s.” He knew the dance Stan was referring to, but he could not recall having been there that Sunday night nor having had his jacket stolen. He thought the one he was wearing was a new one purchased with the money he was now earning working part time at his Uncle Muzzie’s embroidery shop. He tried to recall the St. Michael’s gymnasium and the Sunday night dance he and his mates had begun to attend at the outset of their senior year, but he could not. Instead, he was at a strange and yet familiar night club, in which he stood at a bar during what Friday night happy hour when all drinks were half price and the hor d’oeuvres plentiful and free. Across the room, at a table abutting the dance floor, sat the same young blonde from the cable car, this time in the company of another woman. He did not recognize either of them as one of the many school teachers who taught service men children on the base, but he felt compelled to meet the attractive blonde. He crossed the floor, introduced himself, and asked if he might join them. The blonde gestured for him to have a seat. “My name is Mario Della Faye, an Italian-American from Jersey. I teach for the University of Maryland on the base.” “I’m Ruth. This is Marsha. We’re teachers too, at the dependents elementary school at the Wiesbaden base.” “Wiesbaden! What brings you two all the way down to Ramstein?” The friend answered. “A friend of mine is with the dance band that’s playing for the October Fest at the NCO club tonight. We’ve come to listen.” Mario turned to Ruth. “May I ask you a personal question?” “You may.” “How tall are you?” Ruth and Marsha exchanged inquisitive stares. “I’m five feet four.” “Five feet four; that’s good. Listen, I won’t be able to get to that dance until ten. Will you save me a dance?” Masha shook her head. Ruth had other ideas. “If you get there by ten, I will.” “I’ll be there by ten.” That was all he could recall in response to Stan’s questions about jackets and dances. He also knew of course that his recollection could not be right for he had never in his life been near an air force base let alone an Officer’s Club. And he certainly had never had the nerve to approach a beautiful woman as he had at the Officers Club. “Remind me again, what dance?” John answered. “Don’t you remember? We put our jackets on the grandstands off the dance floor. When we went to fetch them at the end of the night, they were no longer there. Some guys must’ve lifted them. That dance, dummy.” He still could not recall losing his jacket at a dance nor the even more eerie encounter Stanley disclosed afterwards. “You gotta remember the woman you were talking to most of the evening, the one who came to a dance but would not dance with you. We asked her and her friends to join us for sodas at Steckman’s. When she stood up, she hovered over you by at least six inches.” “That’s why she wouldn’t dance with you; she didn’t want to embarrass you.” He was even more confused than he had been years ago when he was on a cable car and his friends assured him he had been with them on the trolley car descending the trestle. But once again he accepted their explanation as a mystery, which he had learned in catechism class was a truth we cannot understand. He would have to accept one more mystery before his high school days with Stan and John were over. Mario sat in the back seat of the new, black Cadillac; Stan was at the wheel of his father’s car; John, in the front passenger seat. “Mario, baby, that was one helluva catch you made of John’s pass. Man, you ran down along the beach, leapt into the air, did a pirouette, and hauled it in from the sea side of the beach with one hand. It made all the difference, and we beat those jocks.” “Yeah, that made up for none of us trying out for the school football team,” John added. “Too bad you didn’t fare as well with those girls.” Mario stood before a class of young college undergraduates and older, non-traditional students. Sitting at a desk at the front of one of the five rows in the room was Connie, an attractive, young, dark-haired woman more fashionably dressed than anyone else in the room. Her legs were crossed in a manner which left a good bit of one thigh in view of anyone standing at the head of the class, and he seemed to be standing at the head of that class. “Okay, I’ll see you Thursday night when we’ll examine the imagery in John Keats’s “To Autumn.” The woman in the front row was the last to leave the classroom. She stopped to talk to Mario, who already had his book bag over his shoulder ready to leave. “Mr. Della Faye, do you have a moment? I have a question about the e. e. cummings’ poem.” “Sure. There’s a class coming in here now; why don’t we go to my office.” His office was in the bull pen, a large room with six desks, each of which belonged to a graduate assistant. The other five desks were not occupied this late in the evening. Connie moved her chair around beside Mario in order to look over what he was showing her in the text book open on his desk. As she leaned forward, her knee came up against his thigh and moved slightly from the left to the right. An hour later, after a stop at a small Cocoanut Grove bistro that served free pretzels with its Michelob draft beer, they were in her apartment dancing cheek to cheek to Johnny Mathis’s “ Look at Me ”. Several hours later, he was awakened by a knocking at Connie’s door. Connie was already sitting up in bed. The knocking continued. “Who’s that?” “My boyfriend.” “Boyfriend? What boyfriend? You didn’t say anything about a boyfriend?” “He thinks he’s my boyfriend. Just because he pays the rent, he thinks he owns me.” From outside her apartment came a deep, rough voice. “Connie, let me in!” Mario jumped out of bed as quietly as possible, grabbed his clothes from a chair, his shoes from the floor, and tip toed out of the bedroom. He was in the bathroom having trouble getting into his clothes when Connie entered. “God, I hope he doesn’t have his gun with him.” “Gun?” “Yeah, sometimes he carries a gun.” It took three attempts for Mario to get his right foot into the right side of his pants and many more fitful starts before he was fully clothed again. “Connie, I know you got a man in there. If you know what’s good for both of you, you better open this goddamn door.” “Christ, I’m gonna lose my assistantship.” Connie stared at him in disbelief. “What girls?” “The chick you tried to hit on, the one sitting on that black blanket with the red flamingos,” answered Stan. “Yeah, the one who told you, “get lost, you sand crab!” added John. “Oh, those girls.” He did not recall any girls on any black blanket with red flamingos. He, nevertheless, once more accepted the mystery of things. A year later, Mario was lying on the sofa watching the “Show of Shows” with Sid Caesar when Stan dropped in to pick him up on their way to the local ice cream parlor where they were to meet John and any former classmates gathered there. As soon as Stan entered the living room, he tossed several papers onto the sofa. “What the hell are these?” “Those are admission and scholarship application forms to Fairleigh Dickinson.” “What, that new college, where you and John have been attending since graduation?” “Yeah! Fill them out tomorrow, and I’ll pick them up Monday morning on my way to school and turn them in for you.” Both Stan and John had begun their college education taking classes while working days; Stan, in his father’s slipper factory; John, at a flavor enhancing company in Hoboken. Mario was now working full time for his uncle. His parents had saved some money and had offered it to him if he wanted to go to college. If not, they had said, they would use it as a down payment for a home in the suburbs. Mario refused the offer for he was not certain he wanted to go to college or, if he did, what he would possibly study. He also, like his parents, wanted to move to a home in the suburbs. He therefore decided to wait a while, save some money, and find out what he did want to do with the rest of his life. “You’re the smartest of the three of us; you belong in college more than we do,” Stan said. “A scholarship?” “Full tuition! If you get it, who knows, it might just put you on a road that might lead to that cable car and the blonde.” “You think?” "Fill out those forms." "I will." “Just don’t forget.”


"I'LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE!" The arriving dusk of day began to hide the barren foliage of the oncoming winter. It wasn’t a particularly good example of a day. Heavy cloud cover had hidden any hope of the sun breaking through its defensive shield. The passing of each hour, thickened the ground fog, blanketing the dead garden - that once beautifully presented the epitome of springtime bloom and summer blossom - with ghostly shapes and wildly, imaginative apparitions of hidden memories wisping through its curtain. Lies were easier to voice, these days. I’ll be right there, I won’t be long, I just need to get something from the garden , were a stalling tactic to avoid questions, accusations, and eventually, unsolicited confrontation. With nothing to look forward to in his hazy days, Steve Mannum - in the last twelve months - had lost complete control of his life. A high-flying career in corporate finance came heavily crashing down to earth after a drunken tirade at a meet-and-greet investor dinner with a top Japanese banking minister. Blaming it on nervousness was not enough to prevent Steve’s boss, Jerry, from calling a halt to their professional and personal relationship - a union that survived fifteen years of similar behaviours and embarrassments swept under the corporate rug. Steve’s ultimate dismissal helped to prevent several colleagues from resigning. They had unitedly voiced their concerns and reluctance to work with him any longer, so it was a corrective measure that cleared a dark cloud hanging over the office. However, even with the removal of Steve’s self-imposed liquid culture, the loss of a multimillion-dollar contract was too much stress for Jerry to handle, and on a subsequent business trip to Singapore, he suffered a fatal heart attack, dying alone in his hotel room - a half-eaten bag of peanuts scattered across his vested chest, each peanut symbolic of pieces of Steve he picked up throughout his numerous intoxication stunts. Upon attending Jerry’s funeral, Steve was subjected to an emotional barrage of blame from Jerry’s wife that tipped him over the edge of reason, resulting in his spiralling down into a whirlpool of self-abuse. “I SAID, I WILL BE THERE IN A MINUTE!” There was no reply. Steve had become accustomed to the silent treatment. He has no intelligible recollection of the last time he saw his wife. At some previous, inconspicuous moment; she locked herself in the spare bedroom, retreating from Steve’s drunken stupors, disgusted at the man she once loved who dismissed any suggestion that help was urgently needed to save him evaporating from this world in an alcohol-fuelled, dehydration of spirit. Now and then, he would hear her beckoning him into the house using a vocal tone he was resentfully accustomed to. It meant an ensuing argument was looming, so evasion became the priority focus. There had been other, more heart wrenching casualties along the way. Steve’s loving and caring daughter, Ashlee; had hurriedly found new accommodation as soon as she turned eighteen - just six months ago. Radio silence took place and any phone calls Steve made to her remained unanswered and ignored. In rare moments of sobriety, Steve suffered mental episodes of self-loathing, verbally abusing himself for his inner and outer failures to control his addiction. To numb the pain, he paradoxically erased the anguish by drowning his sorrows in whatever hard liquor he could find. His preferred drinking establishment was at the bottom of his garden in the self-built, wooden cubby house he once proudly built for his daughter. Nestled in the large old oak tree that had stood there for centuries, his secret stash of bourbon and tequila was sixteen rope ladder rungs up into another world that was as far away from reality that he could physically get. He could rant and blubber, dance, and sing. In his stupor of eighty-proof imbibing, life was a curse and as soon as he could down substantial quantities of his preferred tipple, equilibrium could go to hell - for whatever that meant. Steve was far from being religious, but that didn’t hold him back from praying nightly to Saint Jose and Father Jack to strike him down and end his torment. In Steve’s inebriated mind, Daddy’s girl days seemed like eons ago and was just a dissipating recollection of happier times when he would visit his daughter’s christened establishment she called, ‘ The Ritz .’ This elevated child’s playground of imagination and escape was a home away from home for ten-year-old Ashlee. It occupied her summer afternoons in the days when dolls and make-believe tea parties were a common occurrence in the Mannum household. There was Missus (sic) Goodfellow , a weathered old Victorian doll with a flickering eyelid, Margie the maid , a shy inoffensive character with short, dark curly hair; and Doctor Tran , the cross-dressing female figurine. In the age of gender identity acceptance, Ashlee welcomed all to her domain. Several other small dolls of colour and mutilation were regular guests of Ashlee’s tea parties. Bigotry and condemnation of the male/female/non-binary orientation in society had no place at Ritz teatime. Physical impairments were of no worry as discrimination in any form was outlawed. Ashlee was a progressive, intelligent young girl, sensitive to the unfairness this world sometimes presented, and more importantly to a young lady, an equal opportunity tea maker. She always played “Mother.” This was due mainly to the fact that she was the only one present that could willingly move. Her tea at these traditional gatherings, comprised of bottled spring water infused with raspberry cordial - a summer garden delight to encourage conversation that regularly involved childish gossip about the other dolls misgivings, what dresses to put on, and how to cure a headache. Doctor Tran always had an opinion on that as the good doctor was always changing clothes to suit the moment. Missus Goodfellow - on the other hand - remained aloof, silently watching and listening to every word spoken. Anything said out of place and she would often interject with the statement, ”We are not entertained!” A doll of few words, she could cut through an unhealthy topic with a stare that was interrupted with the flickering of her left eyelid - an injury sustained one day when accidentally dropped from the sixteenth rung by a clumsy nine year old. Margie the Maid would just fuss about the tree house, dusting and washing the cups between sittings; however, if anything annoyed her, she would let out a loud growling hiss - due to her talking mechanism destroyed one late summer afternoon by spilled tea that eventually rusted her metal parts. A pull on her cord would be enough to silence a room full of snakes. Harmless toy afflictions they may be, these innocuous oddities were a reminder of the good times. Their continued presence in the tree house were also a painful connection to the ache caused from reliving those memories. As he stumbled towards the oak tree, Steve downed the remnants of a bottle of bourbon, reached for the rope ladder, and started the ascent to his hidden stash. “I’m coming boys and girls,” he sang. “The party crasher is on his way.” After what seemed an eternity of struggling with the swinging ladder, losing his footing, regaining it, and cursing the rotting rope, Steve reached the summit of his quest and entered the house. To his surprise, every doll was there in attendance. As if in a moment of time past, the Ritz appeared to be open for afternoon tea. The table - adorned in a dusty cotton tablecloth - was curiously laid in preparation for just one guest. Ignoring this anomaly, Steve retrieved a bottle of tequila from under a Mexican-style blanket and quickly unscrewed the cap, gulping several long chugs from it, repeating the process twice - each, after a long intake of breath. The frigid, dark evening had set heavily upon the once beautiful garden. The rising mist had almost hidden the house from view of the oak tree. Not that it mattered. No visible light could be seen coming from the house. It was just an empty nest now. A horny owl could be heard in the distance, hooting interruptions to a fox barking for its mate in the foggy meadow beyond the garden. A light inside the tree house suddenly pierced the darkness, followed immediately by conversational echoes emanating from the same space. The Ritz - long forgotten by its young creator - was awash with sounds similar to polite laughter at a social gathering. “Who’s there?” A slumbering Steve mumbled incoherently as he slowly returned to a fragile state of consciousness. The vocal cacophony immediately died down, leaving a deathly silence. Rubbing the palm of his hand into his eyes, he squinted at the brightness of the naked electric bulb flooding the room with sixty full watts of energy. Two empty bottles of tequila clinked together, disturbed by Steve’s legs as he painfully pulled himself to an upright seating position in the cramped quarters. His temporary blurred vision scanned the room. A small table divided him from a gang of dolls of all sizes and description. Not sure of whether he was imagining it or not, they appeared to be staring at him as if waiting for instructions. A brief movement caught his eye. A flickering eyelid seemingly struggling desperately to not flick. Interrupting his full view of the doll was a normal-sized teapot, sat in the middle of the table. Steve’s awakening senses detected the aroma of... raspberry.. wafting through the musty air. “Tea.. or.. Tipple,” asked a deep, female voice. Further mocking sounds of chuckling murmured throughout the cabin. “Silly question,” another voice chimed in. Steve’s eyesight was shocked into instant 20/20 vision. Eyes wide open and darting from side to side in stunned alertness, he held his breath so he could listen more attentively. Unseen to his peripheral vision, the heads of several dolls were now turned to face Missus Goodfellow - her eyelid flickering more intensely as an uneasy tension filled the small space. Previously undetected, Doctor Tran appeared at Steve’s right side, standing on a three-pronged, wooden stool. Wearing a white coat with a miniature stethoscope dangling from its breast pocket, Tran’s larger than life moustached fluttered as exhaled breath spoke clearly. “In my preliminary prognosis, you’ve not long to live Mr. Mannum.” In terrifying disbelief, Steve backed away towards the elevated entrance to the hut, accidentally knocking an empty tequila bottle through the open entry to the small cabin. A moment’s silence was followed by the sound of glass smashing at the base of the tree. “You’ve lost the will to, you see. No job, no wife, no family.” “My wife... she’s in the house,” Steve contradicted. Doctor Tran’s mouth opened into a devilish grin before priming the calculated and roguish question... “...Is she?” Still in a state of alarm, Steve backed up further towards the entrance, then noticed that there were many more cups on the table, all filled with a pinkish liquid. “Figuratively speaking, you could have chosen tea all of your life,” reasoned Doctor Tran. “However, the choices we make define us,” Tran added. “ Your choices defined you, cost you everything that you cherished, and gained you... nothing .” Believing he was dreaming, Steve shook his head, trying to wake up. You’re not real , he thought - realising that they were all staring at him again. “You’re all dolls!” “That may be,” replied Doctor Tran...“ But, we were real in Ashlee’s eyes. Your actions forced her to leave home - without us. Who will invite us to tea now? Because of you, we have been left to rot and decay.” “I couldn’t help it,” exclaimed Steve, regretfully. “It’s a disease.” “You never asked for help.” Listening intently, was Missus Goodfellow - her eyelid flickering away. After a few moments, it abruptly stopped. “We are not entertained,” she exclaimed. The terrifying image of the Victorian doll speaking, panicked Steve. Before he could collect his thoughts, Margie the Maid sprang up into his face. “HARGH..ISS!” The lightbulb flickered like Missus Goodfellow’s eyelid and in that moment, Steve vanished. The abject startle from Margie the Maid, caused a jerk reaction, and Steve suddenly found himself in mid-air, plunging slowly backwards, sixteen rungs down towards oblivion. In real time, his freefall lasted a mere two seconds before the incandescent lantern-of-being at the back of his eyes dimmed and finally extinguished. However, in those two precious moments at journey’s end, clarity returned to tell the story he could not tell nor would not face. As a child, Steve showed great promise. Always top or near the top of his class, he displayed great aptitude for numbers and trends. His father - when sober - doted on him. His mother loved him unconditionally. When Steve was sixteen years old, he witnessed his father assault his mother in a drunken rage, resulting in a lengthy hospital stay. Not wanting to press charges, Steve’s mother absorbed the physical pain, eventually recovering to full health; however, the damaging tug to her heartstrings and her deteriorating mental state caused her to be admitted to a sanitorium for wounded angels. Steve’s father assumed responsibility for raising his son; however, his constant bouts of heavy drinking ended mercifully peaceful one night - never again would he awaken to the pain of sobriety . “Drinking is a disease,” His father would often say. “If I could stop, I would.” At eighteen years and six months, Steve enrolled himself in college and began studying to be an accountant. Throughout his days before graduation, he visited his mother weekly at her convalescent home. Unable to recover from the death of the only man she loved, she withdrew into a world of estrangement and isolation. Even the weekly visits of her son could not bring her back to cognisant responsiveness. Seeing his mother in that mental state, consumed the very core of Steve’s analytical capacity, and at one late night college party to celebrate the upcoming graduation ceremony, Steve did something he vowed never to do. He took his first taste of bourbon to drown his sorrows, then another and another until most of his days could not begin without a drink. A chain of reactions within his body’s internal chemistry, created an insatiable thirst. By the time he got his first job as an accountant, Steve was already lost in a liquid forest of intoxicating desire for false courage. Despite his well-hidden secret, Steve flourished as an accountant. In his fourth year at the firm, his forecasting models were noticed by the directors and Steve’s career as a financial analyst was born. He excelled so well that within six months, he headed up the Asia-Pacific team with access to millions of investment dollars. So proud of his accomplishments, he would continue his weekly visits - rain or shine - to see his mother and tell her about his thriving life. She would gently smile at his achievements - all the way through to meeting his future wife, and the birth of her only granddaughter. However, on the days he visited with the tainted breath of booze wafting into her nostrils, she withdrew deeper into her shell, frightened for her sons’ well-being. Taking this as an affront to his chosen happiness, Steve’s visits tapered off, rematerializing in the odd telephone call to her - followed by his own form of radio silence. Late one night - the one before his meeting with the Japanese finance minister - Steve received a phone call letting him know that his mother had died. This was the catalyst that started Steve’s transformation into a non-functioning alcoholic. It consumed him. It drove away his wife, it lost his privilege as a father, and it steered him to seeking solace in a tree house, sixteen rungs up. Two seconds is all it took to realise he could have asked for deliverance at any time. Two seconds of a whole life that had just flashed before his rapidly vanishing existence. Looking up from ground level, Steve’s final perspective was of the lightbulb casting its glow from the tree house. “I see the light,” Steve murmured. “It’s beautiful...” A few solemn, peaceful moments passed, broken by chitter-chatter . Once more amongst the tree house guests, comments regarding dress sense and gossip filled the airwaves. “Tea or Tipple?” echoed the voice of Doctor Tran. An assortment of voices chanted, “Tea, of course,” followed by relieved laughter vibrating the old oak tree’s barren branches. Next morning surfaced with clear skies, contradicting the frosty chill biting through Detective Reynolds’ wool coat. Surveying the deceased body of Steve Mannum, a white-overalled forensics officer interrupted his thoughts. “Cause of death?” asked Reynolds. “Not the fall,” was the reply. “He missed every protruding branch on the way down. But, discovering a couple of fingernails embedded in the rope ladder, it appears in desperation, he attempted to grab onto a few rungs... unsuccessfully...” “Then what killed him?” The Forensic Officer shook his head in compelled compassion. “The alcohol level in his blood stream was over five times the legal limit for driving - let alone, climbing an unstable and swinging rope ladder while completely off his trolley... However, upon hitting the ground, his neck was violently pierced by the jagged edge of the broken tequila bottle there, severing his jugular... Unfortunately for him, he would have realised his own, sad demise... It pains me to say it but... the drink killed him .” Reynolds crouched beside Steve’s lifeless corpse. “Death by misadventure,” concluded Reynolds. Unobserved by the two men, sixteen rungs above their heads, a gang of dolls watched silently from the tree house entrance, looking down at the ground. Detective Reynolds acute sense of smell picked up a scent in the air. Sniffing energetically, a smile began to form on his lips. “I smell Raspberries.” The forensics officer interrupted. “Yes, I’ve just opened my flask. It’s herbal tea - raspberry infused. It’s hot... and it’s healthy.” Reynolds inhaled one more intake of the fruit essence before pulling a white sheet over the expired body. “Reminds me of summer...”


A classic restaurant, big candles on the tables, soft lights, and high ceiling with huge chandeliers. Many suits and dresses surrounding the circular tables. A lot of waiters moving here and there, no music, just the noise sound of people talking at the same time, when you look at the scene you realize that no one is listening, everyone just talk, literally everyone ... except these two, they are sitting on two nearby tables, staring at each other’s eyes without even a blink. It seems that they don’t hear anything around them. It’s like they’re sitting in an empty place, just looking towards each other in a mixed felling appeared on their faces, it seems like they are both blaming each other on something they know. Jenny is 60 years old, randy is 62. Classic black suit and an elegant tie matching with his shining black shoes and a soft grey hair. And on the other side a woman with long off-white dress and 3-cm heels sitting like a queen ..but without her king, the king is waiting beside her for his beloved queen to crown him again. A long moment of staring towards each other without noticing of anyone around them. They were busy talking and filling up their stomachs. In fact, they were all there celebrating the engagement of Randy’s grandson Rob and sandy. It was there first time they see each other after so many years. Randy’s wife died 5 years ago, and it was the last time he saw jenny in 30 years when she consoled him for his loss. Rob decided to interrupt this moment, he whispered in Randy’s ears: ‘I think you should invite her to our table, but I think that the man beside her can prevent this’ rob laughed. - What? Who?! Randy asked nervously. ‘the woman you are looking at since we entered here’ rob replied. - ‘Ahh .. no, she is just like an old friend’. Randy answered him. He got embarrassed and asked a cup of orange juice with a loud voice, he wanted her to listen, they used to drink it in the past. He knew that she would still order the same until now. He never liked orange but he never told her that. Jenny smiled when she heard him, she remembered the old days, it doesn’t matter how many years it still feels like yesterday. Rob and his fiancée were happy that night, sandy was delighted as she was waiting for this although they didn’t know each other for a longtime, it’s been only 6 months, they were working together for a newspaper, when they started to like each other, she worked before him in the newspaper and he was a clever journalist, at first he seemed uncomfortable to the place but by time he got familiar with people there. They dealed with each other a lot, discussing some essays and ideas, she believed that he would be a great journalist one day. Day after day and month after month she got attracted to him, she started to have some feelings towards him, but he seemed normal, until one day she confessed her love to him, he looked a little bit hesitated, he liked her also but not as much as she felt for him. He told her that he loves her at that moment, she was funny, responsible, and beautiful so he had no reason to block her, he thought of his last hesitation, he remembered his decision not to think too much in things again. Gazes turned into quick glimpses because some started to notice, especially her husband beside her, she loves him, or she started to love him after what randy did to her. She memorized all of things between them at that night and he also remember what made him do that. - You were such a coward randy. - I wasn’t sure of your love, but you were so rapid you betrayed me, you knew that I loved you. - I wanted to have a family and you didn’t I still remember our talks. - Wrong decisions can exist. - I wanted that safety, that stability in my life, life is not for that type of persons randy, I needed you to be braver and you weren’t. A conversation that was in jenny’s mind, all of what she wanted to tell him about and there was no chance. Randy was that kind who fears from any commitment on him, he didn’t want any responsibility, he loved his job, so he was good at it and he loved jenny, but it wasn’t enough, he didn’t prove it and that was his fault. Laughs and smiles were on the faces of the two families of rob and sandy except his grandfather who was like regretting all the things he had done in the past. He wanted to return back home, every single moment in that place was as painful as someone who is whipped for a crime he didn’t do. Rob noticed his reactions, so he excused and took him to talk privately outside the restaurant. He wanted to know if something upset him, but randy replied that everything is okay, but he needs to rest only. Rob asked him about the woman he was looking at inside the restaurant and if she was the reason of all of this. Randy denied that she has any relation with this, and he only said that he wants to rest. He said goodbye to his grandchild and ordered a taxi back home. Rob was confused but he went back in and told them that randy is just tired. Rob continued his night out and it was great, they all had fun and they expected a perfect marriage soon as they seemed happy. Everything was good until that day, the day that rob decided to go to book a reservation for his honeymoon with sandy, the day that he faced the consequences of the influence of his grandfather on him. He went to an office that he knew from a friend where he met Lisa!! Lisa and rob is the parallel story of randy and jenny but in the present, rob loved her so much, he tried so hard to impress her in all ways, they were friends but he never told her anything and he never knew her feelings towards him, she got married and he knew nothing about her since then, and he meets her now, what should he say, should he tell her and take the chance or it’s too late, she is married and he is going to be soon. All these ideas in his head were vanished when she saw him, - Ohh his rob it’s been a long time. - Hi Lisa, yes so long time, how are you? He never wanted to ask about her health he wanted to ask her about her marriage, he wanted to know if there was a chance. - I am good, I am working here, I am the manager of this department after jack departure, and you? - I am still a journalist as you know, whose jack, do you mean your husband? Rob asked with hope. - yes, he left the office after we broke up, so I got his place. there was a great joy inside him and a shock, what? Are you telling me this now! He was standing in confusion, it was the chance that he was looking for, that he wasted in the past, she was Infront of him again but, wait.. the weeding is within a week, what about sandy, she was nice to me, rob said in his mind. She loved him more than anything in her life.! - Do you wanna book a trip, don’t you? She asked. - No, I was just asking about some prices and costs, just a curiosity. He didn’t tell her that he was planning to book a flight to travel with his future wife, he kept his chances alive that time. - What about you rob are you married? Another bullet, he didn’t know what to say. - No, not yet...but maybe soon. He is in a critical situation now, but a man like rob can handle himself well. Rob decided to go to randy, he needed some advice from an expert. - Look son, you remind me of myself, and I regret all of this now, and I can’t help you in this, you should decide you had put yourself in the worst situation that even the best solution will be bad. - I invited her to dinner with her mother this night in my house. - I can’t encourage you to leave sandy for your old love and I can’t tell you to live with someone you don’t want to live with. I was wrong when I did that in the past, but I gave up my old love to live with your grandmother, I loved her but as I loved the first. - She was the one in the restaurant that night. wasn’t she? Rob asked. - Yes, but look I want you to choose the best for you and your family and to bear your decisions. Rob left that day without a specific decision, but he called a friend to book a flight for two anyway, it could be for sandy as he planned or Lisa as he wished. ........................................................................................................... It’s October 10 th , the day of the weeding, sandy was preparing herself with her family, she was delighted, she loved him, and he was nice to her. She called him in the morning, but he didn’t answer. It was weird as he should be awake. She tried another time but still no answer, she was worried, she waited and tried third and fourth and tenth time, but he didn’t answer, what was happening? In fact, he will not answer, because he is with me Maya, we are on the best place in the Maldives. Maya was his first love, but they argued about many things in the past and they broke up then he saw Lisa, but five days ago he met Maya again and immediately proposed to her and she accepted. - Randy are you hungry. His wife asked. Randy also met an old friend and he married her, he will never get old, he will never get bored of new adventures. Rob is the same as randy, they both love to live freely, to do anything at any time. Maybe maya is not the last one and may be randy can have a new adventure but you will never know what goes in their minds. It’s me who writes this, Ashley, Rob’s wife.


Two figures made a frantic dash from the doorway of a bombed-out tenement and, hunkering down, ran for their lives for a gap in the low cemetery wall across the street. ‘Halt! Halt you filthy swine! I said H-A-L-T!!’, the angry shouts of their pursuers, hot on their heels, rang out behind them. They kept running. In the murk of smoke and masonry dust suspended in the air, the blazing row of buildings behind them illuminated this night of shear Hell on earth in an eerie glow. The men following them upped the ante. ‘One more step and we’ll shoot. You’ve been warned!’ The running men reached their goal and heaved themselves through the hole as the angry whine of machine-gun rounds whizzed by, centimetres above their heads. The first man through, the older of the two, scrambled for cover behind the wall, dragging the younger one down with him. ‘Scheisse that was close! You alright my boy?’ ‘J-j-ja, I t-t-think s-s-so.’ He strained to stop his teeth from chattering. ‘You’re not hit?’ ‘N-n-n-no, I'm, I’m alright.’ ‘OK, lets move... Now!’, the older man growled in a hoarse whisper and pulled his companion into the murky graveyard with him as a salvo of howitzer rounds peppered the street. Their pursuers, a couple of military policemen colloquially called “chain-dogs”, were half-way across the street when the murderous rain of shells started falling. Now more concerned for their safety than catching their quarry, they too made a frantic dash for the gap in the cemetery wall amidst the screaming hail of red-hot shrapnel. The first man started to dive through the gap just as a shell detonated behind him. The force of the blast propelled him all the way through and he landed on his back, gasping for breath and splattered with pieces of smoking flesh, jagged uniform tatters and thick sticky gobs of his partner’s blood. The poor bastard was a split-second too late to save himself. Looking in wide-eyed horror at the scraps of flesh sticking to him and scraping a length of still warm intestine from his face, he vomited seeing his partner’s steel helmet land at his feet. The head, secured to it by the strap, trailed a delicate wisp of smoke. Scurrying for cover, he shit himself as three more rounds struck on the other side of the thick wall in rapid succession, smearing the remnants of his partner across the shrapnel-pitted brickwork. He’d never seen front-line action before now, before the bomb-ravaged nightmare moonscape of Berlin became the front itself. Front-line action was not what he’d had in mind when he volunteered to serve the Führer and Fatherland five and a half years previously. He’d expressly joined the military police in order to avoid the chaos and horrors of the front. He had spent the war years working hard to preserve order amidst the mounting bedlam in the capital city, brought about by the escalating frequency and severity of the aerial bombing and the ever-increasing inability of the city administration to deal with the aftermath of the raids. Until now, now that the Russians had arrived, there had always been days or at least hours in between the raids during which he was able to assert his authority. He revelled in the power he wielded in these chaotic times, doggedly arresting the many deserters, stragglers and looters that abounded, often shooting them on the spot. He gruffly marshalled shocked civilians to maintain order and form bucket-brigades to quench the raging fires that had become a daily fact of life. Though the bombed-out residents needed no prodding from the likes of him to try and save what little remained of their world. There was no respite, no escaping the front now, as there had been for him when he opted to join the military police in lieu of joining the millions of his countrymen being ground into the mud of the sempiternal Russian steppes. The artillery barrage stopped as suddenly as it had started, replaced now by a ringing in his ears, the muffled crash of large chunks of masonry hurtling into the street and the roar of the fire burning insanely out of control in the bombed-out hulks of the tenements across from the cemetery. Then he heard another faint sound beneath the ringing in his ears. The ringing began to subside and the other sound got louder and louder, until he realized it came from his chattering teeth. He clenched his jaws together in an effort to put an end to their machine-gun movement, but the spasm of his jaw muscles proved stronger than his will. Jamming the sleeve of his tunic in his mouth he bit down hard, filling his mouth with a thick section of slippery intestine that had so recently been part of his partner and vomited uncontrollably again. The retching at least put an end to his teeth chattering. When he was finally able to stop gagging he remembered his training and began breathing deeply while counting slowly to a hundred to give his body and mind something on which to focus, other than the nerve-shattering shock of the shelling. It took him until eighty-seven to calm down enough to be able to examine his own body for wounds amidst the gore from his dead partner that covered it. Other than a few superficial shrapnel cuts to his skin beneath the rends in his tunic, he appeared to be unharmed. As his heartbeat slowed his thoughts returned to the two deserters they were chasing when the artillery-salvo struck. He raised himself up on his elbow and peered cautiously around the edge of the gap in the wall to check whether a troop of Ivans was creeping up the street. Seeing nothing moving, he removed his helmet to listen for the sounds of foot-falls or tank-treads. He heard neither but knew it was only a matter of time before the shock-troops appeared on the scene. Putting his helmet back on he leaned against the wall to consider his next move. ‘Well my boy, you're sure in the shit now,’ he said to himself. The two fugitives they'd been pursuing had gotten up and run further into the cemetery in a crouch when the shelling had started, desperately seeking a place to hide. They had come upon a row of thirty or forty corpses neatly laid-out on the ground where they had been deposited and were waiting for a work-squad of POW’s to dig a communal grave in which to bury them. There were several shovels scattered among the bodies where the work-squad must've had dropped them in a panic and run of to find shelter as a carpet of bombs began creeping along the street next to the cemetery. Seeing the bodies and glancing back over his shoulder as the first Feldgendarm threw himself through the same hole in the wall by which they had entered, the older man dove for the ground, grabbing the younger man’s arm and pulling him down beside him among the dead. ‘Lay still. Don’t make a sound’, he whispered harshly to his companion who was shaking like a leaf. ‘Don’t move a muscle, no matter what happens next’. But the younger man couldn’t stop his shaking. ‘Calm down my boy, you’ve got to calm down. Our lives depend on it’. The young man rammed his knuckles into his mouth and bit down hard, burying his face in the soft fragrant earth. Pain supplanted the fear somewhat and he managed to gradually stop shaking. Looking around, the older man saw the body of an SS officer lying next to the younger man and smiled, thinking, ‘death will find you bastards wherever you are’. He put his mouth close to his companion’s ear and whispered, ‘stay here, I’ll be right over there to the left, next to that woman and those two little kids. And remember, not a movement or a sound. We’ve made it this far, and we’ll make it all the way.’ The young man, his hand still jammed in his mouth and eyes tightly closed, nodded his head. The older man crawled over the bodies next to him and stretched himself out beside the woman, the bodies of the two small children between them. His hand crept up past his head and felt around until it touched the smooth wooden handle of a shovel. He wrapped his fingers around it, pulling it closer and waited for what would come next. The surviving Feldgendarm roused himself and stood up cautiously, keeping his back pressed to the wall. He peered into the cemetery through the haze of smoke and dust for a sign of movement, but could make out nothing. Looking out through the hole in the wall to his left again, and seeing no movement in the street beyond, he started to creep among the gravestones with his MG at the ready. ‘Show yourselves you cowards, I know you're in here. You won’t get away from me. I spend my days catching traitors to Volk und Vaterland like you two. May as well make it easy on yourselves and come out with your hands up.’ The only sound greeting him in reply was the crash of a building wall weakened by the raging fire in the street behind him. He continued walking slowly, cautiously, peering into the acrid haze that hung in the air like a stinking fog until he came upon the row of corpses laid out for burial. ‘Maybe you are the lucky ones,’ he thought, ‘for you its over and you will not have to try and survive the horror that is sure to come now that Ivan is here.’ He knew the tricks of deserters only too well, knew how they hid among the huddled groups of refugees that had been streaming into the city for months, knew they slipped in among the masses of dead that seemed to be laying about everywhere since the random shelling had started a week ago, on The Führer’s birthday. Straightening-up, he walked down the neatly laid-out row, studying each body closely to see if he could recognize the two deserters among them. Passing the frozen form of the younger man, he continued on for another few paces and then a smile slowly spread across his face. On the ground in front of him was one of the bastards, he recognized him by his finely-tailored Luftwaffe officer’s uniform. He let out a low snicker seeing the man stretched-out beside a woman’s body, two small children looking as if they were sleeping between them. ‘So, there you are at last, you filthy pig. May as well get up, or would you prefer I shoot you were you lay like the dog you are?’ His face buried in the dirt, the man held his breath and lay motionless. ‘Get up you traitor, get up or I will shoot you where you are. Come on, get up. The Ivans will be here soon enough and then they’ll shoot you anyways. Unless they ship you off to Siberia along with the rest of the traitors who wouldn’t defend the Vaterlandt to the death. Don't you at least want the honour of dying from a German bullet instead of a Russian one?’ As the Feldgendarm stood over the man, the younger one cautiously and ever so slowly reached over next to him, to the body of the SS officer and felt around for the dead man’s holster. His hand struck pay-dirt and he carefully and ever so slowly lifted the flap and withdrew the Walther P38 it held, hoping to dear God it was loaded. ‘Alright you swine, have it your way,’ the Feldgendarm sneered, ‘if you prefer to die like a dog in the dirt, who am I to deny your last request?’ The man came up at him suddenly, swinging the shovel he held. The Feldgendarm took two quick steps back saying, ‘you think I am such an easy mark you fool?’, and squeezed the trigger of his MG. But the MG jammed and the two men stood looking into each other’s eyes, the hatred hanging suspended in the air between them. The Feldgendarm let the MG fall. As he pulled a pistol from the holster on his belt and his hand came up to point it at the man’s head, a shot rang out behind him. His eyes suddenly bulged out and his mouth fell open. ‘What..... was....?’, he uttered in confusion and then coughed, gagging on the blood that filled his throat and spewed from his lips. He looked into the man’s eyes one final time and then his eyes rolled upwards and he collapsed to the ground. The man standing couldn’t believe he was still alive. As the shock subsided, he saw his companion standing three metres away with a smoking pistol in his hand and, even though he was sure there was no God, mumbled thanks to Him, just in case. ‘I've never killed anyone before,’ the young man muttered, ‘never.’ His voice choked with emotion, the older man said, ‘A second ago I thanked God, but that was a mistake. It’s you I need to thank, you saved my life.’ ‘I had to shoot him Horst, I had to.’ ‘I didn’t think you had it in you my boy. But don't let it bother you, this one had it coming. Lets get out of here now, I think I hear tanks coming up the street.’ The two men started toward the gates at the far end of the cemetery, but Horst stopped suddenly and said, ‘wait here a moment, there's something I have to do first.’ He walked over to the body of the Feldgendarm, stopped and urinated on him. When he was finished, he walked back to where his companion stood waiting. ‘Let’s find some civilian clothes and change out of these uniforms Herbert. This shit will all be over soon and there's no way I'm going to die in some lead-mine in Siberia. And neither are you my boy, not after all we’ve been through.’ **\~\~\~** Footnote: Horst was my father. He made it through the Hell of war, including the Russian Front and was saved by British captivity in the aftermath of D-Day, eventually returning to his hometown of Berlin in 1946 where he met and married my mother. Herbert was my mother’s first husband. For most of the war, he received deferments from military service as he was one of the few auto mechanics still alive that were experienced in repairing and maintaining the big Mercedes and Maybach limousines, the favoured means of personal transport of the Nazi big-wigs. He was eventually drafted into front-line service in the final months of the war, serving for a short time on the rapidly approaching east front. There he was felled by a piece of shrapnel, but survived and evacuated back to Berlin. The shrapnel was lodged against his heart and surgery was deemed too risky in his weakened condition. The surgeons kept the wound to his back open, banking on it working itself out on its’ own. He died in the Charité Hospital of septicemia early in 1946. He and my father met only in this story that I wrote in honour of them, never in real life. They were good men and I bow to them.


He was nicknamed Little Prince ever since he was a young boy. He would spend hours on the palace grounds, hiding in nooks or storage closets with his storybooks, pretending he was in a much more magical world than this one. A world filled with fairies, dragons, elves, and dwarves. Magical objects that held extraordinary power, elves with healing powers, wizards and mages who ruled the earth with their magic. It was much better than this dreary planet, which had none of these things. The others called him strange and weird, always in his head and never able to pay attention. His grandmother called him whimsical and imaginative and charming. One afternoon, his grandmother bought Kyros a toy sword. It was a cheap thing, made from an old dying tree. But he carried it with him everywhere, spreading a bedsheet over his shoulders and making crowns of flowers and vines, placing them atop his black hair. He would spend hours in the garden slaying mythical beasts and ruling imaginary kingdoms, saving pretty women locked up in towers. But like all children, they stripped away the magic from Kyros as he got older. His sword was taken away, his story books replaced with school books. Waistcoats and suits took over cloaks and capes. “You’re too old,” his father would tell him. The king and queen favoured Kyros’ family, so it was always important that they kept an excellent reputation. They didn’t need Kyros’ head in the clouds; they needed it down on earth, where it would be used to solve real-life problems. Now, Kyros sat in one of the wooden straight-backed chairs found all over the palace, his parents standing over him, frowning. “We thought you were better,” his mother said with a cluck of her tongue like a hen. It had been a formal dinner with the king and queen, and Kyros had let his formality slip. His back became slumped, and his mind wandered while he picked at his food. And that had gotten him into trouble. “You need to stop doing that,” Kyros’ father said angrily, his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “You need to be better. Why can’t you be like Alyx?” He gestured to Kyros’ older brother, standing in the corner. Alyx had never let his composure slip, always presenting himself with his neatest waistcoat and pristine hair. “Alyx does none of those things,” his mother pointed out. “Be better.” And then they left, leaving Kyros alone in the depressing room. He slumped, crossing his arms over his chest. It wasn’t fair. They took away his books and his imagination, forced him to sit still, to hold your tongue, to never act on a whim and always think before you did something. It wasn’t his fault for the way he acted when they stripped away everything good about his life. He huffed out a long breath, longing to return to the brightly illustrated pictures of his books, the ones with painted beasts and dragons and magic. But his parents were right. He was older now, much too old for such things, and he needed to keep his family’s reputation clean. He stood and left, walking down the marble hallway and into his own bedroom. But what he heard made him stop halfway there. He tip-toed next to the open door and pressed himself against the wall, listening. “There’s been this school he’s always wanted to go to,” he heard Alyx’s voice say. “We could send him there.” “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” Kyros clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp. He would have never thought in a million years that his parents would send him to a school that he wanted to go to. He thought they would’ve kept him there, stuck behind the palace’s walls. “We will send him money to travel and enough for him to support himself until he finds work.” Kyros grinned. He knew his parents were just looking to get him away from the palace to maintain their reputation, but he was just as glad to get away from them. There, he wouldn't have to keep his back straight or filter his words before speaking. He suppressed a giddy laugh. He couldn’t wait to leave. “We’ll also need a hitman.” A hitman? Why would they need a hitman? “Callyx will do the job.” Kyros’ blood went cold in his veins. Were his parents planning on sending him away to have him murdered? To pretend to send him to a fancy school just to get a man to kill him halfway there? All because he had zoned out during dinner? “It will be a fake enrollment,” he heard his mother say. Kyros stood. He didn’t want to listen to them anymore. They were going to get rid of him, kill him just so they could keep their name free from any scorn that he had brought. But if they were going to kill him, he would kill them first. *** Kyros snuck a match into his pocket. He had been waiting for this moment for a while. His parents gave him the fake letter, telling him he’d been accepted to the school, and he pretended to pack a few of his things so they wouldn't suspect him of knowing their lie. Tonight, his parents had invited a bunch of nobles and aristocrats to dinner, and that was when Kyros was planning to set the place on fire. The hardest part was making sure that everyone perished, and no one lived to tell officials it had been Kyros. The night was long. His parents talked about the weather, stocks, and how successful they were in their careers. Kyros had made sure to keep his tie straight and remembered to use his manners all throughout dinner. At last, when one servant was placing desserts on the table, Kyros stood, excusing himself to the bathroom. In the hallway, he had placed a lamp set by the door conveniently where his family couldn’t see it from the dinner table. Kyros stood over the kerosene lamp, fishing the match from his pocket. He dropped it and watched it burst into flames with a loud whoosh, making the walls glow in orange light and bathing him in heat. Quickly, he ducked out of the palace and watched it burn to the ground. Never again would he be ridiculed or be told to be someone he wasn’t. Ten years later ... Kyros watched as the young girl was thrown at his feet. It was never his intention to play a villain, but people like her forced him into his role. He was no longer the boy who’d spent hours in the garden slaying beasts; he was the one taming them. Kyros watched with feigned pity as Izara stood, her face a mask of determination as she forced herself to her feet. “I will kill you,” she said, voice dripping with loath. “You killed him. You killed them all.” Kyros had been watching her with disinterest and boredom, but as she said that he sat up straighter and stood, staring down at her. “I killed them all? I did. But you know what? They were going to kill me first.” “Good!” “Tell me something, child. When they kill me, they’re called the heroes of the story. They save the kingdom from the little boy who was never perfect, who brought ridicule and scorn to the entire palace. But when I kill someone, I’m seen as the murderer, the villain. Why is that?” He slowly stepped down from the raised dais and made his way toward her. “Anyone can be seen as the hero. But not everyone can play it. It’s all about perspective,” he spat, looming over her. “You could be the villain. How do you know that by ‘saving’ all those people, you’re doing the good thing? Do they want that? Or do they want to be left alone, to be undisturbed?” He leaned closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You can’t save everyone. And not everyone wants to be saved.” He drove a blade into her stomach, watching as she let out a startled cry and then dropped to the ground. Sometimes you had to burn the world to be seen, to be heard. To be validated. So that’s exactly what he did. END


So here I am. I think this might be it. They say when you are here your life flashes before your eyes. I’m not sure who they are, but that is not what is flashing before me. Let me explain where here is. Her is sitting in the passenger side of a semi truck, with a man that smells of cheap cigars and mouthwash (good mix, right?). He just turned the opposite way of where he said we are going, and turned to give me a blood curdling smile. Being the polite person I am I smiled back, while simultaneously trying the door. Great, it won't open and the lock has been ripped off. I politely smile again at him. So what exactly is flashing before me at this moment you ask? Well it’s how in the hell did I end up here? This is not my normal Friday night. I see dice hanging from the rear view mirror, it takes me to the Passat. As I was fleeing the party across the snow-covered lawn, I jumped over a game of bones. Seeing me run, this rail thin blonde man grabs his dice and leaps up all in the same motion. He is now running alongside me. He looks over and tells me he has a car and will get me out of here. I vigorously agree, it’s getting easier to say yes as our feet run in step to the street. We jump into his Passat that hasn’t aged well, but I’m not really in a position to be picky. The inside is clean, so I assume it will be ok. He leans over, “That was close, want to come to a friends? It’s just a town over.” “Sure” I say with a shrug, but really I am feeling more free with every yes. We turn north on the highway with alt rock blaring on the stereo. I crack the window to feel the cold, brisk air run through my hair. Only lights we see now are lighting the road. Off we go through the darkness together. After awhile I need to stop. My new friend makes it clear the stop is an inconvenience. I plead that I have tried waiting and cannot wait a minute longer. Luckily, a truck stop comes over the horizon. Perfect! So, he begrudgingly pulls over. I jump out and ran to the bathroom. After doing the dirty, I head back out to an empty parking lot. Wait, what? An EMPTY parking lot?! What am I supposed to do now? I go inside and ask the clerk what town this is and how long would it take to get back and if he has a phone? Once I hear the words I don’t think they fully stick in my brain, I ask again. I can’t comprehend what is happening and what I’m going to do. I’m spiraling out in my head, when the man behind says he’s heading my way and wouldn’t mind a little company for a bit. Thank goodness, it’s easy to say yes to some help now. I’m back in the semi, and see the dice bounce as we speed along. No, that wasn’t the real root of my problem. Yes that was part of my last hours of what looks like my life, but it has to be before that. The smell of pot comes flying up my nose. I close my eyes and I’m back in that dark alley. Thinking that was the end of my night I start to head home. But as I’m trying to avoid the icy puddles I hear a voice from the doorway. I jump, I wasn’t expecting anyone. It turns out to be the bass player from the band I just watched looking for a light. I happen to have a lighter in my purse and pull it out. We strike up a conversation. Was this the beginning of the end? A harmless conversation and a light? We have a nice conversation as I watch his cigarette get smaller and smaller. I can’t help but be transfixed by the life in his eyes. He finally finishes the cigarette and offers a ride to an after party. I was starting to get tired, but I kept reminding myself, say yes, say yes. “Ya, what the hell.” We hop into his black SUV and head off to my next destination. Some indie song is playing over his system and the interior smells like old cigarettes and pot. Not too far away we park on the street and head into a house that already has a ton of people and music blaring. Walking in with the bassist makes me feel important, too bad it didn’t last. Everyone saw us walk in and people swarmed him and took him off to another room. I could smell the pot drifting in the air. Someone came up and handed me a beer. Taking it gratefully I popped the top and took a long swig. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. When was the last time I had a drink? Looking around there is an assortment of things going on. The lead singer is strumming a guitar and singing to a group of young women. There’s a group of men playing a video game. Then there’s the table set up for the drinking games with people cheering. I lean against the wall enjoying my beer when the bassist finds me again. We have a fun flirtatious thing going on. His mischievous smile is everything to me right now. He hands be a blunt, I take a drag. I’m thinking back at how fun and crazy this night has been. If this is any indication, it’s going to be a wild year. In the middle of his story two voices start to carry over all the noise. They are clearly arguing about something, I can’t tell what it is. The voices are getting louder and the whole party stops. We all look in the direction of the men. You can see their blood pressure rising, the veins are popping out of one’s forehead as he yells. The other man’s fist start to clench. The bassist makes his move over trying to settle them down, but it’s too late. Before he can make it there the fist is pulled back and then lands on the other’s face. Within a split second the man reaches behind his back and pulls out a gun from his belt. Everyone ducks as they run out of the house. The scene is chaos. The smell of old cigars brings me back to the present. These scenes are passing faster and faster. Why isn’t my family or childhood flashing? Instead it’s today’s scenes, am I even getting closer to figuring out where my mistake was? I feel the sweat starting to be released through my pores as I become more nervous. The wetness takes me back to the dark concert in that small venue. All the bodies packed on top of each other. When one of us swayed, we all swayed. Wait, back up. Walking across the grass I could feel the hardness of the frozen earth beneath my feet. Unsure exactly where I was, I started walking towards the downtown skyline. Anywhere would be better than being in that house with the flying glassware. The air was so cold I could feel it freezing in my nose on each breath. A car pulls up and says he saw me leave his friend’s house and asked if I was heading to the party and offered a ride. It was cold and I didn’t really know where I was, so this yes was easier to slide out. He reaches over to unlock the passenger door. Getting in I can already feel the warmth of the heater. My face begins to thaw out. The conversation is pleasant between us, he seems nice and thoughtful. We are so lost in our conversation that I can’t believe we are already at the party. He turns to me and says he’s actually not staying at the party and has tickets to a concert. Would like the extra one? I grab at the opportunity. Heading off towards the concert I’m feeling better about all the chances I’ve taken today. Finding a parking spot and heading up to the concert line. No one has been let in yet. The line reaches around the block. It must be a sold out show. The line slowly starts moving and we are heading into the building. Going through security I can feel the buzz of excitement of all the fans, it’s contagious. We move into the main room and it fills up quickly. The lights go down and everyone cheers. The whole building is vibrating, the music possesses us to dance. All the bodies are producing such heat we are all sweating. Sweaty arm rubbing against sweaty arm. Every hiccup of the night is forgotten under the blanket of the music. I feel something foreign touch my arm. Jumping back into the present and away from the fingers caressing my arm. The man and I look back out the window straight ahead. I’m waiting for a way to escape pop in my head, but I can’t stop trying to figure out what was the exact decision that led me here. At this point it doesn’t really matter, but my brain won’t stop regardless. All of the sudden I am aware of the radio playing. I hear the same song as I heard earlier in the car. Almost at the beginning, I’m getting closer. She turns up the radio in the Honda and we head out. The music is soft and relaxing. She explains she has to make a quick stop at a friends house, but she promises it won’t take long and isn’t out of the way. We pull up to her friend's house and she runs inside. Looking around I notice how empty the street is. There aren’t any people around and not many lights on in the other houses. It’s quiet outside, but that doesn’t last long when I loud crash comes from the house my new friend is in. It’s followed by another loud crash. She leans out the front door and yells that it’s going to take longer than she thought. I should go on ahead without her. She’ll catch up soon. I’m not sure how she is going to find me or if I will ever see her again, I obviously don’t know where I’m going. After another sound of breaking glass I decided to take my chances and start walking across the lawns. I hear the song change, and I’m back on the leather seat. Scooting closer to the door, trying not to draw attention. He stares at my legs. Please keep looking at the road I think, but don’t dare make a noise. The taste of gin rushes over my tongue. I’m back in my apartment. Realizing I am stuck in a rut as I consider making Ramen and retire to the cocoon on my couch for the rest of the night, I decide to go to the store to cook a fancy meal for myself. That feels like a good start to changing my routine. I head out the door and head down the street to the store. Walking past all the shops and restaurants I look through the windows and see all the people eating with their friends. I can almost taste the food from the Thai restaurant. The beat drops at a bar coming up. A bouncer looks at me up and down. He hands me a coupon and invites me inside. Walking in I can see why they’re grabbing people off the street. I walk through the dark room to the bar on the side. The bartender is about my height and a little stocky with tattoos up his arms. He is leaning on the wall with his phone picking out some music. He sees me and walks over. I hand him the coupon, and ask for a gin and tonic. When he comes back with my drink I hand him some cash and sit on the stool. Right after I got comfortable another woman walked in and sat down next to me. We both got pulled in by the bouncer and were enjoying our drinks together. She has a lively way about her. I can’t get enough of her stories, they’re fascinating. We both are coming to the end of our drinks, and she invites me to join her for a party not too far away. I’m hesitant at first, but I think back to my rut. Deciding to go for it we head out together and find her old Honda. The gin leaves my tongue and am left with the distinct flavor of fear. All I see on the floor are wadded up fast food wrappers and bags. Searching for something I can use to protect myself when the time comes. A large Maglite flashlight. Great! That can work. Calculating how fast I can grab it when the time comes, I close my eyes. Now I’m at the party from last weekend. I can smell the mulled wine cooking on the stove. I see the guests wearing all the sequined dresses. My mouth even starts watering from the taste of that bruschetta. My skin tingles with the feeling of the warm hug from my best friend. And then I hear the beginning. The start of the end. “What’s your resolution this year?” I hear coming from the moving lips of my friend. And the worst sound of all, my voice. “This year I’m going to say yes to new experiences.”


22/03/1535 08:47 - The roses I planted last month are growing quite well, they should begin to bloom within the week. The magic array in the sunroom had to be tidied up, but that's usual. Not much has happened in the library quite yet, though that's bound to change as the day continues on. 10:32 - A mother just entered with her child, she’s obviously a pureblooded angel, yet her son looks more like a vampire... maybe he's a hybrid like me? I could be mistaken. He’s adorable, though. He seems to enjoy the picture books about dragon history. I wonder what it would like to have kids of my own some day. 14:26 - A pureblooded vampire just entered, he appears to be a nobleman. His hair is quite pretty. The dark silver color shines brilliantly when the light hits it just right. He’s sitting in just the right spot for me to sneak glimpses of his profile without it being blatantly obvious that I’m staring at him. I wonder what it would be like to talk to him, just once. 17:18 - The vampire nobleman left. It's a pity, I wish I could've talked to him or at least gotten his name. Maybe next time? I'm unsure if he would return another day, but I’m willing to wait until his next visit. 25/03/1535 09:56 - The silver haired nobleman returned. I so desperately wish he sits in the same area once more. How I long to stare at that noble profile for hours on end. My heart yearns to run my fingers through those long silver locks... The library is fairly empty in the mornings, so I have more time to look at him over the top of my own book. I should finish reading it within the hour... however my desire to admire this man triumphs over my desire to finish this novel. 10:35 - I have not managed to finish my novel... However I have managed to examine every inch of the silver haired man’s profile and could probably sketch it entirely by memory at this point. I have absolutely no clue what has caused me to admire this man, but it matters not, for I have no connection to this man outside of his infrequent visits to my beloved library. If one asked me before this day who I would consider marrying, I would've answered with “my library”... however now I would most likely reply with “If I were a woman, I’d probably marry this silver haired man.” If only I were a woman. 17:59 - The silver haired nobleman approached me mere moments ago... I’ve learned his name is Histriol. I shall refer to him as such in my writings from hereon. His voice is deeper than I imagined... though I’m often incorrect in such assumptions. It was a pleasant surprise. He only approached to ask me where the earlier historical records were located, however I could listen to that voice for days on end... I’ve realized this has become more of a record of how much I admire this man than an hourly recollection of thoughts and events about my daily life... apologies. 30/03/1535 03:54 - I cannot sleep. I do not need sleep, however it's a much adored part of my daily schedule. Every time I close my eyes I see Histriol’s visage. Usually I would adore such a thing but my dreams after such a sight have become strange. I’ll consult my friends about it later. 09:36 - My friends believe I may be... attracted... to this man? Histriol is a very obviously attractive man, even I could acknowledge such a thing. Anyone would feel captivated by such magnificent red eyes, or want to run their hands through such soft looking silver hair. I’m not strange for this. Anyone who thinks otherwise is strange. 03/04/1535 05:32 - Apologies for not writing for 4 days straight. I’ve been hiding in my room for around 98 hours experiencing what humans may call a “mid-life crisis”... I have realized by reading my past entries that I am, in fact, immensely attracted to Histriol. It has made me unable to face him. I am afraid to leave my room on the highest level of my library in fear that I may run into him and make my feelings blatantly obvious. My employees and the regulars are worried for me, however I’m doing quite alright. I have not attempted or even considered ascending to Avohana before my time has come. I’m merely trying to wrap my head around the fact that I am attracted to men. It's not frowned upon here as it is in Omira, however I’ve grown up my entire life believing myself to be attracted to women. Now that I think of it, I don't believe I’ve ever thought of women this way. Even in my vision of the future I have never once had a woman by my side. Perhaps this was something I was always subconsciously aware of, yet never faced properly until I had someone blatantly say, in their exact words “Oh yeah. You're totally into him. No doubt about it, man.” It appears I’m fairly out of touch with my own feelings. I’ll be sure to get back to my usual updates soon. 27/01/1738 07:45 - The day has started fairly normally. Just as slow as usual. Histriol should be in soon. He requested I hold a book for him since it's fairly important to his current project. Being a general must be tough. Perhaps if I had been healthier as a child, I may have dreamed of becoming an esteemed general as he is, but alas, I was born a sickly child and could not have the same dreams as my peers. Being a librarian is a lot better than having to train daily for hours on end, however. I find reading a good book much more satisfying than physical exertion. Though I’m absolutely certain Histriol must look absolutely dashing while he trains. I can just imagine him shirtless, sweat dripping down his biceps as he swings that beautiful sword he always keeps on him. The image is so vivid in my mind I feel as if I could just touch it. It's a pity it's only my imagination. Oh what I would do to see that for real. 10:32 - Histriol has entered the library with a woman alongside him. He introduced her to me as his... fiancé... oh how I knew this day would come. After making his acquaintance oh so many years ago I knew he would never return my feelings, however I never prepared my heart for when he brought along a fiancé for me to meet. I hope my heart shattering to a million pieces didn't show on my face. I will still support him, however. I will not let my personal feelings interfere with his happiness. He asked me to attend the wedding as his best man. I said yes... oh how I torture my poor broken heart. I couldn't bear to reject my beloved, no matter how much he shreds my heart to pieces. I’ll attend the wedding then inform him I plan to travel. I’ve built a giant library on one of the most prominent floating islands in Acralas, I’ll live there from that day on. I must allow my heart to heal. 08/13/1744 06:12 - I have received a letter from Histriol. He and his wife have had a son. He requested I return to attend his first birthday party this evening. I didn't even know his wife was pregnant. I’m glad for him. I’ll be sure to bring a copy of one of my old favorite childhood stories for him. My heart still aches for Histriol, however he's happy and has a family of his own. No matter how much I yearn to feel his embrace, it will never be my place to request such a thing from him. 13:45 - Seeing Histriol once more has shaken me. Oh how I long to caress those lovely silver locks. I so desire to press my lips against his... to feel his skin against my own... However I must push these feelings down. I must not express anything as to not give away my heart’s true desire. 15:46 - He has asked me multiple times if I’m okay. I feel immense regret for having to show such a distant expression. However when he saw me slip up and smile as I handed over my gift, he seemed relieved and stopped asking. I know he’s not the overly caring sort, so my expression must've been so closed off he was concerned enough to ask about my well-being... Oh how I love this man. I would give him the world if he so desired it. Histriol, my beloved, for you, I would even bring down Avohana just to see even a glimpse of your smile. You bring me such joy, yet such sorrow. Even if I cannot have your heart in reality, I can still dream of a day where you return these immense feelings of mine, even just slightly. 13/09/1952 07:28 - This morning has become increasingly strange. I woke up and began my usual routine of caring for my garden and organizing my newest shipment of books when a strange woman claiming to be Masuyo, the goddess of life and death, appeared in my library. I'm quite suspicious but we’ll see how this goes. 18:34 - I’ve... become a god? Not what I had in mind when collecting all the books in the world but I'm not quite against it either. I’m currently in Avohana, setting up my “domain”. Of course it has to be a massive library. It’ll even include ancient texts lost to time. I’m quite exhilarated at the prospect of reading texts in languages lost to time. Oh how I wish Histriol were here. 31/13/3045 07:43 - Histriol sent me an urgent message to return to Acralas. I’ll update when I get there and figure out the situation. 15:58 - His wife has passed away. Oh how my heart hurts to see him suffering so. He’s not usually such an expressive man, but I can clearly see his despair. Oh how I long to comfort him as a lover, but that is not my place. It disgusts me how little regard my traitorous heart holds for his deceased beloved. For now I’ll comfort him properly as a friend. I’ll allow my distant facade to fall for one evening to properly care for my grieving friend. 19:23 - He has fallen asleep leaning against me. I’m unsure of what I should do. Isaki...? Mizuki...? Soriel, maybe...? Could one of you let me know how to proceed in such a situation...? 14/02/4072 13:57 - Histriol has... admitted to returning my feelings...? Is this real...? This has to be a dream. The Histriol I know could never truly love me in such a way. My heart must yearn for him so much I’m having auditory hallucinations. Perhaps this is another one of Fri’s cruel pranks. 18:34 - It is not, in fact, a dream. I have... thoroughly confirmed such a thing. Oh how my heart soars. If I were not a god, I would've gladly allowed my soul to ascend to Avohana as I feel fulfilled. I hope to one day bring Histriol with me to visit my library in Avohana, though I would despair if he died, even if his soul returned to Avohana afterwards. Perhaps, one day, I may ask him if he’d like to become a minor god so we could spend eternity together. For if he rises to Avohana as a dead soul, he would one day have to reincarnate. If he becomes a minor god, he could remain himself for eternity alongside me. If he doesn't wish to become a minor god, then I’m prepared to let him go when the time comes. For now, I shall revel in this happiness he has given to me. I shall cherish his heart as he will my own. To an eternity together, my beloved Histriol. My heart is yours until you no longer wish to keep it.


Alexander threw his legs over the left side of his bed with a yawn. He did so with calculated quietness as to not disturb his neighbors in the apartment below him. He was a loud yawner he'd discovered, and apparently a heavy stepper for a young man weighing only 150 pounds. He walked across the sunlight-striken bedroom to the bathroom, conscious of the gravity of his steps. After his shower, during which he resisted the familiar urge to sing his favorite songs loudly, he exited the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes remained low and in need of rest; he hadn't slept well. Another night of nightmares. Floating above his head, written in golden font, was his score: 1468 out of a possible 2000. It kept him in the top 10 percentage of people rated in his neighborhood. As a plus, it had unexpectedly gone up sixteen points since he laid his head to rest the night before. It was rare when it happened but always a pleasant surprise. Someone had been thinking about him fondly, and that made him happy. Ready for the day, he walked the concrete sidewalk leading to the parking lot of his complex. A warm smile - his best feature, authentic but accentuated for the sake of presentation - was on his face. His eyes tried their best to adjust to the lasting sunshine. The lawn was perfectly manicured, save for a small patch that hadn't yet been gotten to. A yellow potato chip bag was resting noticeably on an overgrown stretch of grass. Alexander, an advocate for keeping the community tidy and always looking for ways to improve his score, veered slightly from his intended path and bent to retrieve the bag from the ground with two fingers, making sure to keep his smile as he dropped it in a nearby garbage bin. A landscaper along the outer edge of the grass rode by on a lawnmower. He lifted a hand to say hello. Alexander raised one in return, his smile never wavering. The freshly cut grass irritated his allergies and made his sleepy eyes water, but he knew better than to complain. There was a friendly, familiar beep from his pocket. He fetched his phone. The score illuminated on the otherwise blank screen had gone up by 2+, putting him at 1470. Alexander couldn't say he had ever considered himself a people person before the new socially-moderated world came into effect, or even someone interested in what others thought of him. In fact, he couldn't remember much of what life had been like before this. Everything was wrapped in cloak of pleasant rather than true, and the truth, whatever that meant, didn't seem to matter. What appeared good was good, simple as that. He climbed into his car, turned the AC on blast, and pulled out of the parking lot. His watering eyes soon dried. He dabbed what remained of the moisture with a tissue at the red light of an intersection. His stomach twitched and he noticed for the first time that he was hungry. A coffee shop, one he frequented often, was only a few blocks ahead. He knew his order by heart and very much looked forward to his cream cheese blueberry bagel and cup of coffee. He finished blowing his nose just as the cars in the left lane began to trudge along. An Audi SUV sat stagnant in front of him. He looked up at the stoplight and saw it was green. From the side mirror of the car ahead, he could see a teenage girl staring blankly at her lap, her other hand distractedly gripping the steering wheel. Alexander caught his hand as it crept up to the horn. His lips pursed tightly and he tapped his fingers impatiently on his steering wheel. He did not honk, nor did the cars behind him. Their restraint, as well as his, was appreciated; Alexander knew how quickly a sensible situation could untangle. It was best if everyone behaved. He watched with quiet, building rage as the green stoplight turned first to yellow, then to red. He threw on his left turn signal, and drove into the empty adjoining lane. Several other vehicles followed suit. Maybe it was his hunger, maybe it was because of his irritated eyes, but he looked over to the SUV beside him. His smile was gone, and for the first time in a long time, he hadn't noticed or cared. The teenage girl behind the wheel felt his gaze and turned her head towards him. She was maybe sixteen, still two years exempt from the score rating that dictated the life of adults. She was noticeably delighted by the quiet irritation in his eyes and smirked. "What, stalker?" he saw her mouth from behind the raised car window. Alexander returned his attention to the road ahead. She sneakily flipped him off once his head was turned and went back to her phone. He pretended not to see it and didn't retaliate. To his relief, the light turned green and he sped away. He checked his rearview mirror after a few seconds; the Audi still hadn't move. Thankfully, neither had his score. Alexander pulled into the packed parking lot of the coffee shop, his hunger nearly forgotten. All he could see was the raised middle finger of the girl in the Audi, the black fingernail polish faded unevenly. He unconsciously swung into an open spot just as the door of a car next to him was thrown open. The distance separating a collision was less than an inch. "WATCH IT!" he was surprised to hear himself say. From the backseat of the old red car, an elderly woman emerged slowly. She raised a hand to apologize. Grumpily, he raised one in acknowledgement. The look in her hurt eyes said everything. He let out a troubled sigh as his score dropped -2 back down to 1468. Another woman exited from the vehicle's driver seat and gave him an added look of disgust as she and the other made their way to the coffee shop door. His score ticked -2 down to 1466. He rubbed his tired, red eyes and got out. Just that quickly, it felt like all his energy had left him, floated off into the wind like a helium balloon in the loose grip of a careless child. The image of the girl's black fingernail polish reemerged in his mind with startling clarity. He fought it to no avail. He just wanted coffee and a bagel. With effort, he pulled open the door of the coffee shop. The comforting scent of coffee beans and pastries were lost on him, as he wasn't able to comfortably breathe. What little smell he had left was overwhelmingly freshly cut grass. The line reached all the way to the door, and he knew it would be twenty minutes or longer before he was serviced. The other customers chattered quietly in front of him. The woman who'd exited the red car was sitting at a large round table nearby with the elderly woman and a few others. Alexander could feel his blood run cold as she leaned closely to the huddle of women at the table and gestured to him. There were four other women seated with them, and his score dropped again by -8 points as they turned in their chairs to look at the impatient man who'd shouted at their mother. That put him at 1458. He thought about offering a friendly wave, but decided that they were past that now and that it might make things worse. A few minutes passed, and the women seemed to lose interest. Alexander was grateful; he knew how quickly things could escalate. He retrieved his phone from his pocket to help distract himself, knowing it would be a while before he would leave. He had just unlocked it when a feeling of dread suddenly overcame him. He turned around and saw a gangly man standing far too closely to him. He was at least fifty and had Alexander beat by eight inches in height. The man's eyes, though focused and watchful, looked glassy with thought. Why hadn't Alexander heard him walk in? How long had he been standing there before Alexander noticed him? The man pulled his right hand out of his pocket and pointed a long, thin finger at Alexander's phone. "Had one of those just like that one," he said conversationally, his voice bassy and battered. "Got rid of it because I couldn't turn off the noise. Won't let ya." "Oh yeah?" Alexander said. He didn't comment on how closely the man stood to him, or how little he felt like talking. And he didn't admit to himself how suddenly afraid he was. The man, still seemingly lost in thought, continued. "Every waking moment, morning or evening, just chiming away. Telling you all about your blessings and your sins. Reminding you to open that door for Grandma or buy those girl scout cookies you know you won't enjoy." The man scoffed. "Like we're children. Everyone, so delicate and needing their hand held. A little negativity mixed into their paradise, and people start to lose their minds. When everyone pretends to behave, you can't see who they actually are." Alexander turned back around and pretended to search for something on his phone. The line couldn't move quickly enough. His hunger had dissipated, but the tall customer behind him was making him nervous. His eyes, while dry, started to sting again. The man gestured with his left elbow at the table of women, who had gone back to their discussion but still turned to Alexander every so often. "You piss one of them off?" "What?" Alexander asked, as though he hadn't heard. "It was nothing, just..." "That little bitch in the SUV flipped you off." Alexander caught an escaping gasp and checked his surroundings. The others in line hadn't seemed to hear the man, but was this guy insane? Using language in a crowded area like this? There were at least 30 people nearby. His score could easily drop by sixty points in a few seconds and it was only 9:30 in the morning. Wait until they told their friends. And then wait until they posted online about it. You'd lose everything. You could always lose everything, at any moment, in this place, even by association. What worried - or maybe terrified - Alexander most was the man didn't appear or sound crazy. These weren't the frantic ramblings of an untethered lunatic. The man spoke with a calm freedom that was alarming. Worse - contagious. "Say it," the man said. "I saw what happened. Sat there at that light twice because some kid couldn't focus." He took a pause. "Mighta not even been the first time today. Don't you wonder what it'd be like to react? I wonder a lot, you know. How good it would feel to just roll down the window and yell 'Fuck you!'" A few heads turned. They seemed to quickly lose interest. What was this guy's problem? He uttered a low, humorless chuckle. "I wonder what would happen if someone just rammed a crowbar through that expensive window and slapped some sense into her. Don't you ever wonder that?" He clapped Alexander on the back. His hand, though bony, was still strong. "No," Alexander lied, fighting off the image of the black fingernail polish again, and the anger that it inspired, "and I would appreciate it if you didn't talk like that. You sound crazy." For the first time, the man seemed offended; still, Alexander's score didn't budge. "Ya can't even take a piss too loudly in a bathroom stall without some sensitive asshole having his day ruined, and I sound like the crazy one? Don't you miss free will? Doing shit for the sake of doing shit?" He reached a bony hand forward and grabbed a fistful of Alexander's shirt. It was sudden but gentle. "Jesus Christ, honking your car horn? What CAN you do anymore?" Alexander pulled his shirt free. He was terrified of the man, but his peaking impatience gave him courage. "YOU can do whatever you want, okay?" Thankfully he was the next in line, and used it as an escape from the conversation. He mustered a fake smile for the cashier that felt heavy on his face and placed his order. As he paid and turned to walk to the counter at the other end, he noticed that the man was gone. Later that night, Alexander sat in front of his TV with a glass of vodka. It was not the first. His tired eyes, even redder, were now glued to the screen. Throughout the day, at odd intervals and regardless of how pleasant he was, his score had ticked down. 1458, then down to 1430. Then 1430 to 1390. The biggest and most sudden leap had happened around 2:00 pm, and took him down to 1100. He currently sat, drunk, at 978. Anything lower than 850 and his apartment complex could deem him as a hazard to the community and evict him. If he were to reach 500, he could be imprisoned without trial. Things unraveled quickly, he knew this, and it never took much. Your impact was powerful, and created waves. He watched as the news covered the murder. "Police have taken Malcolm Tate into custody, a man responsible for over a dozen charges of theft, aggravated assault, and at least one murder," the news reporter said. "The murder victim, sixteen-year-old Patricia Summers, was found dead this afternoon in her parent's SUV." They put up a picture of Patricia on the screen, smiling with a group of her friends, but all Alexander could focus on was her dark nail polish. "The parents say Patricia drove herself to school this morning, like always. After they hadn't heard from her after dismissal, they called the school and her friends to determine her location. The parents were able to use the vehicle's GPS system to locate it. Police arrived at the scene late this afternoon and discovered Patricia's body in the back seat. Police say they found several wounds on the victim's head and body, likely caused by a crowbar found lodged in the driver side window. When police inquired about a motive, Tate said, 'I met a man today who told me I could do whatever I want.' More coming as the story unfolds. This is KGTV reminding everyone, be nice. Or else.