The sun was scorching as Luthar set foot on dry land. Five days he had been aboard the ship, and two of them were spent vomiting. The captain had set a fast course, and the winds had been kind, but the summer waves seemed intent on rocking Luthar’s guts overboard. Even the limestone dockside seemed to sway under his weight. The only joy he could take from coming ashore was the gentle breeze that licked his face. Men rushed this way and that, with tightly packed wagons of goods ready for shipping. Customs officials checked paperwork from captains before barking their orders in some strange, harsh language. On the larger piers wooden cranes lifted large and heavy cargo onto dry land, ready for the next leg of its journey. Warehouses with vast wooden doors lined the perimeter of the docks, a constant stream of wagons and carts emerging. A few men-at-arms here and there watched business commence with steely expressions. ‘Come Luthar, you will settle quicker than you believe.’ Lady Akindra ushered him along and into the city proper. As they passed the enormous warehouses that held everything from cotton and silk to timber and gold, the sheer size of the city began to feel intimidating. Each side of the narrow street there were buildings of five and six stories, casting the two of them into shadow. Luthar followed Lady Akindra closely, afraid that if he lost her, he may never find himself again. The streets criss-crossed at perfect right angles, at the meeting points they opened into small squares where dark-skinned men wearing white linens congregated to flaunt their wares. Lady Akindra strode on, turning right, then left, then right again. They passed yet more merchants, battling with their neighbour to declare their own wares the greatest. Whorehouses, inns, and dream dens lined the thoroughfares, contributing to the din that assaulted their ears. After another sharp turn, the buildings fell away and Lady Akindra led them into a great square, far larger than any Luthar had seen in a three kingdoms city. A park sat in the middle of the expanse, strange trees, bushes, and hedgerows lined gravel pathways. Every few yards a bench supported some well-dressed man or woman enjoying the morning sun. Its centrepiece was a large fountain, in the shape of a mermaid, standing at least twenty feet high and spraying water into a clear pool. Lady Akindra paused for a moment to speak to Luthar. ‘This is called Park Square. Over on the north side are the government buildings.’ She pointed to a plain, rectangular building five stories high that stretched along the whole side of the square. ‘On the south side, the temples of sun and moon.’ She pointed again, this time to two totally different buildings that gave the appearance of being stuck together. On the left, a golden coloured temple, sloping on three sides and at least double the height of the government building. Fires burned in huge baskets to its front and lanterns swung in the breeze at its door. It seemed the very personification of light. Joined to its straight wall was another temple, exactly the same, yet opposite. It had the same three sloping walls, and looked to be identical in height, to the inch. But it was built from stone as black as night, polished to a fierce shine. No fire baskets or lanterns burned, giving it a sinister and unwelcoming appearance. ‘We will find L’Beira in the temple of the sun.’ She finished, before heading off straight across the square. They approached the golden building, weaving between hundreds of people going about their daily business. Two men in simple white linen gowns and sandals hailed them as they approached the door. ‘Good day to you both! Would you care to make a donation to the giver of life?’ He rattled a small wooden cup at them, implying it wasn’t optional. ‘Of course sir, thank you for your service.’ Lady Akindra dropped a couple of coppers into his cup and beamed her best smile at him. His partner pulled open the wooden door and beckoned them inside with a bow. Luthar couldn’t help but notice the cudgel hung at his waist. Despite his baggy attire, his muscular frame was evident. The door led them straight into a vast, dark hall. It was cooler in here, soothing Luthar’s delicate stomach. In the centre was a large pool, sunk into the floor some ten feet deep. Directly above, Luthar saw there was no roof, a square of blue sky was visible where the sloped walls ended. Arches ran along the back wall, casting the rear of the room into shadow. Another robed man stepped out of the darkness and approached them. ‘All that lives welcomes you to the temple of the sun. I am L’Beira, child of life.’ He was tall, towering above Luthar and Lady Akindra, but not intimidating. He had an easy manner about him, and a welcoming smile stuck firmly to his face. ‘I am Lady Akindra of the Mage’s Guild. This is Luthar Shoresmith, member of the Warrior’s Guild.’ ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance my lady.’ He bowed smoothly to her, showing the top of his shaven head, before turning to Luthar. ‘And you’re Luthar are you? You still bear your family’s name. Some would call that fortunate.’ ‘What do you mean?’ The strange introduction had Luthar baffled. ‘Some boys join the guild without even knowing their father’s name, the guild is the only family they have. Your family name is Shoresmith, meaning you know your family. Do you still visit them?’ ‘No. I’ve never seen or heard from them since I joined the guild. The men of the guild are my family now.’ ‘So why bear their name? There is still some love there I think.’ ‘It’s something I’ve always done. Is this part of my training?’ The line of questioning was making Luthar uncomfortable. The less he had to speak about his family, the happier he would be. ‘Ah yes, your training. Follow me.’ L’Beira led them through a door that was almost invisible in the shadows behind the arches, and into a small room where two more robed men were praying to a stained-glass window depicting the sun. They waited silently at the back of the room for them to finish and rise from their simple wooden benches. ‘Acolyte A’Mad, please escort the lady to our guest rooms, she will be staying with us for some time. Make sure she is comfortable and has everything she needs.’ ‘Of course, Master.’ He bowed to L’Beira before approaching Lady Akindra. ‘My lady, please follow me.’ Luthar and L’Beira followed them from the room before turning left and exiting the building through a rear door. Outside, a square had been built from hastily erected fences, almost identical to the one at the guild. Luthar’s face must have shown his confusion as to why a temple would need a sparring square. ‘We train our men fiercely in all manners of combat. We must defend our temple, and our faith, rigorously in times of war. In this world the strong take from the weak, and we cannot be weak in the eyes of life and death.’ He approached the gate and removed his gown, leaving just loose linen trousers underneath. Luthar could see the man was pure muscle, he hoped that would slow him down. ‘Here we fight in our skin. Remove your shirt.’ He pulled off his shirt over his head and left it in a pile with his two swords, other than to sleep this was the first time he’d removed them since leaving the guild. He stepped into the square and stood opposite L’Beira, awaiting his next instruction. ‘In your three kingdoms you fight with swords and shields, here, it is spears. Much more graceful, like a dance.’ As soon as he finished speaking, he kicked sand in the air, showering Luthar and stinging his eyes. When he had regained his vision, L’Beira snatched a spear from the air, then stood to attention, holding it in front of him. ‘Leyton informs me you need to be faster.’ ‘He said the same to me. I’m not strong - ‘ Before Luthar had finished speaking L’Beira lunged for him, spear aimed for his heart. He retreated backwards, away from the onslaught. Still, L’Beira pressed him, spear whirling in the air, forcing Luthar against the fence. ‘No, no, no. How do you propose to win a fight by running away?’ He turned and walked back to the centre of the square. ‘You need to fight back, Luthar.’ ‘But I have no weapon.’ ‘You have your hands, your feet, knees, elbows, head. These are all weapons if you care to use them.’ Before Luthar could think of a response, L’Beira charged him again, spear slashing the air. Not sure he was doing the right thing; Luthar dodged sideways, trying to stay too close for the blade to strike. ‘Good, good.’ L’Beira noted, before lashing out with an elbow into Luthar’s chest, knocking him to the ground. ‘You focus too much on the spear, not what I am doing.’ He offered a hand to Luthar and hauled him to his feet. A barefoot boy dressed in tattered clothing approached the fence, watching them both intently. He looked gaunt and starved and his eyes were heavily shadowed. ‘Sir, a message from the games master.’ He held out a scrap of paper to L’Beira over the fence. ‘Thank you boy.’ L’Beira took the paper and nodded to him before fishing in his pocket for a copper piece. He tossed the coin to him and turned back to Luthar. He bit his lip as he read quickly. ‘Good news, you fight tomorrow.’ ‘Tomorrow? But I haven’t even held a spear yet.’ ‘Then we have much work to do this evening.’ Luthar drilled through the afternoon and evening. Finishing only when the sun vanished, leaving the square in darkness. His muscles burned in protest at the ferocity of the work, but he felt glad that L’Beira had not seen fit to kick him into the dirt as Leyton often had. As they headed back inside, L’Beira led Luthar through a stone arch, then a door, and into a private bathhouse. The room was completely made of stone, somewhat darker than the light limestone of the exterior. Torches burned merrily in sconces on the walls, throwing an orange glow over them. A steaming pool of water, at least ten feet at each edge, took up the middle of the floor, with steps leading down into it ahead of them. L’Beira took of his trousers and descended the steps, as naked as the day he was born. Luthar followed suit, the hot water draining the aches from his tired body. The water was not quite clear, a white mist seemed to float under the surface, he scooped a handful out, but could not catch the strange substance. ‘Ocean salts, they’re good for relaxing after a hard day.’ L’Beira’s head bobbed above the surface, the rest of him submerged. ‘I wondered what it was. How do you manage such luxury in a temple of the gods?’ L’Beira laughed, a deep rumbling sound which set his shoulders bouncing up out of the water. ‘It’s funny how people assume a servant of the sun should live in poverty. Our teachings are centred around kindness to others, building friendships and worshipping the giver of life. Nowhere does it state we cannot enjoy this wonderful world which he has created for us.’ Luthar thought he made a valid point. Every religious temple and cathedral in the three kingdoms housed men in simple woollen robes living a life of restraint. Rules stated they could never marry, or drink wine, or even grow their hair. How this could prove they were closer to the gods, he couldn’t fathom. An acolyte opened the door and bowed Lady Akindra into the room, resplendent in a green silken robe. She approached the bath and let the robe slip onto the floor, descending the steps clad in only her skin. Luthar felt the blood in his cheeks rising, he turned his head away until she was just a floating head alongside the two of them. Something stabbed his heart as he thought back to Elisabeth and what she would say if she could see him naked in a bath with her. When she was seated next to L’Beira on the stone ledge that ran around the perimeter of the bath, she engaged him in conversation. Luthar was too busy enjoying the relaxing water to pay any mind to what they were saying. He leaned his head back on the stone rim and closed his eyes, trying to visualise his fighting stances to rid himself of the painful thoughts of Elisabeth. ‘What do you think Luthar?’ L’Beira asked, bringing him back into the room with a jolt. ‘Sorry, I must have dozed off.’ Replied Luthar, slightly embarrassed. ‘I was just telling Lady Akindra that you’re due to fight tomorrow. I’ve got ten of your three kingdoms silver on you to win. You’re going to make me rich; I can feel it!’ ‘I’ve only had a day’s training; how can you be so confident?’ ‘Leyton speaks very highly of you, and he never rates anyone. Plus, you’re a quick learner, you’ve mastered techniques today that it takes some men months to learn. I’ve a good feeling in my belly!’ ‘Some of the gladiators will have been training years, how can I hope to compete with them?’ ‘But you have trained for years with a sword. And if you meet me at first light, you’ll have had another half days training!’ L’Beira laughed again, Luthar couldn’t tell how serious he was. But if more training was on offer, he would have to take it. ‘Don’t worry too much Luthar. The people you’ve fought before have always been many years older and more experienced. Trust your abilities.’ Lady Akindra cut in, her calm, reassuring manner soothed his nerves slightly. ‘Thank you, my lady, it’s just a task I never thought I would have to do.’ ‘The world often has a funny way of testing you.’ She smiled at him, like a mother to a favourite son. ‘Besides, you’ll never know unless you try.’


Per usual, I am listening to Linkin Park. I am listening to their 2003 hit song “Breaking the Habit,” which I initially assumed was about some catharctic break-through yet is apparently about suicide. The theme makes sense in hindsight, considering that lead singer and lyricist Chester Bennington killed himself in 2017. Just like any artist, he wrote about himself, predicted his own grim future in some sort of twisted self-fulfilling prophecy. The wind from the May clouds spews itself into my ears. My left-side earphone falls out. I quickly put it back in- the auditory imbalance always unsettles me- but not before changing the song to something more bland, more happy. I always worry that if I listen to a certain type of music too often, I will subconsciously begin to embody it. I lean against the park lamppost and watch the sun slowly crawl down into the horizon: aware of its own surrender, but shamefully so. I close my eyes; I have never been one for sunsets. The closing of the light seems too philosophical, so that I cannot stop thinking. Suddenly I think I hear my phone alarm go off. I listen closer, trying to discern the authenticity of the sound: my alarm ringtone is the sound of a duck quacking, carefully selected as a joke when I was twelve years old. The quacks remain small, elusive enough to seem both tangible and imagined. If you are just imagining that your alarm is going off, that would be very unfortunate. After a moment’s hesitation, I turn on my home screen; there is no alarm going off. I smile lightly to myself. That is very unfortunate. “Hey!” The noise jars me. I look up from my phone to see my boyfriend, Cole, who I have been waiting for. “Hey.” I smile at him and scrunch my nose against the sunlight, a habit which I know he likes. “Long time no see.” Of course, we saw each other yesterday. Cole likes to think that such statements are charming; I can tell by the self-satisfied glint in his eyes, a small crease in the bottom left corner of his cheek that only emerges when he feels surreptitiously cocky. His joke lacks humor, but I let out a small laugh for his benefit. The crease grows wider. “So, what did you do today?” My question seems like idle small talk to any outsider; but after a good three or four months of being with Cole, I had long ago learned that that was the dynamic of our relationship. “I worked until six-ish, picked up Ellie, ran along the reservoir, you know. The usual.” “You worked until six?” “Yeah. My legs are killing me.” Cole teaches rich elementary school students to play soccer at a family club downtown, which means that his outward patience for spoiled children translates into a good $20 an hour. “That’s really late. But, you know, if you’re exhausted, we can just meet tomorrow.” I start walking towards my house, which is in the opposite direction from his. “No, I still have some energy. For you, at least.” I don’t have to look at Cole to notice the wideness of his crease; likely the size of a small crater, enlarging as he awards himself credit for what he considers romantic. Cole matches my pace evenly and puts an arm around my shoulder, his dark blue sweater grazing the tips of my hair. The weight of his arm is sizable, but not unpleasantly. “So what do you want to eat?” I pause, as if genuinely thinking. Cole always asks me what I want to eat in the context of him being some sort of dignified gentleman, giving up his manly culinary tastes for his picky woman. Either that or he has no distinguishable taste buds, which would make sense given the general basis of his chameleon-like personality. I can’t decide which alternative is worse. “How about just pizza?” “Sounds good.” He strokes my hair gently, smoothing the edges and brushing through the knots. Of course it sounds good. Everything sounds good to you. You have no opinions. Ignoring myself, I think of the appropriate way to reciprocate his intimacy. I mat his hair playfully, letting myself enjoy the softness of his dirty blonde locks. It is moments like these in which I remember why we started going out in the first place. I inhale deeply. “So what about you?” “Uh... What?” The moment now broken, we pause at the sidewalk in unison as we wait for the light to turn green. I wonder what we look like to passersby, if we seem to be one of those couples that move as one. “I mean, how was your day, Spacey?” His notorious crease returns; “spacey” is his nickname for me whenever I daydream, which is admittedly often. “Oh.” I momentarily think of how much information I should disclose to him. “Well, I was on the subway to my painting internship and listening to my music was good. But everyone was so peppy on the first day, and it was way too early for all that smiling small talk. Anyone who actually wants to socialize at 7:00AM is clinically insane.” I wait for a response, but Cole simply walks ahead as the light turns green. My chest slightly constricts, only loosening when I choose to believe that his silence urges me to continue. It is either my fatigue or the three shots of coffee I drank previously, but my openness both terrifies and invigorates me. “Then I went home, and my mom asked me about you and our relationship, I guess because we have nothing else to talk about. Obviously I avoided all of her characteristically invasive questions. I think she noticed, so she left my room kind of abruptly. So I went for a run, and it was great with the trees and my music and everything. But Melanie has been a bit cold to me recently, and I don’t know if it’s all in my head or maybe she’s sick of m- I don’t know.” I stop talking to take a breath. I open my mouth again, having a lot more to say, yet gently close it. The silence looms again, stretching itself wider like some sort of invasive grass. “It’s probably just all in your head.” Cole responds lamely, his words dripping into themselves. “Yeah.” Subconsciously, I find my body inching away from his, the cold of the air seeping into my shoulders in his absence. I hate how my body always resorts to depending on him for heat, as if too indolent to deal with itself. I resist the urge to shiver. “What?” His murky blue eyes slowly turn to face mine, as if reluctant. “Nothing. It’s just, you could give me more of a response. I was pretty... you know, open, just now.” I look down, feeling my cheeks betray my inner self as they tint red. “That’s rare for me.” I ignore the biting edge to my tone, try to dilute it with a gentle fold to my eyes. “Yeah, you were pretty open.” He pauses, pursing perfectly-crafted lips into the quintessential pose of discomfort. “You just have to understand- I’m kind of realizing recently how you’re really moody. Like, you only listen to sad bands with angsty lyrics that you pretend to relate to, or like weird artists who complain about life. And you get annoyed at people easily, but then the next moment you love them. Or you’ll be all mad at the world, but then you’ll do something else and feel all fresh and lively.” “I’m not moody. That’s just... how I’ve always been. I’ve always been defined by my emotions.” I hear my voice as an outsider: soft, as if unwillingly squeezed out from my core like some unwarranted slug. I try to make my last sentence have more conviction, but it only manages to come out more high-pitched. “No, you are moody. You’re all cheery one second, and then the next you’re like going through something.” “I don’t know, life can be tiring.” I smile lightly. I imagine myself drawing furiously in charcoal, as if each jagged black strand is a desperate attempt to infuse humor. “Just be normal. You don’t have to pretend to care about weird things or to feel so intensely all the time.” Cole gently pulls me into his chest, lets his chin rest on the top of my head. He releases me and holds my hand as we turn the block, his grip loose as a stray ribbon. I am grateful that we are not facing each other: my heart beats faster as I try to restrain the tears gathering themselves into a small arsenal inside me, ready to attack Cole with what a part of me knows is well-deserved guilt. But another part of me- the larger, more prominent one- claims that this guilt is unnecessary. For better or for worse, Cole is one of the few to have truly gotten to know me well, and must be given some sort of objective credibility. “Yeah, you’re right,” I whisper. I imagine a thin gray wall separating myself from my emotions, and the wounded sizzling in my chest begins to subside. My mother’s words echo in my head: You want a boy like Cole, someone who is stable, that is what’s good for you . I lightly brush my fingers over Cole’s as we head into our usual spot, which is a pizza restaurant owned by Italian immigrants. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom, order for me?” “Sure.” Cole smiles at me; it culminates in his eyes in a playful twinkle, so that I cannot resist smiling back. “One spinach, one mushroom, right?” “You know me well.” Turning my head before I can see his reaction, I briskly walk to the bathroom. The click of the lock immediately calms me, a physical iteration of having temporarily separated myself from external reality. I stare at myself in the mirror. I adjust my hot-pink bra to show a bit more cleavage, and pull up my denim pants to cover more of my lower stomach. I take my pointer finger and brush it under my eyelashes to have the pseudo effect of mascara, and do the same for my eyebrows. After fixing a few frizzes on the top of my head, muttering about the hairy halo I was apparently sentenced to, I apply a tad of dark pink lip gloss. Finally I observe the one part of myself that I have been avoiding: my eyes. Of course, my glassy gray eyes are irritatingly expressive, reflecting my every emotion like the most disloyal of rivers. As if observing a different self, I have seen my eyes at various lights and colors. Presently they are vacant, rows of willow trees reflecting a dead sort of nothing. I look down at the sink and slowly close the faucet. The paper towel ingraining itself into my hands feels like a grainy push from reality, and I practice a frozen half-smile in the mirror. My eyes now look poised, crafted to the very cusp of perfection. They irrefutably belong to someone who is simple to understand, who is as grounded as the most gentle kind of breeze. This girl is who you are, I tell myself. Her, and only her. I walk out of the bathroom and check the time: 7:36PM, which means that I have time to eat with Cole and then study for my chemistry test tomorrow. I turn my phone off and put it into my back pocket. My chest feels lighter, stronger, as if I painted it in some sort of golden lining. “Hey, I’m here!” I see Cole in the far-right corner of the restaurant, his three plain margherita slices already in front of him. My order is more detailed, so it always takes longer to come. That other girl within me notices the indicative symbolism behind our orders, and demands I leave the restaurant. I smile and hug Cole from behind, my arms gently wrapping around his neck and chest. I take my phone out of my jeans pocket. “The picture will just be for me,” I tell him shyly. “But I have longer arms.” Cole takes my phone and lifts it high upwards, an angle which he knows I prefer. After he takes the photo, I sit down and move my chair closer to his. Cole shows me the picture. Per usual, his smile is wide and natural, accompanied by creased eyes that have an easy mirth within them. I look like a robot next to him, haunted by a characteristic frozen half-smile that makes me appear unsettled by the camera. I stare at Cole across the table and feel a slight jab in my chest. His mind is effortlessly arcadian, without question, without thought: an open plain, mostly grassy with a few dandelions wedged here and there. In my head, I see him as a surfer, gliding endlessly into the sunset as if the very meaning of life is some joyride. “What?” Thankfully, Cole is at least occasionally able to pick up my social clues. “Nothing. Just hungry.” I tousle his hair and take a bite of my pizza. I chew slowly, as if the rate of my chewing will hopefully transcend into the rate of my thoughts. In response, Cole places a lock of my hair behind my ear. I force myself to smile at him. In such a public sphere, we easily look like we are in love; the whole restaurant takes notice of us, desperately eager to observe and inhale our youthful vigor for themselves. Their attenuated yearning reeks in the air like tobacco. I recognize it like an aged friend, because I recognize it in myself.


“You know what really boggles my mind?” “What’s that?” “The concept of this whole “beginning and ending” thing.” “What do you mean?” “What I mean is that the concept of beginnings and endings are all relative and when you really think about it, don’t stand up to reason.” “Ok.” “For example, let’s take Little Red Riding Hood. The story begins with Little Red Riding Hood being told to stay on the path and don’t stray, and ends with the wolf plan’s being foiled. Yet, what led us to that point? What came after?” “I guess another story?” “Exactly! Little Red Riding Hood lived a life before the famous story, and, hopefully, long after. These concepts of start and finish are bookmarks we have artificially created to tell a specific tale.” “All that seems like common sense though? Of course there is a start and finish. Things begin and then things end. Everyone knows that.” “Of course they do, it’s easy to apply those labels to a story that is broken down for you by the bindings of some hardcover or the tolerance of some bard. What I’m really trying to get at is the concept of life and death and our perception of loss and sorrow.” “John...I’m not ready to talk about this.” “Sam...It’s been three long years and I can count the amount of times I’ve seen you in that time on one hand. You are my brother and my best friend. I won’t give up on you and I want to help you.” “I’ve tried. I’ve done all I can and nothing will ease the pain. I’ve seen psychiatrists, talked to our family, and so much more and I keep getting taken back to that one moment...” “Sam. That’s the problem.” “Excuse me?” “You are trying to forget and move on. However, there is no way you will ever recover from the love of your life passing away.” “Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of game are you playing!?” “No game. All I’m trying to do is...” “I don’t need this shit. Fuck you and Fuck this. I’m out of here.” - What fucking nerve? Are you kidding me? Who does John think he is coming in here and talking to me about Little Red Riding Hood and wanting to make my life better? What has he ever lost in his life? How much pain could be earned from living off our parent’s money and smoking the days away? God Damnit. I’ve been doing so well too. - I leave the café and begin walking the same walk Claire and I used to walk before...well... Before... For the first time in...I can’t even remember...I think about before the accident. Before the phone call at 4:23am. Before all the sirens and questioning looks and the flat line of my wife’s now still heart. I see her face. I see her smiling beautiful face with her eyes that are slightly offset. I see her infamous top bun that she was so damn proud of. I look back to our engagement, the moment I knew my life was complete. I begin to look beyond the circumstances that shattered my very existence and begin to see the larger story. Damn, John, how did you do that? I was too blinded by rage to see what he was getting at. Life isn’t defined by a single story but an entire library. For these past three years, I’ve been reading the same book over and over again and have been missing out on all this world has to offer. I know what I need to do now. - “John?” “Hey Sam.” “I want to apologize for before. I was completely out of line and couldn’t see that you were just trying to help me.” “You have nothing to apologize for. I just care so much about you and hate seeing you like this. I’m just trying any and every angle I can.” “Our lives were so amazing together and there are so many incredible moments that will last with me forever. My life isn’t defined by her death, it’s just one story. It doesn’t end here.” “Exactly.” “All I’ve been seeing is her dying over and over again. It’s not a way to live. I’ve always assumed that was the end of her, but the truth is that she is always with me. From a walk we used to take in the park, to the dairy aisle where she was the sole suspect in the murder of 30-some milk jugs, her memories transcend her...her...” “They transcend all of us. Claire is not gone, she is all around us. Though we see death as an end, it is only another point in this crazy journey we are all taking. One that never truly ends. These stories of our lives are what WE make of them. They are not defined by simple boundaries but by ourselves. That’s all I was trying to get you to see. She may have passed on, but she is never gone, and her story never ends.” - I look at him in silence, fully grasping what his words mean. Her story is now my story. While her body couldn’t withstand the stress of a drugged out teenager behind a wheel, her soul always will. Her beautiful soul touched so many in this world and we all will take the torch to keep her fire alive. I will never move on from this or forget about her. She is, and forever will be, everything that I am and strive to be. She is my inspiration and the reason I wake every morning. There is no reason that should have ever changed. We are conditioned to believe that everything must start and stop, live and die, begin and end, but the truth is a much more wonderful thing. Time is relative and the constraints we place on ourselves arbitrary. We are the masters of our tale, and Claire, for me, the words.


It started when my friend said he’s never seen Star Wars and never will. I thought that was really funny. I realized I wanted to boycott something too. You know, people try to do a lot. They try to fit everything into their life. So it's a nice change to not do something. The fun is in not breaking the boycott. You know people break promises all the time. They get bored. Every day the boycott goes on the more fun it is. I decided to boycott the movies all together. It was an easy choice. The last time I went to the movies the person next to me took a call. He told the person on the line that he was at the theatre, like he hoped the other person would understand and hang up. The person didn't understand and they had a whole conversation next to me. It made me sad. They talked about their friends. There are techniques for boycotting: - You can replace the thing. I started gardening while my girlfriend told me about drama with her friends from her lawn chair. I imagined the flowers are the characters in her stories. This lilac doesn't understand that lily. It's like a movie but much healthier. - You can pretend you don't know what the thing is. Whenever people asked me to go to the movies I made them explain the whole thing. What is a theater? Is it hard to get tickets? Do they lock the doors, or can I get out if there's an emergency? My friends stopped asking me to go to the movies. - You can journal about it. It's good to be honest with yourself about how you're feeling. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and imagine a huge screen above me, playing a Hallmark Christmas movie. The only solution was to journal about it. Nobody took it seriously when it was just two weeks. Of course not. But after a year, my girlfriend would bring it up to people. I think she was proud of me. They'd look at me across the room (she later told me) and say "Is that so? Why, I'd love to not do something." The first person to join me was her sister. She was over for tea and told us she was boycotting dating men. She looked apologetically at me when she said it but I was so happy. I said "It's very good for us to be able to say no, to anything at all!". That made her smile. After that she came over more often and we'd not do things together. I wouldn't watch a movie while she wouldn't date a man. It was nice. We finally had something in common. I told her my techniques. She told me she had one where she pretended she wasn't good enough to date a man yet, it would take many lifetimes of self-improvement to someday deserve to date a man. I like that one. It spread kind of quickly after that. Her friends got in on it. One boycotted doing dishes and bought a decade's supply of plastic plates and cups. One boycotted tea. "Every time I try it I'm disappointed. I'm done," she said. One boycotted swearing. "Years from now, I'm going to break the boycott and it's going to hit so _frickin_ hard," he said. The thing is, he still hasn't broken it. I don't know anybody who has. We'd have these parties where we'd all not do things together. The nights always started giggly. We felt so rebellious. But by the end, we'd feel a profound bond between us. Between people who can say no. I guess we felt a little superior, together, to all the people who couldn't say no to things. We knew when we said something, we meant it. It was a little sad when the night would end. Knowing we returned to the world of yes. The first time I heard about a stranger doing it, it was online. It was a chess player. He said he was boycotting rewatching his matches. It made him really unhappy, to be confronted by the mistakes he had made. His coach made him do it, but it didn't make him better at chess, it made him worse at waking up in the morning. That was what he said to all these reporters. While they were asking all their silly questions, he recommended everybody boycott something. Later he credited me, but I didn't mind waiting. The important thing is that it started to spread very fast then. This one CEO boycotted remembering his passwords. His assistant entered them for him. My favourite teacher from university boycotted seeing her students. When her school said they were done working remotely, that she couldn't keep playing this game, she just quit. She got lots of support from all of us. We talked online or at our parties. Online was good for the people boycotting parties, the parties were good for people boycotting the internet. The government began to make allowances for us. They had to, we were becoming a sizable voting block. Eventually you'd register your boycott with them so they could keep track. Many people boycotted things like doing taxes or voting, but other people wanted to save their boycott for something more personal, more intimate. This one opinion writer said he was going to boycott boycotts. Everybody felt really sorry for him. Around this time I was facing a lot of stress in my life. The only person I knew who wasn't boycotting was my girlfriend. It made me embarrassed. I wanted to ask what was going on, but because she wasn't one of us, it wasn't easy to talk to her anymore. It was kind of a paradox. I still loved her, but if I tried to think about how I loved her, I got distracted. I also felt this keen sense that something was missing. Or like, it wasn't enough. Life was, of course, ten times better from before, a hundred times. But it didn't feel as good as it did in the beginning. My girlfriend came to me one night like a swan over a lake. She told me she'd been thinking about it for a long time. She'd been confused. She hadn't known what she thought. But now she knew and she was ready to tell me. I held my breath. Then she told me she wanted to boycott being in love. I felt many things. This is hard for me, because I like feeling one thing at a time. But in that moment I couldn't even count my emotions. I was happy. I knew that. She was finally joining us. I was sad. For it was at my loss. I was angry. Because the next thing she said was that we could still sleep together and be best friends. That made me feel like she wasn't serious about the boycott, like it might end in a year or two. I told her I didn't want to play a part in her skirting the line. She cried and admitted she had been ignoring my values. We hugged, and she left, and my anger dissolved like snow in warm water. Soon things got kind of interesting for us because one woman boycotted eating and she died. Some people wanted the government to crack down on us. That was tricky though, because those people were a dwindling minority by then. You have to understand, you can win if you aren't in the majority, but only if you're more passionate than the majority. And besides, the prime minister had declared he was boycotting caring about how the voters felt, so that sealed the deal. We don't have term limits here, so we've sent him to office ever since. It was maybe a decade after I started it all and the gnawing feeling still remained. Something was missing. I hadn't been going to the movies for four thousand days. It was as easy as not going to Pluto. I'd talked to others, and they agreed, but they couldn't figure it out either. It was like something you can only see out of the corner of your eye. Then one night, I was at a party. With some of the old crew, my closest friends. The moon looked very close to the world and yellow, a trick of the light. Maybe that helped. It happened mid-sentence. I was explaining how it all started to somebody quite young, just out of high school. They looked awe-struck when I told them my techniques. There are very advanced techniques now, but you can go a long way with just the basics. I began to talk wistfully about that gnawing feeling, when my ex walked in the door. She looked a little lonely, but in a happy way, like a friend who visits for a long time but can leave very easily. It made me miss her terribly. It made me wish I hadn't boycotted movies, wish that I had boycotted dating instead. But then, I didn't just wish it, I said it. And I didn't say "instead", I said "I'm going to boycott dating _too_". This caused a tremendous uproar. Nobody had really thought of boycotting more than one thing before. You had your boycott and that was that. Maybe you'd support your friend for a bit (many's the night I've refused tea, alongside my dear friend), but that was it. Yet here I was. Boycotting two things. I don't know if somebody else could have come up with it. People might not have taken it seriously. But because I started the whole thing, people gave it an honest chance. And then the floodgates opened. You could boycott any number of things. Within a week I was boycotting movies, dating, seafood, lego, and websites with pop-ups. It made me feel like a complete person. It's a narrow personality who can only refuse one thing. It has been many years now. I boycott dozens of things. The latest is toasters and toast. One food shouldn't get its own whole appliance. I've lived a good life. I have a lovely wife. We were only friends for a few weeks. She always knew I was boycotting dating. She treated it with the utmost respect. She didn't seem surprised when I asked her to marry me. She boycotts much more than me, because younger people just seem to boycott more. My favorite of hers is sweaters. She hasn't worn a sweater in over twenty years. Says layers are for beds. I like to think that when I boycott life (in a decade or so?) I'll have left the world in a better way. A more thoughtful way. With people living lives of integrity and intention. Some of the kids these days boycott more than they don't. With what's left they take great joy. That's the funny thing about it. I got a letter from my friend the other day. The one who boycotts Star Wars. The letter was necessary because he boycotts emails now. But he sent it from the first trip to Mars. Somehow he reached the stars. Is it in spite of his Star Wars boycott? Is it because of it? Who knows. You don't ask these things. You just sit around and, with great pleasure, plan what you won't do tomorrow.


_*The "Switch"*_ I lied down to sleep. Tomorrow was my school play, but I was not at all excited. The unfortunate day came in my memory as I closed my eyes. It was the worst day of my life. Nothing sadder can happen than what had on that evening. On that evening, my twin brother had been dragged away to death. It hurts me as I think about it. I wish I had been able to save him, even if that meant I had to sacrifice my life. Next morning, I awoke to the call of nature. I heard the chirping of birds, the warm sunlight that entered through the gap between the curtains. I got off the bed. Everything seemed a little higher that usual. The table, window came up to my shoulders. Or was it that I had shrinked? "What time is it? Don't wake me up so early..." I spun around. Sleeping on the bed was my brother, William. He was just like I remebered. But how was he alive? I looked at the clock. I was deceived by my own eyes! The date it showed was 2 December, 2014; five years back! How was that possible? Then I realised. I was really in the past. And this was the day of our school trip to a zoo. I might be able to change the past and save my brother! I quickly packed my things, without forgetting "it". I was ready. Ready to save William. The school bus came to pick us up. After a while, we were at the zoo. It was just like I remembered. First, the monkeys, then the giraffes. After that were there reptiles -alligators and crocodiles. And finally- The Tiger. It was the cage, I remembered. The cage had a broken part due to rains and heat. And the Tiger had taken advantage of this opportunity to escape. Finally, the Tiger had got freedom. Freedom to kill. It was on the loose and our group was not aware of it. But I was. I told them, "Hey guys, the Tiger in the cage is out! We should go somewhere safe." Of course no one believed me. Then the announcement came: "Dear tourists, please exit the zoo immediately. The Tiger is on the run." Everyone started running helter skelter. We began to run in the other direction of the cage. My brother was in the front. That's when the Tiger came out of nowhere, right in front of William. All of our group started backing away, slowly. But I wanted to save him. William was trying to act ferocious, barring his mouth and growling. I got into action. I opened my backpack. I pulled out the expandable metal rod. I banged it against the ground and advanced. The Tiger looked at me. He growled and put a paw ahead. I got in front of William. I whispered, "I got this brother. Now, without showing your back to the Tiger, back down slowly." I hardly thought he would listen. He was too scared for that. But he managed to keep the Tiger in front and descend... I waved the rod above my head, while shouting at the Tiger. He looked at William, and growled loudly. That was it. Williams's could only hold on his own so long, and he began to run. The Tiger started to chase after him, completely overlooking me. This was my chance. I took the stance. I held the rod steady. The Tiger came running past my right. I swung the rod hard, like a baseball bat. It hit the legs of him, knocking him off. The Tiger stumbled to the ground, unable to get up. Then I backed away. The zoo officials and the security men came up shortly after that. They thanked me, and took away the Tiger. But I had not anticipated what could happen at that exact same time. * • *The Future* I woke up to the sound of cars and trucks. I was very much surprised and wondered how can there be so much traffic in the morning. I got up, and again to my astonishment William was out of the bed! He is such a sleepy head and he had wound up the bed and who knows where he was. So I too began to get ready for school. Mom was there in the kitchen. "Early today?" She asked. "What? Is there not school today?" "Hey have you forgotten? Today is your school festival and you are in the play?" What!? I didn't remember anything like that. I checked the clock. It showed: 2 December 2019. Five years ahead. This was not possible. Moreover there was this play mom was talking about. "...and then don't bend too much, it would look funny..." While she babbled away, I slipped out in the drawing room, snatching a newspaper. No way I had come give years in the future. This must be a bad dream . . .a bad dream . . . No luck. There was no luck in waking up, if at all this was a dream. Well, I decided I had to play along. See if things take a sudden turn . . . *** "Hey, why are you so sad today?" I looked to my right. Lucy was sitting there on the bench. "I . . .I just . . .am feeling a little weird," I stammered, not being able to say anything else. I had gone to school half an hour before our given time. I clutched the script in my right hand. The play was starting in an hour and a half, and I had barely read the first page, let alone learn my dialogues. I was just praying that someone, or something will take me back to my time. Lucy grabbed my hand and unfurled the script. "Oh I know you're nervous," she said, "but that's okay. It's your first time anyway. Let us rehearse the script. You are the Prince, and I am," she paused, supposedly looking for a good role she could pick up. She was not in the play, while I was. "Yes, I will be Hera." I turned and grabbed the script from her hands so fast that the girl yelped. "What? Hera?" I said, while reading the paper in my hands. I didn't know anything about the play. Hera was a Greek goddess, and I was pretty sure she was the Queen of all Gods. I read the script so quick that Lucy was surprised. "I didn't know you could read that fast." I just shook my head. It was such a stupid play, it wasn't even worth telling anyone. And on top of that, Lucy followed me everywhere like a dog. It was time to ditch her. She was getting on my nerves anyway. I told her to follow me. There was this scene that Hera suddenly appears in a closet beside me. So I took her to the staff room to rehearse. "Now you step into the closet here." I directed her. "Okay," she said, stepping in. "Ready?" "Ready," I affirmed. And slammed the closet door in her face. And turned the key in the lock.


I was five months old when I first met Death. I was in a stroller, kicking my little legs around while my mom pushed me along the sidewalk. I had a teething toy grasped in my chubby fingers, and I was gnawing on it, getting saliva all over my skirt. Then my mom gasped. I turned my head to the street, and lying right in the middle of the asphalt was a cat, limp and unmoving. Death was hovering over it, a figure shrouded in dark mist. He lifted his head, and although Death had no eyes, I knew he was looking right at me. My mom whispered “poor thing” and kept walking. I looked away, still chewing on my toy. \# The second time I met Death, I was six years old, and my grandfather was in the hospital. My mom was sitting next to his bed, clutching his hand with tears in her eyes. The white fluorescent lights were too bright for the occasion, and I was almost relieved when Death arrived. The darkness cooled my vision, providing a respite from the sadness and grief. We looked at each other, and I felt a comforting touch on my shoulder before he disappeared. \# I saw Death more often after that. He would come to me whenever I felt down, always seeming to know exactly when I needed him. We wouldn’t talk, but he was a reassuring presence at my side, a reminder that I would always have a friend with me, no matter what happened. When my best friend moved away, leaving me with empty spaces and a lonely spirit, Death was there. When my first girlfriend dumped me for a guy, telling me that I was just an experiment and coloring my heart blue, Death was there. When I was stressed about college applications, pulling at my hair and chewing my nails into blunt stubs, Death was there. He was a storm, taking away lives and leaving destruction in his wake, but the winds and rain would cover up my damaged pieces, leaving me impossibly warm and giving me an excuse to keep going. We didn’t have a lot in common, but we managed to form an indestructible bond. \# When I first met Olivia, I was twenty. We were in the same college lecture, seated two spaces away from each other and dozing off in our chairs. When the professor called us out, worried about our wellbeing, we looked at each other and chuckled, mirth dancing in our eyes. She pulled me aside after the lecture, and we went out in search of warm drinks, snowflakes decorating our coats and biting winds pulling color from our cheeks. She ordered a hot chocolate and I ordered a black coffee, and we got to know each other amongst soft jazz music and twinkling lights. And from then on, we were inseparable. \# There were some things about Olivia I would never understand. The way she would leave the toothpaste tube open after brushing her teeth. Her confrontational nature. Her hatred of fish. How she didn’t care about anyone’s opinion. How she wanted to travel the world. We were opposites in every way, but somehow, even after all these years, we just clicked. She was a force to be reckoned with, and I loved her all the more for it. Nothing would stand in her way. Not even Death. But Death was always there. He reminded you that you’d never be alone, that you’d always have him, even in your darkest moments. \# I was forty years old when I saw Olivia for the last time. We had had twenty years together, twenty wonderful years, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. We were in the hospital, and the fluorescent lights burned my retinas, the memory of white sheets and tear-filled eyes replaying in my head. I knew how it ended, with dark mists and cold bodies, and I wished I didn’t. Death was by the wall, lingering in the corners of my vision. Olivia’s fingers clutched mine, and she was so beautiful I found myself grateful for one last moment with her. Because although she was gone, Death would always be there, a comfort, a reassurance. A promise.


The rain fell through the night like bullets. John was speeding down the road of the rural countryside in his truck. Even with his windshield wipers on the fastest setting, he could barely see 5 feet ahead. Luckily, he had traveled up and down this road for many decades, so he wasn’t too worried about his lack of visibility. John was still annoyed with the rain, though. He had hoped to get out before it started pouring, but had been unsuccessful. His clothes were still wet. John was aware of the fact that he was almost out of gas, but because he knew the area, wasn’t worried. There was a gas station up ahead, he knew. He considered getting some food, but doubted his ability to eat and drive in the extreme rain. This rain was extreme. The weather had been hot the rest of the week, so the air was sickeningly humid. Luckily, John reached the small gas station before he ran out of gas. He mentally prepared himself to step out into the weather. The humidity, combined with the rain, made John feel like he was standing under water. He quickly filled his car with gas, and decided he would treat himself with something to eat, as well as try to wait out the rain. He sprinted into the gas station, and stepped through the automatic doors, soaking wet. If it weren’t for the rain, the emptiness of the gas station would have surprised him. As John walked in, the cashier’s eyes followed him. He browsed through the limited selection of snacks as the cashier silently stared at him. John settled on a nice bag of chips, and went to grab a drink from the refrigerators in the back of the gas station. He returned to the register with his snack and his drink, and noticed that the cashier was gone. John assumed that he must have gone to the bathroom. Five minutes passed, but the cashier didn’t return. John suddenly remembered that this gas station didn’t have a bathroom. Where was the cashier? John decided to continue waiting; maybe if he waited long enough, it would stop raining. After another couple of minutes or so, John decided to just put some money on the counter and leave. Just as he was retrieving money from his pocket, though, he heard a noise. It sounded like a voice. It had come from outside. John didn’t make out what the voice had said. He was surprised he even heard it at all through the rain. John, now sure that the cashier was outside, figured he would go tell him he was ready to pay. John stepped out into the rainstorm. Looking around, he did not see the cashier. Not wanting to get too wet, he stepped back inside. John heard the voice again. It had definitely come from outside. This time, John made out some of what the voice had said. John was certain he had heard “Are you... “ but didn’t quite catch the rest. Realising that this was a waste of time, John placed some money on the counter, grabbed his food, and sprinted through the rain back to his truck. As he started to drive away, he spotted the cashier in his rear view mirror, standing by the door of the gas station. John hoped that the cashier would notice the money on the counter, and drove back into the night. John opened his bag of chips and ate a handful of them. As he reached for a second handful, the bag tipped over and spilled onto the floor of his car. John checked that the road was clear before bending down and scooping some of the chips up. As he popped his head back up, he caught what looked like a hitchhiker on the side of the road out of the corner of his eye. John felt badly for him, standing out in the rain, but didn’t feel like driving back to let a wet stranger into his car. John continued on his journey. Through the heavy rain and the fog, John saw what he thought was another hitchhiker on the opposite side of the road. It was weird that there would be two different people hitchhiking so close together. He sped past, and noticed that the person did not have their thumb out. Now John was really confused. Why would two different people be standing on the side of the road, out in the pouring rain? More alert, John kept his eyes on the treeline. He was fearful he would see a third person standing on the side of the road. Seconds after thinking this, John, indeed, spotted a third person standing on the side of the road. He got a clearer look at the person this time. The person looked like the cashier from the gas station. That was impossible. Lost in thought and fear, John barely noticed that he drove past a fourth person standing on the side of the road. John was shocked. All of the people he had driven past looked exactly the same. Speeding up, he wasn’t sure what was going on, and just wanted to get home. John heard a voice. Through the sound of the car and the pouring rain, John heard a voice. It was the same voice he had heard back at the gas station. It said the same thing it had said at the gas station, too. John heard the voice more clearly this time. “Are you ok...” and then it was unintelligible. John was now terrified. Where did the voice come from? It sounded muffled, like it had come from outside his car, but he was speeding down the road. How could he have heard it? John passed two more people who looked like the cashier. John tried to ignore them. His heart was pounding. John was driving the fastest he had ever driven before. The rain now hit his windshield horizontally. He was full of adrenaline, and question after question raced through his mind. Who were these people? Why did they all look the same? Why were they standing in the rain in the middle of the night? Why hadn’t he passed any other cars? Thunder boomed as John raced around a tight bend in the road. The rain had made the road slick, and John started to lose control of his truck. He flew off the side of the road, and crashed into a tree. John awoke, unaware of how long he had been unconscious. It was raining harder than ever. His head throbbed with pain as he looked out his truck’s window. Twenty feet down the road stood the cashier from the gas station. John had had enough. John opened the glove compartment of his truck in search of his revolver. His vision was blurry from the crash. Keeping his eyes on the man down the road, he rummaged through the glove compartment, pulling things out as he searched for his weapon. He pulled a handful of old napkins, a candy wrapper, and a bottle of pills out of the glove compartment. John panicked. He couldn’t find his revolver, and he didn’t think an old Kit-Kat wrapper or medication would help him protect himself. John stepped out of his truck. As soon as he stood up, he became dizzy, and had to sit back down. The pain in his head was growing sharper and sharper. He staggered towards the man. The man kept staring. Slowly, John made his way to the staring man, yelled at him, asked him why he was following him. John shouted at the man, but the man remained silent. As John got closer, he realized that the man was smiling at him. Smiling, and standing completely still. John continued to scream at the man as he stepped closer and closer. The pain in John’s head was almost blinding. John slipped on the slick pavement, and fell to his knees. He looked up at the man. The man was still there. Still smiling. John got to his feet, and as he did, lightning struck. The lightning illuminated the whole forest and for a split second, John had a perfect view of the man who had been stalking him. The man was wearing a suit. He was standing in an odd pose. His arms were crossed. He had no legs. He was flat with an unchanging expression. There was something next to him. Letters were next to him. Words seemingly floating in the air. They read: Vote for Steven Erikson for Mayor! John’s vision started to fade. John collapsed to the ground, and called out for help. The campaign sign did not respond, just continued to stare, continued to smile. John looked up into the rain, and everything turned white.


As I walked through a pile of rotting bodies soaked in blood, I tightened my grip on my assault rifle with my finger on the trigger. I hated the smell of gunpowder but at least it covered the foul smell of allies and enemies alike--even just a little bit. The silence was deafening as well. I only heard sounds of my empty canteen every time I took a step and it almost drove me crazy. I wondered if this is what hell looks like and I’m seeing it with my own eyes. Being by myself also does not help at all. I was sent alone to accomplish an impossible task assigned to me by my superiors. Just 3 days ago, our camp received a message that a 10-year-old boy was trapped inside a building behind enemy lines. Apparently, this boy was the one who sent the message and was asking for help--there was even a description of what he looked like. No one knew if this was a trap but they immediately called me and told me to rescue the boy--no matter how suspicious the message was. But being the youngest in our camp, I had no choice but to obey them. Otherwise, I'd dishonor my country. Now, after three days of endless walking--with no food or water--I started losing hope. But I kept thinking to myself that I’m fulfilling my duty for my own country. If I were to give up now, I'd never be able to forgive myself if there were actually a boy crying for me to bring him back home. I bellowed to psych myself up and continued on my journey towards certain death. Just a few hours later, I finally reached the building and I fell to my knees in utter disbelief. However, there were a huge number of enemy soldiers around the building--come to think of it, there was an enemy camp nearby. I needed to find a way past them to enter the building--so I took the clothes of a nearby enemy soldier and wore them. There were a few holes on it and I just hoped that none of them would notice. I checked the pockets for anything useful for the mission only to find a bloodstained photo of him together with his wife and children. I had second thoughts and paused for a moment. However, I had to finish my mission--no matter what. I managed to sneak my way in but there were also a few soldiers inside. I tried looking for the boy without making any noise but I accidentally stepped on some shattered glass that caught the attention of the officer close to me. He asked me something and I just nodded my head--I didn’t speak their language. He was clearly confused and asked me the question once again. I panicked and answered in English without thinking. He looked even more confused and he eventually noticed the bullet holes. He realized what was up and was about to draw his pistol but I shot him without hesitation--I had my rifle in my hand after all. Blood splattered all over my face and I took his pistol just in case. I knew everyone in the building heard that--so I flipped a table and took cover behind it. I waited for them to get near and there were about four of them. While they were checking the body, I caught them off guard and unloaded all the ammunition of my rifle--it became obvious they were inexperienced like me. Their bodies fell one after another. I mercilessly fired at every single one of them--there was no denying that. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably but I had no time for that--the soldiers outside were rushing inside. But one person was still alive and my arm got hit. My rifle had no bullets left and luckily, I just grabbed a pistol from the officer earlier and I shot him in the head to finish the job. I went upstairs and used a bunch of grenades to destroy the staircase so I could buy myself some time. When I passed a room along the hallway, someone inside that room threw a flashbang and managed to blind me for a few seconds. During that time, the guy was continuously firing at me but he seemed to be completely missing--maybe he was affected by the flashbang as well. But he eventually hit both of my legs and I dropped hard to the ground. I was forced to blindly fire. After using all my remaining ammo, the bullets stopped coming at me. When my vision came back, I wanted to check if he was actually dead and not repeat what happened earlier. But there was blood all over my eyes and it was also painful for me to walk--so I crawled using my one good arm all the way to him. When I was near enough, I realized that he was just a kid. I was furious at the enemy for using a child to fight for their cause. But when I had a clear look on his face, my breath stopped and felt like my soul just left my body. He was the boy I was supposed to rescue with dead open eyes. I glanced around and it looked like he was just protecting himself from the enemy soldiers. I was wearing their uniform and looked like one--it was not his fault at the slightest. I banged my head repeatedly on the floor and screamed with rage at the top of my lungs. But just like the boy’s life, my screams were cut short when I heard missiles exploding outside. When one was about to hit the building I was in, I remembered that the enemy did not have any missiles at all.


# The Depth of Flesh By Chandler Morrison  You’re supposed to smile. You know this, but you can’t. You can’t smile. Even as you look out at the cheering mass of your classmates, you just can’t smile. You’re drowning in the applause. When you’re presented with the shimmering crown and the long silver scepter, you’re not breathing. You wonder if your face is turning blue. You wonder if it’s a shade that will clash badly with your dress. The boy next to you, the boy you hate...*he’s* smiling. His face, sculpted so expertly in its angles and lines, is swallowed up by his grin. His teeth are like milk sugar, his lips like strawberry lemonade. Applause, so much applause, coated and peppered with smiles and cheers. You force yourself to breathe. Your breath comes out in a harsh wheeze that’s mercifully drowned out by the clamorous cacophony. You try to smile. You fail. You try to wave, but you fail at that, too. You can’t move. You don’t want to be here. You never wanted any of this. Earlier this evening, you stood before the mirror, and it told you that you are the fairest of all. It was telling the truth. You know this, and you hate it. You hate the mirror for saying it. You hate it because it’s true. As you curled your hair and painted rouge your pursed lips, you knew what was going to happen. They would announce your names, and April Diver and Jake Barnaby would take the stage. You knew he would smile. You knew you wouldn’t. You wanted to cry, so you took a Valium because you didn’t want to ruin your makeup. You went downstairs and sat on the couch, taking care not to wrinkle your dress. You lit a cigarette, and the whisper of your exhalation was the only sound in the house. No one, save for the mirror, was there to tell you how pretty you looked. No one was there to see you off. Your mother wasn’t there to blot her teary eyes and say that she can’t believe you’re all grown up. Your father wasn’t there to hug you and kiss your forehead with lips parted in a melancholic smile. Your brother wasn’t there to make an amicably sarcastic remark. No one was there. No one ever is. You are alone. No matter where you are, no matter who’s present or who isn’t, you are shackled to solitude. Jake arrived in his shining silver Mercedes. You jumped at the sound of the doorbell, and then crushed your cigarette out in the heart-shaped ashtray on the coffee table. Your hand was shaking. You did not want to do this, but free will is a lie. When you opened the door, he leaned in to kiss you, but you tilted your head to prevent your lips from locking. His mouth lightly brushed your cheek. “I forgot the corsage,” he’d said, looking down at his gleaming shoes. “I knew that you would.” You raised your hand to show him the flower on your wrist. It was black. It was dead. You hadn’t refrigerated it, and you lied to yourself and pretended it was by accident. He opened the car door for you, and you hated him for it. You wished he wouldn’t do things like that. You wished he wouldn’t do anything at all. You drove in silence. No conversation, no music. You knew he wanted to say something, say anything, but he knew better. His one saving grace. He always knew better. You were swarmed with compliments upon your arrival. All of the girls clustered around you like head lice. They said all of the things they were supposed to say. No one commented on the dead flower. All of the boys averted their eyes because they knew they weren’t supposed to look. Inside, you drank the obligatory punch. Danced the obligatory dances. The Valium made everything hazy enough for you to do all of this without having to think too much about how horrible it was. And then, of course, the announcement. And here you are. Platinum crown upon your platinum hair. Scepter in your limp hand. The applause is apocalyptic. When it’s finally over, you stand smoking in the parking lot, leaning against Jake’s car and staring forlornly at the starless sky. You wish the blackness would swoop down and smother you in its nothingness. You look around at all of the laughing young couples sweeping the parking lot, clambering into cars that will take them to beer-soaked parties or latex-reeking bedrooms or, hopefully, deadly drunken crashes. You wonder how close you are to what *they* are. You want to think you’re different, but you can’t deny the fact that you’re all marching to the slow, ominous beat of the death drums. Drums that signify an end that just won’t come soon enough. Jake appears from somewhere, and with his goofy smile he says, “I’ve been looking for you.” You drop the cigarette and crush it under the long, pointed heel of your sparkly white shoe. “I have, too,” you say. He looks at you quizzically. “Huh?” “Nothing.” He drives you home. The silence is the same. When he pulls into your driveway, he kills the ignition and looks at you imploringly. Now, the world tells you that you have a choice at this moment. The world tells you that you can thank him for a good time, get out of the car, and walk alone into the empty house. The world tells you that, as a free and independent woman, you don’t have to do anything more than that. And maybe the world is right. Maybe you don’t. But none of that matters. It doesn’t matter that you invite him inside. It doesn’t matter that you lead him upstairs to your bedroom. It doesn’t matter that you undress yourselves in awkward silence. It doesn’t matter that he watches you as you do, but you look distractedly out the window. It doesn’t matter that you don’t feel anything when he enters you, because you can’t feel anything at all. It doesn’t matter that he drenches you with his sweat. It doesn’t matter that you have to pretend like you’re enjoying it, even though the world tells you with reassurances and hashtags that you don’t have to do that, either. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know that you’re faking. It also doesn’t matter that he’s not wearing a condom, nor does it matter that he comes inside of you. He wants to stay. He wants to lie beside you and stroke your hair. He wants so many things. He wants everything that you cannot give him. None of that matters. You tell him to leave, but that doesn’t matter, either. It doesn’t matter that, as he dresses himself, he looks like he’s going to cry. It doesn’t matter that you don’t see him to the door. It doesn’t matter that he was ever there at all. For hours, you lie there, looking up at the ceiling. You lie there until you can’t take it anymore, so you get up and go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. You gasp a little when you step beneath the scalding water. And as you stand there, feeling the water glide over your skin in its eternal rivers, you imagine a coat of grime falling off of you in thick globs. It slides down you and swirls around the shower drain before being mercifully sucked down into the abyssal sewers beneath the shrieking pit of retarded children that is the World of Man. After an unknown length of time, once you feel at last that you’ve been washed clean, you get out of the shower and dry yourself off. You can already feel the grime beginning to collect again.


The whole kitchen smelled like caramel. Eleonora wiped her hands on her apron and muttered. "Please let it be right this time." Her hair was messy, clothes were wrinkled, and flour and sugar were everywhere. Several pieces of waffle were scattered on the counter. Some pieces were burned, others still raw. Would she ever master it? She lifted the damp towel and examined the new batch of dough balls. This looked better. Carefully, she picked up a scoop and placed it next to the waffle iron. She looked at her recipe again, crossed out some old notes and reheated the caramel. "Heat caramel and bake the dough ball on both sides in the waffle iron." The smell of the caramel was overwhelming, but she shouldn't be distracted now. "Carefully cut the waffle in half while it is still warm. Spread over half with the caramel and then press them together." Patiently, or impatiently, Eleonora was waiting next to the waffle iron. She glanced at her watch. Was it already half past one at night?!  An hour and a half later, six new balls of dough and two new caramel loads, Eleonora waited wearily beside her waffle iron. She yawned and didn't even dare to check the time on her watch. She quickly put on a jacket against the cold and walked back to her waffle iron. The caramel scent hung all over the house. She carefully lifted the waffle iron. Would it have worked? The waffles were well cooked! The color was perfectly light brown. Relieved, she clapped her hands and jumped for joy. Now she had to fill it with caramel. Eleonora took a sharp knife and with a towel to protect her from the heat in her left hand she took the first warm waffle. Concentrated, she carefully cut it open, quickly picked up the caramel and smeared one side of the waffle. Then she pressed the other waffle back on it and placed it on a plate. Immediately she took the second waffle from the waffle iron and carefully cut it open. She spread the caramel well over it before pressing it. "It worked!"  She ran upstairs with her plate. Her husband was sleeping. "Vincenzo! I did it!" Eleonora dashed into the room, Vincenzo woke with a start and sat up straight on the bed. "What is it?" Startled, he looked around. "It is still dark, what are you doing?" "It worked! Can't you smell it?" Eleonora proudly pointed to her plate. There were two warm fresh stroopwafel. Not perfectly round, but still perfect. "Do you know what time it is?" Vincenzo puts on his glasses and looks at the clock. "It is late, I know. But taste it! They are still warm now." Eleonora moved the plate in front of Vincenzo.  Vincenzo took a bite out of the warm stroopwafel. He knew the baking skills of Eleonora and he knew the fantastic stroopwafels they had in the Netherlands. He couldn't imagine she could copy it in Italy. The stroopwafel broke easily, the bite seemed perfect and the still hot syrup warmed his mouth. Slowly he started chewing, but soon noticed that he was wide awake. "This is fantastic!" he exclaimed with his mouth full. "You did it!" Eleonora proudly took a bite of the other warm stroopwafel. Her eyes shone with enthusiasm, and after the first bite, her fatigue was gone.  A few weeks later, Vincenzo fills the third basket with stroopwafels. He packs them in a stack, so that they stay warm as long as possible. He quickly walks down the stairs of their apartment complex. The famous bridge, just in front of the market, is three blocks away. Eleonora was already there with her stroopwafels waiting for Vincenzo to bring the new load. Eleonora could have secured a spot next to a coffee shop, forcing the Italians who had breakfast there to walk past the delicious caramel scent. And that had worked! In only a few hours, the stroopwafel was famous in their Italian village.  The moment Vincenzo walks around the corner, he sees Eleonora next to the bridge. He quickly takes his camera to take a picture of the situation: A line full of Italian coffee-drinking men is waiting in front of the stall for a warm fresh stroopwafel. Eleonora laughs. She succeeded. Her dream had come true.


This will be my first entry, as I feel that, for the moment, I'm safe enough to record this account. I'm not even sure these words will ever be read by another soul, but the witch did say that, so long as I filled the pages of this journal with this particular ink, its contents would reach someone, somehow. I never much cared for quill and parchment, but I suppose it couldn't hurt to try. Let me start by introducing myself. My name is Isaac Jacobs. I was born in the small village of Thrawlst, just north of the Coarsha River, I shall disclose no more of my home than that - for reasons soon to become apparent. At the present, I'm twenty-seven years of age, but I feel as if the dread that fills me could suffice to send me to an early grave. We're it not for this journal, I would be utterly alone. I've been running from it for longer than I can accurately attest, and I know not how much longer I can endure its chase. I should be thankful of my abilities, I suppose, for were it not for them I could not run between the worlds, and would likely have been caught by now. Though, it is possible, if what the witch told me is true, that this thing only nips at my heels because of my ability to do just that. I realise that reading this will raise many questions, and I shall try to answer them all in earnest. I discovered some years back - fourteen, if memory serves - that I could visit other worlds. I can't quite explain the process involved, but I suppose it's like fading from one world and arriving in the next, like being born, but fully grown. The world in which I am a visitor of just now, it seems, is empty apart from myself. There are indeed structures, manmade it would appear, but alas the world seems empty, as though everyone has left it behind. I can't say I care for such an atmosphere, but as soon as I'm able I should like to leave this one behind. Maybe I'll return to the last one I visited, I should like to ask the witch a few more questions. The journal she gave me, besides it carrying the words of my pen across - as she claims - time and space, it's apparently able to bring message back from those who have read it. This, though peculiar indeed, is something I would be utterly grateful for, it's been so long since I've spoken to anyone. But I spoke of a chase, and should this first entry also prove my last, it must needs contain the core reason for my writing it. A warning. In my travels across the worlds, and of the many cultures I've seen, and of all the different events that fill the pages of all the written histories, there is, I have found, something they all share in common. A connection. This pathway between worlds was something that I thought only myself capable of traversing, but I was wrong, very wrong. There is, among the countless stars and worlds of the universe, an energy, a presence. It is a living, conscious memory that encompasses all that has existed, and all that will. It does not know time, and it does not know distance, it has no beginning, or an end. It is called The Fade. It silently feeds off of the worlds that find themselves connected by this unseen pathway, and in return it fills them with something, a sort of energy similar to its own design. Though, for what purpose I can only guess. The witch told me that the entity that is the Fade seeks to consume all of existence. The reason it chases me is likely because I have intruded on its otherwise private domain. I wish I had never learned to jump between worlds, perhaps I would have married that girl. I like to think on what could have been, it fuels me to some degree. Maybe I'll go home one day, but I dare not risk the Fade learning where I come from, so perhaps it is best I not return there. But, back to the present. The witch told me of this world. She said there was someone here that could help me throw the Fade off my trail. She did not say exactly who it was that I was looking for, but she gave me a piece of parchment with a rather odd drawing on it. Seven figures sat at a long table, with one eye each. So far, as I've said, it seems that I'm the only one here. Perhaps I'm wrong though, but if that picture she gave me is of any real likeness to whom I seek, I'm somewhat nervous of the encounter. I would feel safer if I stopped writing now. I know I'm still safe for the moment, but I haven't much ink, and concerning the nature of what it's supposedly capable of doing, I shouldn't want to watse it all on my first testament. I thank you, whoever you are. Though you may not reply to this, believing that you've read it is enough for now. Though I do hope to learn your name, I remain sceptical of this journals abilities. We shall see.


Ten days I'd been in this area. Ten days of no running... Taking time to breathe. It was quiet, modest sized, and secluded. The ideal spot hidden away. Somewhere to blend. To disappear. So I rented a room on the edge of the town, and haven't been out since. An incredibly lonely existence, but it was safe. Safe from him. I'd been running for a few years. From place to place and everywhere in between. Never over staying my welcome. Never sticking around long enough to leave an impression...never leaving roots. I'm merely a shadow of the person I once was. Someone I barely recognized. A damaged soul with so many broken pieces I was sure I'd never put myself back together again. Maybe I didn't want to . Feelings had dissipated. Thoughts of freedom long gone. I was empty. Bruised and battered by the viciousness of what some call... love . Love had charmed me. Love had pulled me in, and when I fell deep, love watched me fall. Just to pick me back up to do it again. A repetitive cycle that wouldn't end. A cycle I'd barely escaped. Now, alive as I felt, I wasn't really living. Parts of me wanted to die, parts of me wanted to live, but I didn't know how to do either. I lived in a heightened state of anxiety. Fear consumed me. I trusted no one. Constantly looking over my shoulder. Knock, knock ! I jumped. My stomach turning. Could he have found me? As quickly as I could, I slid off the dusty old bed, reaching under my pillow. Pulling out a handgun, I made my way to the door. My pulse beating incessantly. I swear I could hear my own heart. Drips of sweat forming. Hands shaking. My mind on high alert. I was terrified. Could he have really found me? I shook the thought away. He couldn't have . I've covered all my tracks. .. Even as the voice in my head spoke, trying hard to convince me, I still held the gun to the door as I peered through the peep hole. Flinching, as my eye looked out, expecting to see the same icy stare and ominous smile eating at my soul. But as I refocused my eyes, gripping the gun so tight I thought my hand might break, I realized it wasn't him, but a woman. The woman who worked the front desk of the motel. Thank God. Breathing a sigh of relief, I relaxed, opening the door enough to allow communication. Her eyes were warm and inviting. A greenish blue color so brilliant it reminded me of the ocean. A place I'd always hope to end up...and her smile was bright. Much brighter than anyone I'd ever met. The glow of happiness shining around her. It made my heart ache. What it must be like to feel so wonderful... "Hi!!" She paused, smiling sweetly, but nothing came out of my mouth. "Sorry to bother you. I work at the motel." She turned, pointing to a small building. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone..." My voice cracked as I said the last word. I couldn't help but glance around. "Right, sorry for intruding." She must've sensed my uneasiness because she continued, as if to reassure me she meant no harm. "I usually don't bother guests, but I noticed you haven't left your room...," she hesitated, "I wondered if you wanted to join me for dinner? The food here can't be something you're enjoying." She laughed. Her laugh eased my mind. If things were different we could be friends. "You don't have to, but I thought you might like something decent at some point." She laughed again and I managed a small smile. "Thanks... I don't know if going to town is a good idea. I prefer to be alone. I...like my privacy." "Oh...," she looked disappointed, "you sure? If we went now, it'd be empty. They have a back area. No one sits there." "Um...," I hesitated. "Gosh I'm sorry! You're clearly uninterested. Everyone says I'm too pushy." Shaking her head, the brightness of her smile faded and I felt bad. There was no harm in dinner. There'd been no signs indicating he was close... Against my better judgement, I decided I'd go. "Don't be, dinner sounds nice. It'd be good to get something better in my stomach." I said reassuringly. Her smile came back instantly. "Wonderful, do you want to walk? It's not far." "Sure, that...sounds nice," my smile met hers, "let me grab my bag." "Great!" She was beaming. Closing the door, I leaned back, taking a minute. Long enough for my brain to work against me. What if she knows him? Could be a trap. Oh God, what if it's a trap?? The scenarios flooded my head so quickly I shut my eyes, wanting to scream, but not allowing myself to. My heart picked up speed. I could feel the anxiety creeping through my bones. I grabbed at my chest when the constraints hit and it became harder to breath. I was inhaling and exhaling so fast tears where forming in the corner of my eyes and my fingertips were going numb. "Hey, it's Alexandra, right? You okay?" The sound of the woman's voice stopped me dead in my tracks. I released the breath I'd been holding and assessed my surroundings. Realizing I was fine. He wasn't here. I hadn't seen a hint of him...and she WAS being friendly. As long as I kept my guard up, I'd be okay. Quickly grabbing my bag, I slipped the gun inside, opening the door once more. "It's just Alex, and I'm fine." "Well, Alex, I'm Haven. Haven Wynters...let's get you something to eat." *** Weeks came and went. Then months. The longer I stayed, the more relaxed I got. Hanging out with Haven didn't help either. As our friendship grew, so did my hope of freedom and feeling safe. I even started helping her around the motel. Maybe after all this time he'd given up.. . My wedding anniversary was coming up. A date that brought up too many memories. Made me uneasy...but I was determined to make it through unfazed. However, when I met up with Haven, for breakfast, there was a chill in the air. Something felt out of place and I got the very distinct feeling I was being watched. Glancing around from side to side, clutching the gun, I saw nothing. Still, as I walked to the diner, I felt I was being followed. My gut telling me I was right to be worried, but my brain battled between: second guessing myself, being paranoid, and being right. When I walked into the diner, though, all I was met with was Haven's bright smile. Something I'd come to find comforting. "Alex!" She jumped up and grabbed me in a hug. I flinched. Which only made her hug me harder. Even though I'd never told her about my past, she seemed to have sensed something bad happened. Her daily hugs were always followed by... "You know, Alex, if you need to talk I'm here." "I know, Haven." She'd nod understandingly. Then we'd eat. Make small talk. Most of which was about Haven's life. But something about the way this morning had gone made me want to open after all. "Have you noticed anyone new in town...other than me?" "No... Why? Expecting someone?," she asked eating away at her blueberry pancakes, "Cause if you are I'll keep an eye out." "No...yes...it's complicated." Haven looked up inquisitively. Her mouthful of pancakes. "You okay, Alex?" "I'm fine...I just..." My voice trailed off. What could I say? "Alex," Haven's hand met mine, "I can see you're not okay. Always looking in every direction, you're never really here, and you flinch ANYTIME I touch you. You never even left that room until I asked you to dinner. Who knows how long you'd of stayed in there if I hadn't. It's okay if you're not alright. No judgments. I want to help." She sounded so sincere, I burst into tears. No one had ever been so kind. I hadn't expected to feel safe with her. So I opened up. "It started after we'd been married five years...five years? Can you believe that?... I met him when I was young. So handsome. So charming. And when he kissed me I felt I was where I was supposed to be. Such a deep connection. We had many years together. Happy years. Then something changed. It was like one day somebody flipped a switch and he was no longer the man I'd married. He was dark...dangerous, and he drank. I tried to help, but he'd get angry. Say horrible things to me... Everything I said got twisted. I was always wrong...and I'd end up feeling bad for something he did. How could I've ever allowed that!?," I sighed heavily, "But I did. Over and over. Taking everything he said to heart. Clinging to every shred of happiness he threw my way. Which was always an apology... I loved him so much, and I don't even know why." I paused. "It wasn't until he pushed me against a wall, knife to my throat, saying, "I could kill you. No one would notice. No one would care.", that I finally gathered up enough strength to leave. Since then I haven't stopped running. And I never stay anywhere long... Except here. But I shouldn't have, Haven. I feel like I'm being watched, like he's here. Taunting me. I can feel it. I swear. I feel that same fear in my gut. I know he's here. Lurking. Waiting. What should I do?" My eyes were so teary I could barely see Haven's smile. She squeezed my hand tighter and moved to my side, wrapping me up in a hug. I cried harder and she held me. "Oh Alex, you don't have to run. He's not here and if he is...so what? I can help, everyone will help. I promise we'll keep you safe. You don't have to be afraid of him anymore." Haven's words were comforting. But not enough. At least if he took me down, someone could speak for me. Maybe take him down too. She'd been such a marvelous friend that it hurt my heart to know I was leaving. She meant well and probably had every intention of protecting me, but I knew, all too well, he was better. I couldn't risk her getting hurt because of me. I would keep running as long as I had too. *** We'd finished our meal with the promise of me joining her for dinner. However, I had different plans. As I walked briskly back to my room, my stomach turned from the anxiety creeping up the back of my neck. Something was definitely wrong. Or maybe I was incredibly paranoid. .. My gut told me that wasn't true. I could feel him. I wrapped my fingers around my gun as I unlocked my room, ready to shoot, and swung the door open... Nothing. God, I was crazy. I breathed a sigh of relief. Haven was right. I was safe. It was my own paranoia causing these feelings. He couldn't have found me. Reassuring my brain was enough for me to release the grip around my gun. Not a second later, I felt someone shove me forward. Hitting me hard on the back. Causing my full weight to fall forward. My head smacked the corner of the bedframe and I was out. *** I awoke groggy, my head pounding, not sure what happened. Looking around I saw nothing. So I tried to get up. Realizing quickly that wasn't going to happen. I was tied to a chair. Tears forming in my eyes. He'd found me.. . Then I noticed the bathroom door was ajar. He was there. I could feel it in my bones. Feel his grip on my skin, see that malicious smile. My heart started racing. Sweat dripping, hands shaking. I could feel the familiar pain in my chest as my breathing quickened and I grasped for air as it got harder to breathe. Eyes darting in every direction as panic filled my entire body. "Alexandra, darling, breathe. It'll only get worse if you continue to panic." My heart dropped. Staring at me, with a smile I could recognize a mile away, was him. "Thomas...please." I uttered between raspy breaths. A moment later he was in front of me, his hand caressing my face. I flinched at his touch. "Do you know how long it took to find you," he put his face in my lap, "I was afraid I'd never see you again." "That was the point." I spewed angrily. His head shot up. Smile gone. He looked as if I'd just given him the worst news. "How dare you say that? Don't you know how much I LOVE YOU!" His voice increased in volume so much he was yelling by the end. He'd grabbed my arms and shook me around. "You are MY wife. Look at what you're making me do! I had to look every where for you! You stupid ,ungrateful, bitch. I do everything for you! And this is how you repay me? By taking off and disappearing!" I felt the sting of his hand against my face long before he made contact. He grabbed my hair, yanking so hard my head was thrown back. Through tear stained eyes, I pleaded with him. "Thomas...please..., just let me go..." His laugh cut right through me. "Let You go? Oh, my darling, Alexandra, I will never let you go. Ever. Again." The menacing tone of his voice caused me to cry harder. I'd made it this far to end up here...Thomas having the power. He grabbed my throat so tight I could hardly breath and untied me. Pulling me to my feet, he got close enough that I could feel his breath. "You are mine forever." I cringed. He dragged me forward. "I need you to pack your things. We're going home." "Please, I can't...I can't breathe." He let go, but turned me to face him. "No funny business, Alexandra. You will pack and we will go. Or I'll have to hurt you." I nodded and he released me. But never left my side. Scrambling, I rushed around grabbing my belongings. His body not a step away from mine. Bending down, to grab my bag, I realized the gun was still inside. I stood up. Not letting on I'd started forging a plan. With a gun I had a chance. Motioning to my bag, I asked if I could grab medicine for my head. He agreed, but eyed me with suspicion. Reaching in, I clutched the gun and slowly lifted my hand. A second later I dropped the bag, pointing the gun at Thomas, who was enraged and running towards me. Without hesitation, I pulled the trigger. BANG! The same time I shot, Thomas snatched me up. Narrowly missing a bullet to the head. He threw me against the wall. Then pulled me up by my hair. I winced as he put his arm across my throat. I could feel my trachea being crushed. Tears blinding me, I held tightly to the gun he was desperately trying to take. Grunting in frustration, I saw the evil in his eyes as he backed away. The second I breathed, I felt his hand connect with my face and I fell over. I tried to cock the gun, but he stomped on my leg so hard I was sure it broke. I yelped, crumpling to the floor while his laughter broke my heart. "Oh, Alexandra, look what you're doing to us. Look what you're making me do!" He was pacing now, one hand on his hip the other against his forehead. As if trying to decide what to do next while I laid in a ball whimpering. A few minutes later he'd changed completely. Anger vanished, replaced by the manipulating, apologetic, man I'd come to hate. He bent down to my level, wiped tears from my face, and hair from my eyes. I flinched and he smiled sympathetically. "I can't let anyone have you. You have to be with me." Taking a chance at getting through to this side of the man I once loved, I said what I knew he wanted to hear. "Thomas, baby..." He looked triumphant. "I...I love you so much. You know that. I was scared." "Darling, you don't have to be scared. I won't hurt you." "I know baby, but my leg. I can't move. I need a doctor." "I'll get you fixed once we get home." I could hear anger building back up. I had little hope of getting away. Words weren't enough. I needed something more. So I leaned in. Using my free hand to grab the back of his head, I kissed him like my life depended on it. Because it did. He pushed forward, kissing back, running his hands through my hair. Moving, I slid my hand down his chest and over to the gun, slowly pulling back the hammer. It was so slow it hadn't made a sound, even as I released. Thomas was so lost in the moment, it wasn't until I pressed the gun to his chest that his eyes met mine with complete confusion...then anger. "Alexan..." was all he muttered out before the bullet hit his chest. His eyes wide with shock as he fell back. The gun still pointing his way, shaking in my hands; which had turned white. I was breathing hard. Ears ringing. Then nothing. Everything was still. Nothing but silence. I was free.