April 28th, 2015 Jack hated coming here. The chairs were too stuffed and too high off of the ground to support himself with your feet, so he was constantly struggling not to fall off. It smelled like Pinesol and old people. The air conditioning blew from a vent in the ceiling a few degrees too cold and a few decibels too loud. Jack was sure he could hear the fan rattling almost imperceptibly. The fact that he couldn’t tell if it was actually rattling or all in his head made it all the more annoying. But mostly, Jack hated living. “Good morning, Jack!” the too-chipper psychiatrist greeted him as he finally opened the door and strode through. Jack had no idea what time it actually was, but he was fairly confident that it hadn’t been morning for quite some time. It felt like he had been waiting for hours. Come to think of it, he couldn’t even remember the exact time he entered the room. There was no clock on the wall. Jack glanced briefly down at his watch, but the hands stood still. He mentally swore at himself for not even noticing that it had died. “Morning,” Jack mumbled half-heartedly. He didn’t have the mental energy to debate the proper term for whatever time of day it was. “And how are we feeling today?” the psychiatrist inquired. “Any improvement?” “Honestly, doc, I still feel like shit,” Jack replied, “Those pills you gave me haven’t done anything, or not anything positive anyways. Sure I don’t cry anymore, but I don’t get happy either. I’m just numb all the time. I thought you said those pills were supposed to make me feel better?” The doctor peered at Jack intently before scribbling something illegibly on his notepad. “Those pills were for getting rid of the suicidal ideations,” he said gently yet rather abruptly. “They won’t make you happy. You have to do that for yourself by resolving your own issues. I’m more than just a prescription pad, Jack. I’m here to help you work through what’s troubling you.” Jack knew exactly what was troubling him, but he’d be damned if he’d ever tell it to this quack. He just wanted to get the pills that would let him move on with his life, and mostly he just wanted to forget. But, he supposed, he would probably have to oblige the doctor at least a little bit, if he wanted any chance at getting the stronger medication. He sighed a sigh of feigned resignation. “Well what am I supposed to say?” he asked, hoping to prompt the doctor into asking an easy question. No such luck. The doctor didn’t miss a beat, cutting straight to the chase. “We still haven’t talked about what happened overseas.” Jack winced. This guy was obviously sick of beating around the bush. Maybe he was getting just as sick of this back and forth as Jack was. It wouldn’t be surprising. After all, he was only human too. “I don’t see how that’d help,” Jack replied defensively, “It’s over. I’m back here now. You obviously deal with people like me every day. I’m not some special fucking case for you to crack. Just write me a prescription for whatever you write the other guys. Some shit to make me sleep, some shit to make me happy, and some shit to make me forget.” He knew that he shouldn’t have lost his cool by the rapid scribbling going onto the doctor’s notepad. He cursed himself again. The fucking shrink would have a field day psychoanalyzing every little tidbit of that outburst on his tape recorder later. Still, he was hopeful that maybe the outburst would at least convince the doctor that he really did need some better pills. This time, he actually found himself in luck, as the doctor sat his notepad down and leaned back in his chair. “I think maybe you’re misunderstanding me, Jack,” the doctor said in a tone too overly nice to be genuine but not quite overly nice enough to be patronizing. “I’m not going to try to get you to talk about anything you’re not ready for. We’re going to take this at your pace, and I want you to be comfortable.” Jack’s excitement rose as he saw the doctor reach for his prescription pad. Finally, he thought. The doctor scrawled a drug that Jack wouldn’t have been able to pronounce even if he had been able to read the handwriting, and signed it with a flourish. “I want you to come back and see me in two weeks,” the doctor admonished him, “These pills should help you stay calm. We’ll reassess and hopefully talk more then.” Jack muttered a half-hearted thank you, snatched the paper, and walked out of the door as fast as he could without seeming like a total jackoff. *** Two weeks later, he found himself in the same office. The past two weeks had been a blur. He knew he had experienced the passing of time, but would be hard-pressed to pin down any specific memories from that time period, at least of his waking hours. His nightmares, he remembered well: The sand, the cracks of machine gun fire and the even louder cracks of shattering bone. The screams haunted him, and he always screamed along as he awoke. Except he didn’t remember waking up from them these past two weeks. Obviously he had woken up, because now he was sitting here, but he couldn’t remember waking up any more than he could remember falling asleep. It must have been these new pills. The office was even more annoying today. Whoever was in charge of cleaning clearly wasn’t responsible for the cleaning supplies budget, because they had gotten even more generous with that goddamned Pinesol. The fan had stopped rattling, but now there was this odd clicking sound coming from somewhere that he couldn’t place. His ears were ringing too, but that wasn’t a by-product of the room. The hinge clearly wanted for lubrication as the door creaked open at a frequency perfectly out of key with the ringing in his ears to make him cringe. “Hi there Jack,” the doctor greeted him, “Good to see you”. It sounded like he really meant it. Jack shifted his weight uncomfortably in his chair. Something was unsettling about the doctor today, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something in his face made Jack’s skin crawl, but he had no idea why. He again mentally blamed the new pills. He definitely needed to get off those and onto something better. “Good morning,” Jack said, feeling anxious to actually get down to business today, “Those pills you gave me two weeks ago... Something isn’t right with them. They’re fucking with my head. I can barely remember anything about the last two weeks.” “Hmm, let me take a look,” the doctor replied as he diligently took down his notes, “Some short-term memory loss and confusion is a rare side effect of this drug, but it looks like it must have affected you this way. Bad news, that’s the only drug on the market right now that’ll work for what we’re trying to do. Good news, there’s another drug that should counteract those side effects.” That didn’t sound right to Jack, but the fog in his mind left him unable to reason why. He merely nodded his acquiescence, and the doctor started scribbling on his prescription pad again. “While you’re here though, I think you’re going to tell me a little bit about your time overseas,” the doctor stated authoritatively. Jack surprised himself by agreeing, not just verbally, but mentally as well. Maybe it was time he finally got some of it off of his chest. He took a deep breath. “What do you want to know?” he asked wearily. “Tell me about what got you sent back here.” Jack’s temper flared at that one. He couldn’t control it anymore; it often got the best of him. “I’m pretty goddamn sure you know what fucking happened,” he snapped, “I got blown the fuck up, or my convoy did at least. I’m lucky to be alive, or so they told me. It’s not fucking lucky to be the only one alive when all your friends are in pieces in the desert somewhere.” “Jack, you’re experiencing survivor’s guilt,” the doctor said comfortingly, “It’s a natural response when we go through something that we think we didn’t deserve to survive.” “I’m don’t feel guilty for what happened to my squad,” Jack shot back, “I’m just fucked up”. At that, he resolved not to say anything else, even if solely to piss the doctor off. It was about time he returned the favor; this shrink had been pissing him off since day one. But the doctor seemed unfazed, merely making a single-sentence reply before tearing off the prescription and handing it to Jack. “I think you are.” *** Jack was back for his next visit even sooner than scheduled. He hoped the doctor would have time to see him today, even those the annoying receptionist had told him that it wasn’t guaranteed. He didn’t care. He had to be seen today. The nightmares had gotten worse. It wasn’t just the flashbacks anymore. It was new. He would find himself in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night, with only a tiny sliver of a crescent moon for illumination. The stars were strangely absent. As he walked in a direction he hoped would lead to water, he could hear steps behind him, but every time he whirled around to face whatever was following him, they would fall silent. His eyes couldn’t make out anything behind him, but he knew there was something. Then it happened: A shriek, and a creature bounding towards him like a lion. Jack hauled ass, or at least attempted to, but all of his equipment weighed him down. He doubted that he could’ve outran the thing even had he been completely naked though. He would feel the weight of it slam into him before he felt the claws. It was moving so fast that it knocked wind right out of him, and he lied sprawled out on his back, gasping for breath and instinctually flailing his hands to protect his throat from a bite that never came. Sand was in his eyes and he could barely see, but through his blurred vision he could barely make out the face of a familiar girl with blue eyes and a light-brown complexion, no older than sixteen, on the body of a lion. She looked terrified at first, then sad. Then she opened her mouth with a scream, revealing vicious fangs, and lunged at his face. Jack woke up screaming every time. Jack started in his seat as the door slammed open. Apparently the hinges had gotten the grease that they so badly needed. The shrink entered purposefully, taking a seat directly opposite Jack, facing him with an uncomfortable amount of eye contact. “Jack, I’m surprised to see you here,” he said, “Our appointment wasn’t for another three weeks. What’s going on?” “It’s the pills,” Jack said, “They’re making things even worse than before. The nightmares are out of control, and they’re not helping my side effects at all. In fact, they’re making them worse. All I can remember for the past week are the nightmares. I can’t take it anymore, doc. I can’t live like this. You have to fix me.” “That’s not possible,” the doctor replied curtly, “Nightmares are not a side effect of any of these pills. Those are from your guilt, not from any pills that I’ve given you. We have to talk about your guilt first.” Jack had had it with this shit. Of course he felt guilty. He felt guilty for all the fucked up shit he had to see and do over there. He felt guilty for every round that left the barrel of his rifle. But not for the goddamned IED that blew up his friends. He hadn’t set it, and he hadn’t driven over it. It wasn’t his fault. “I told you, I don’t have ‘survivor’s guilt’,” Jack spat. Calmly, the shrink put down his pen and notepad. “That wasn’t the guilt I was referring to,” he said in an even voice, “I was referring to Adra.” At the mention of that name, fear and adrenaline coursed through Jack’s veins. He thought he might have a flashback right there in the office, but he somehow stayed rooted to reality, and even managed to keep what he thought was an impassive blank face. The shrink, however, was having none of it. “Don’t bullshit me, Jack,” the normally professional doctor said, sudden venom in his words, “I know what happened that night. I know what you did.” Jack’s fight or flight response was firing on all cylinders. He didn’t know how, but this doctor knew his darkest secret, a secret that not even his exploded friends had ever known. Adra’s name burned his neurons to even think about, and here he was, being forced to think about her by this goddamned shrink. That bastard. Who the fuck did he think he was? And how the hell did he know Adra’s name? Jack looked fearfully right into the doctor’s eyes. The doctor met his stare, not blinking even once. For a moment Jack thought he saw something behind the eyes, something that terrified him to his core, and this time he didn’t write it off as simply a side effect of the medication. In that moment, Jack understood. Without a word, the doctor wrote a prescription for another drug, tore it off, and handed it to Jack, still unblinking. Jack numbly accepted it, knowing that it was unlikely to make anything better. He knew nothing would ever get better, not for him. The nightmares would continue, and he’d be back here again; he was sure of it. Things were only going to get worse, and he knew he deserved every minute of it. As he stood to leave, he had one flash of a thought, unburdened by the drugs. War is hell alright.


"Congratulations! I can't believe after all these years you're both finally going to be parents! I'm so super excited for you both." Mum was clapping her hands like a cymbal- banging monkey and uncoordinatedly jumping up and down- until she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. "I just peed a little!” And with that - she ran out the room laughing. Half the family gathered around the lounge room hung their heads and shook them at their chests. The other half were slapping thighs and rocking back in laughter - I was one of the ones rocking back and forth. • • • “I stand here on this most precious of moments and share with you the story of our eternal love and gratefulness of our family. We welcome Henry, dear Henry...” The entire room of gathered friends and family yelled in unison “DEAR HENRY, DEAR HENRY!” Cheers roared out, tables were banged, and glasses clinked. As the ruckus dimmed, the father of the bride continued. “You all know me, and you all know I hate this standing round talking, so I think this is the perfect time to hand over to the real spokesperson of the family. Darling...would you like to continue?” She sat for a minute, tears spilling over her lids and composed herself as she moved her napkin from her lap to the table. “It was my dad, the best pop in the world, that came to us the day you were born, carrying a red pine seedling with your name and date of birth embroidered in the pink ribbon wrapped around it. We weren't sure what we were to do with the gift. I knew they grew into the most beautiful giants of trees.” "It's for her future. It's the tree that will keep on giving." His voice had been soft and sincere, and his eyes had been full of love. "I'll plant it for her and nurture it, as you shall nurture her. You'll see. They will both be wondrous and beautiful as they grow and reach for the stars.” He had told me. I asked him about the seedling, and he said he had gone to the nursery on the day we told him we would soon be calling him pop. He browsed the trees for hours until he picked the right one, the perfect one to put your name to. As you grew, so did the tree. As you learnt to walk, your tree learned to sway with the wind, and true to his word you both grew and reached for the stars. Nan made picnics for you to have under the evergreen growing branches of your tree. and when you were 6 and your tree was good and sturdy, pop hung a swing to push you in for hours. And when Nan bought you a leather-bound journal at 13 years old, you would go and sit under that tree and write your hopes and dreams in the shade of its branches. Sometimes we would see you just sitting under the tree at 16, just being there. And as you grew further and met the man you would marry, he knew the importance of that tree and proposed with moonlight shining through the leaves. “It’s been a while since you have visited your tree and although the memories will always remain, pop had one thing in mind when he bought that tree the day he found out you would be coming into this world, and that was to give you a wedding gift. You will cry tears of sadness and tears of happiness, dad would you like to do the honours?” The sturdy old man stood tall. Feet planted shoulder width apart as if he himself were a giant of the forest. The smile he shared with his daughter as she kissed him on the cheek melted every heart in the room. “I love you dad.” She whispered into his ear. He turned to the bride "My darling granddaughter, behind you, you see the all the pictures on the screen of you and your tree and all the joy and happiness you brought to not only your Mum and Dad, but to Nan and I, always. Your tree was no longer able to protect you from the bright sun or give you cover from wind and rain in the form it had grown. Your tree is your ever evolving and everlasting gift from us to you." He handed her a set of keys. "It almost shattered my heart to say goodbye to your beautiful protector, but soon you will have your own precious child and that child deserves his or her own tree. Turn to the screen our darling granddaughter, and mind not to ruin your makeup.” His eyes glistened and he lowered his head. She turned to the screen and saw a beautiful timber house. She looked at the keys and then at the house. "A house? We can't accept a house!" "Look at the background." She looked at the background on the oversized screen. The house was exactly where her tree had stood. "Grandpa! Is that my tree! You turned my tree into a house!" Tears streamed down her face. “And in the backyard, I shall plant another for your child to be, and it shall be nurtured as your tree was. It shall bring endless fond memories for all the family, and you shall be forever protected in your tree house." The old man raised a glass. "A toast to the bride and groom. May they always feel safe and secure and grow stronger together each day.” “To the bride and groom!” Glasses clinked and cheers roared out while tears were dried on napkins and sleeves and the bride and groom hugged her grandparents tightly. Nan was clapping like a cymbal-banging monkey and jumping up and down uncoordinatedly...until she stopped dead in her tracks. "Oh shoot!" Nan said to the bride. "You darn went and squeezed me too tight! I just peed a little! Faces fell to hands and people leaned back in laughter as nan went tottling off to the loo.


The last bullet left the muzzle of his rifle with a deafening bang. It took with him all his hopes of survival. He reached for the sharp knife held at his boot strap. He wasn't going out without a fight! Life has changed in the past three weeks. A stray dog drank a rare chemical that had leaked from a pharmaceutical company . The dog got violent and bit almost every residence of the neighboring town resulting in everyone turning into zombies overnight. The government took immediate steps to control the situation by imposing lockdown and bringing in the military. Yet, the zombie count was increasing exponentially and it was declared an emergency. One night, I was in my room studying for my upcoming exam when my elder brother rushed in and told me to turn on the news channel on TV. The news showed that the zombie apocalypse has begun in our city. Both of us were concerned about our mother. My mother is a widowed police officer who has recently been sent in a mission to evacuate the residence of a housing society. We tried to call her but all the communication system was down. My brother wanted to go out looking for her but I stopped him as it was not wise to go outside in such conditions. Suddenly, someone rang the doorbell. My brother went to open the door but I stopped him telling that it might be the zombies. My brother assured me that zombies don't have brain and hence cannot ring the doorbell. He looked through the peephole to find out who it was but couldn't see anything as it was covered in blood. Arming himself he slowly opened the door. It was our mother, who was heavily injured. Her whole team was ambushed by the zombies in that society. She was the lone survivor of her team. She told me to lock all the doors and windows properly. She asked my brother to check for any zombie bite in her body. Luckily, she wasn't bitten by the zombie. My brother nursed her injuries. The zombie apocalypse had been completely spread in our city. The government set up a council to take an immediate decision. The leader of the council proposed to send a missile and burn the city to ashes killing all the zombies. However, many of them protested as many survivors were still stuck in the city. Suddenly, they recieved an information that the zombie apocalypse has begun in many other cities too. Three days later, a news came out that the government has fallen and the public are on their own. Soon, power supply, water supply and supply of other basic commodities got cut off. People started coming out of their houses in search of help; instead got turned into zombies. We managed to stay in our house for ten days. But, food and water ran out four days ago and we were starving. My mother saw an overturned truck containing packed noodles and decides to step out. She brought the food packets and fed us. She then revealed a startling fact. She had been bitten by a zombie and might turn into one any time soon. Therefore, she wanted to take us to a safe place before that. My brother and me were crying silently. We went to the police headquarters and armed ourselves with various kinds of weapon. Our mother quickly taught us how to shoot a gun. She also told us to only aim for a headshot and also instructed us to do the same to her as soon as she loses her human feelings. We then drove in a car to the nearest air base. My mother spotted a private jet and decides to take us in it. Unbeknownst to us, few people were already hiding in the jet. They threw us out as they soon as they found that my mother was bitten. Hearing the sound, the zombies ran towards the base and started attacking us. They entered the jet and attacked the people in it, instantly transforming them into zombies. My brother ran to a different direction and distracted the zombies. We realised that he had decided to sacrifice himself to save us. We both started crying. My mother tried to stop him but he doesn't listen. He entered a godown while simultaneously shooting down the zombies. The last bullet left the muzzle of his rifle with a deafening bang. It took with him all his hopes of survival. He reached for the sharp knife held at his boot strap. He wasn't going out without a fight! He then realised he had entered a godown with explosives. He activates a bomb killing himself and the surrounding zombies. Me and my mother run back to the car and escape from the place. I then realised the fact that everyone turned into zombies immediately after they got bitten except my mother. My mother survived the bite for more than four hours. We then go to a R&D centre where my Mom's friend works. Fortunately, her friend was still uninfected. Her team did a couple of tests and found out that my mother's serum is immune to the zombie. Using my mother's serum, within two days, a drug is developed which not only made people immune to the zombies but also turned the zombies back into humans. The drug was mass produced and sprayed all over the world by planes and ,therefore, ended the Zombie apocalypse.


The note is done. Written, edited, signed, done. The noose is cinched and hung. All that's left is for me to decorate the door. I stood staring at it for what felt like an eternity. Today, every second had felt like eternity. I had writhed in agony watching each minute tick by, as if a lifetime had passed. I had tried everything I knew and I'd been told: dunked my face in cold water, but my forehead had felt red hot; meditated and focused on my breathing, but I'd retreat back into my head between each breath and be left gasping for air; took a scalding bath, for a moment I was in my skin again but then the water and I felt as one; I tried to nap, a reset was always in store, but I woke up still at death's door. I hadn't done it yet, though. I'd never been closer, but I still hadn't done it. Before I hit send, before I decorated the door, I told myself I'd go for one last run to get out of my head. I've been treading water the last week, just barely keeping my head up. I tried mushrooms a few days ago and for the first time in what felt like months could accept myself. In fact, I discovered I was stuck in time, two months earlier when I'd been dumped. My heart hadn't moved on, but the universe relentlessly had. And for 24 hours the mushrooms gave me clarity that I needed to move on, and even had. There was a moment when time seemed to stop and suddenly I was vaulted forward to the present. Over and around the intervening months. I was present again. But just as sudden as the revelation had fallen upon me it was stripped away and the black dog weighed down my chest once more. Shakily, I put on my running clothes. I considered my route, an old standard. Roughly 3.5 miles. It'd buy me a calculated 24-27 more minutes to think about this decision. I cinched my laces, I hate these shoes. I struck out the door. When my feet hit the pavement I realized this wasn't a regular jog. I wasn't running to run. I was running to kill myself. Or not. I'd find out along the way. Suddenly the route and distance didn't matter. I knew I'd be going further than I'd thought. I started out at a normal pace and began upping my tempo. I knew I was out of shape. I knew a single 7 minute mile would be my limit, as it had been on several of the past days. But today wasn't those days. I couldn't feel the exhaustion, the pain of my body. Moments earlier, all I could feel was my body exhausted. I was trapped in my head. I could push my body well past it's limits today, because I wasn't leaving my heart or my head until my body hurt more. Around the first mile I started muttering to myself: you've never outrun yourself before, but today is the day you beat yourself. And I kept running. I came upon a long flat stretch, a narrow catwalk along the water's edge, and I broke into a sprint. I was going to break myself now. I pushed until I could feel the burn in my legs, my throat and my lungs. I hadn't pushed myself like this in days, weeks, months or maybe even years. I'd forgotten what it felt like. I started feeling light-headed. This was to be alive? But it couldn't last. I ground to a halt and walked. Finally outside my head again, but still thinking. Finally not drowning in my thoughts. I'd realized earlier what it is in those last moments. It is quite literally drowning in your thoughts. My brain takes over, dwelling on my past failures, rejections, losses. And it's as if every iota of my brain power is diverted to these fruitless forays in my hippocampus. Every drip of processing is diverted. Suddenly my breathing reflex kicks in. I haven't been breathing. I've been drowning in my thoughts. And with it a sense of fear and dread; adrenaline courses through my aorta, spreading across my chest and dilating my bronchi. Fight or flight, from my own past? Pushing myself achieves this same end. But what am I running for? What am I running toward? I don't know, and I feel so lost and unbound. Adrift and asea. I thought again "if this is your last run, you're going out strong" and started sprinting again. I ran, and I ran, and I ran. I ran through throngs of people amidst cherry blossoms who didn't know I was probably running to my death. But suddenly I didn't want to die anymore, at least not yet. Not now. And I started a new mantra "this run saved my life." And I realized I could say that every time I ran. Or biked. Or hiked. Or sat with friends. Or worked on a project. Or spoke to my mom. But to do so I'd have to get through those long, dark minutes of pure and intense pain. I'd have to learn to hurt myself, again, running, hiking, biking. But I kept running, as fast and as hard as I could. I circled back around on my path, it was a lollipop route and I was completing the candy. And I pushed myself until I was back on the inner leg of it, the stem. I pushed myself so hard I started vomiting. In a homeless camp of all places. I'd had nothing to eat today, and little yesterday. I was subsisting on coffee. The bile came up black, sour, bitter. Much as the coffee had been going down. It seemed a funny parallel. And I decided then that I wanted to write about this. I wanted to share my story, because today: I didn't kill myself. I might have, some part of me wanted to. But I ran away. And I'll keep running. It's tough. But I think I found something to run for again. I'd mostly stopped running ages ago, but I think this was the motivation I needed to start again. The rest of my life is in shambles and I don't know what I'm doing. But I can keep running. I'll start running with a group, I think. And each time I'll let them know at the end "this run saved my life." I'll let them decide what that means to me, and them.


“Who...are you?” ”That’s what I want to ask you-” he snorted, the exact same way I do- “and why the heck do I have a doppelganger?” “Well I’d like an answer to that myself. Is this the Empire’s new plot, replacing officers with spies that look like them?” I asked. “Replace you? Oh *please,* have you read too many detective novels? Even if we had such a fantastic plan, why would I waste my time to take the place of an insignificant soldier when I could be using that time to come up with some strategies? Not to mention my father would never al-” he suddenly stopped himself, as if he had let slip something he shouldn’t have. ‘Strategies?’ I thought to myself, could this guy in front of me be one of the battle strategists of the Empire? If so, should I just kill him now when I can and weaken the enemy? He seemed to have sensed my thoughts, shifting himself I saw him clutch the knife in his hands a bit tighter, but it seemed more like a reassurance for himself than a threat for me. “What sort of rotten luck do I have to end up in this situation?” he sighed softly, “One second I was just scouting out the area for the summit(?) looking for any traps and the next I’m falling down a goddamn hole...” he stopped and looked at me “How did you end up falling down right after me?” “...I was scouting, same as you. Heard a noise and investigated... and-” “And the next you’re falling down a goddamn hole huh?” he smiled in a rather self-deprecating way. “Well aren’t you the least bit interested in how we look so alike?” I asked,trying to change the subject “Of course I am, but what does it matter? There’s all sorts of strange things in this world.” He sighed again and spoke “So what do you reckon we should do now? We can’t climb our way out, that hole we fell in through is now clogged by rocks and the tunnels out of here are all too narrow for a person” “We can only wait for rescue” I said. “Rescue?” he said mockingly “And how exactly are we going to be rescued? No one saw us fall in, no one’s familiar enough with the terrain to notice a hole blocked by rocks and certainly no one’s going to think that two people happen to buried under those rocks. And even if rescue did come, then what? You do realize that we are enemies right? IF my people come, they most probably will kill you on the spot...and the same goes for you.” “It’ll all work out somehow,” I said,trying to sound more confident that I felt. “Ever the optimist aren’t you?” he sneered at me. “Well do you have a better plan than to hope someone will come rescue us?” I snapped at him, my patience was limited and this guy seemed to be stripping it away every time he opened his mouth. “...No.” his voice seemed to crack, I couldn’t make out his expression in the dim light but I could guess that it wouldn’t have been much different from how I felt.” I don’t,” he said again. “So we wait,” I said as I slowly stretched out my legs and leaned back against a boulder “I’m Raza by the way.” He didn’t reply for a few seconds but then I heard a low chuckle “An apt name considering you’re such an optimist...I’m...Connor” “Pretty apt yourself isn’t it?...strong willed” I couldn’t help but chuckle back but he didn’t reply. “Do you think we’ll be rescued?” he asked after a while “Even if rescue came,both of us leaving this place and surviving is honestly near impossible” “But near impossible doesn’t mean zero right?” I said aloud more to myself than him. “...yeah you’re right” a voice softly said across from me. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “Hey,” my voice sounded faint even to me “ how long do you think we’ve been here?” “What’s the matter Mr.Optimist? Starting to get homesick?” his voice was weak. “Are we...are we not going to make it?” “You mean are we going to do in here?...Honestly our chances don’t look great,” his voiced seemed to grow stronger despite the crushing words he uttered “but don’t forget, near impossible doesn’t mean zero.” “You have the pendant right?” I asked despite how hard it was getting for me to open my mouth. “For the last time, yeah I do, just as you have mine...and if one of us makes it out and the other doesn’t, we’ll make sure to hand the pendant over to the other side to be send to our parents,” even as he talked his voice was becoming fainter till I could hardly discern what he was saying. “Hey...” I said again but this time I didn’t get a reply. I felt panic surge through me and weakly tried to move over to were he was. But the action made my head spin and I powerlessly fell to the ground. As my vision began to black out I thought I heard faint voices and a rumble of machinery. I tried to speak but I could no longer control my body. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The light was too bright. I had a blinding headache and my whole body felt numb. I could smell disinfectant in the air. Forcing myself to open my eyes I saw the blurry outlines of a spacious room. Blinking through the pain behind my eyes I saw my surroundings come into focus. I was in a well lit room, lying on a cot placed among a row of similar ones. Frowning I tried to recall what had happened. “I was...I was stuck in that cave with him, it appeared I didn’t imagine the voices before I lost consciousness but if I had been rescued...what had happened to him?” I felt apprehensive thinking about it, he might have been my enemy but once you go through that sort of experience with someone you develop a sort of bonds. All I could hope was that he would have been rescued too. “Your...Your Highness Connor.


“What happened? Let me call for back up ma’am.” Jecob was still confused what to do next. He was trained ranger, and doing his job perfectly for last three years, but in three years of his career worst he saw was a guy who had lost his dog in wood. However, he never saw a person in blood asking for help. It was rainy whole day in Watkinsville, and it got dark so early in evening. Jecob started his night petrol early today; unlike others, Jecob always likes deserted places like Watkinsville where he was posted only a week ago. When he first heard from his superior that he is being transferred to Georgia; he knew that he is signing up for a very large area than usual. Nevertheless, he himself wanted to get out of rock city due to his recent break up and wanted to have some change in his life. He put his favorite bob segar song on his phone and started his night petrol. It was 12:30 am and he just crossed town 15 min ago, he was thinking of taking full circle before his shifts end at 2:00; and he saw a figure on raod. After a continuous rain for three hours, it was quite for last 1 hour, but roads were still very wet. He stopped his jeep, as he saw a woman waving for help in the headlight. He quickly came out to check on her, he was hoping that she would ask for lift, but when he saw her, he could not believe on his eyes; she was crying for help, her old-fashioned white top was having stains of blood, while her head was still bleeding a little as someone had hit her with rod. He was confused for few moments and he heard her tired voice “I need to save him”, “They will kill my husband”, “Please help me”, “They will kill him” continuous crying made her voice very heavy; but plead in her voice was heavier. Since then He tried to adjust frequency on his radio for third time but still not able to get proper response from other side. He was little terrified; but worried more for the woman in blood. He is able to understand the situation more clearly now. She was still crying, “What’s you name ma’am? What are you doing out here this late?” After spending 10 min of trying to connect to nearest police station, He gave up. “Me and my husband” she took a pause to take a deep breath. And then she continued “Me and my Husband came here to spend time to nearby lake; and then they came out of nowhere and they took us..” She again started crying. “Ma’am please calm yourself down, please explain me whole situation then only I will be able to help you properly” Jecob tried to see if she is seriously hurt. “Ma’am you are still bleeding let me get first aid kit from jeep” Jecob noticed a dip cut on her head. “Please you need to help my husband, they are still holding him there,” She pointed at the forest besides road while holding Jecob’s wrist as she wanted him to come with her. “*Her hand is so cold*” Jecob thought when she touched him. “First let me please stop bleeding from your head” Jecob was trying his best to convince her to let him patch her head’s cut “They will kill him, why do you not understand?” She cried in pain and burst out in tear Jecob felt a sense of chill when he heard the cry. “Ok, let me get the torch, we will look for him first” Jecob felt helpless, he wanted to wait for back up as he learned in his training, but she was so determined. “Let’s go” Jecob got the torch and his rifle from zeep and land hand towards her to help her get up. Jecob noticed that she is in pain, as she was bleeding from her leg also, Jecob tried to look properly. “You got shot Ma’am” It was not easy to see clearly due to dark but a rangers eye cannot miss to identify a gun shot. “I am fine, I need to save him” She replied as she does not even care about her pain a bit. “Ma’am please let me first bandage this, It is not looking good at all” Jecob was amazed, worried and horrified at the same time. Amazed due to her determination, worried because he can see how much she is bleeding and horrified because he didn’t know what he is getting into? “NO, we need to save him” She again cried and Jecob felt the same chill in her voice. She crawled her way into jungle and Jecob followed her as a obedient kid. They walked for next 1 hour and Jecob sensed that they are lost. “Ma’am, I think we are lost, are you sure you came here?” Jecob tried to inquire. “We came this way only, we camped there.” She pointed to a very small pond of water, which seems like an old dried water body, which got water filled recently due to heavy rain. Jecob saw madness in her eyes and struggle to see something, which is not even present. She was in pain but still something was driving her. It’s been an hour since they passed small water pond, and they are very deep in jungle, It was becoming very hard to understand the way, but she was making her way in as she was well aware of this way. “That’s where they are keeping him, I need to save him.” she pointed to a very old deserted church and she took an unusual speed. “Ma’am please wait, you need to be careful” Jecob tried to keep his voice as low as possible as he didn’t want people inside the church to hear him; but she was already out of his reach, he also ran behind her while keeping his rifle ready in his hand to take a shot. “They were here only, where they took him?” She cried like mad while Jecob was trying to understand the situation. It was an empty ruined church; it seems like no one came here for years, roof was showing signs of time and half-broken, due to rain whole floor were wet. He was not able to understand what is going on. “Ma’am are you sure this is the place” This is the first time Jecob was doubting her mind. “Yes, they tied us here” she pointed to ceiling Jecob saw in direction up, and there was nothing to tie, ceiling was broken there and it doesn’t even seems like it can hold a weigh of a kid. “They were questioning my husband for information and they were torturing him” She was horrified as she is visualizing everything again. “I got loose somehow and I ran for help, they were shooting at me, but I didn’t stop, They were here only, I need to save him” She was talking like she is under possession. “Ma’am no one is here who needs help, please at least let me help you, you are bleeding badly” Jecob tried to command her as he was little frustrated. He was now sure that she is mad, only thing, which is making him confused, was gunshot in her leg and serious injuries that anyone can notice on her body. “No, I need to save him” “I need to save him... I need to save him... I need to save him” She repeated same thing and she fell down clearly due to loss of blood. “Ma’am...” Jecob tried to catch her and barely succeed. “Shit.. Now what should I do?” He questioned himself loudly. He carefully put her down and started patching her wounds. Her body was cold as there is no life in her. He again started trying to tune his radio to connect someone, but could not succeed. He sat down on wet floor and tried his best to keep himself awake but got defeated from his tired body. “Ma’am....” He was trying to find her for last two hours since he woke up. He looked at the sun and tried to guess time again; his watch had stopped last night. “*I should have at least asked her name.*” He thought in his mind After spending another hour or so he started walking towards the road. He looked at his radio again and cursed his luck as it was also not working any more. When he reached out to his jeep he drove to the direction from where he came. He remembered clearly that he passed one local motel. After 20 min drive he reached to that motel, It was 2:00 after noon. “May I use your phone, I need to connect to local police station,” He asked the aged man on the reception. Old man looked at ranger keenly and handed over the phone besides him. “Yes, she was injured, there is no way she could walk on her own” He explained briefly about the whole situation to the officer on other side and demand for search. “It is first time I am hearing in last 15 years of such thing, but it was very common in old times that mobs are capturing hikers and couples” man at reception told Jecob after hearing him on phone. “What do you mean?” Jecob Inquired. “15 years ago local police ran an operation to kill or capture all the mobs after church incident” Old man told Jecob. “What church incident?” Jecob was curious now. “Around 15 years ago in the same time of year one local couple went for camping near old lake area, and one local mob group abducted them. Story goes as they were trying to send a message to local government and was torturing the couple in old church, wife tried to escape but they shot her, she managed to get out of jungle and was found by a police officer barely breathing. In her last word also she was telling that office to help her husband.” Jecob could sense the sadness in man’s voice. “What happened to husband?” Jecob was feeling as chill in his spine now. “By the time police reached there, mob killed him also” He responded. “If she is dead than...” He stopped himself to say it loud. But he couldn’t stop his thought from echoing in his mind. *Who was telling the story? And whose story was it anyway?* The word fluttered and flew in the wind. “Do you know who was the officer investigated the case?” Jecob was now full of curiosity, he was trying to figure out what happened last night. “Yes, his name is John Wikkins , he lives nearby only” Old man started writing the address on paper as he understood that Jecob wants to meet him. “Hey I am looking for John Wikkins.” Jecob told the man standing in front of him who answered his knock, he was so curious to meet the officer to understand full story. “I am John Wikkins, How can I help you officer” John inquired as he recognize the uniform. “I want to know about the fraizer couple murder case” Jecob learnt the name of couple form man at the restaurant. He learnt the same story what he heard before from Officer. “It was a very bad day for me, It was rainy whole day and I was about to end my shift after late night petrol; and I saw her, she was all wet in blood and barely breathing” Old office told Jecob with a very sad face. “Do you have her photo with you?” Jecob asked him. “These days everything is in computer, but in our time we used to keep hard copies in files, when I retired I took all records of the cases I worked on with me home; let me grab it for you.” John was little confused because of Jecob’s inquiries, but he didn’t ask anything as he could sense curiosity on jecob’s face. After 5 min John Returned with the file and handed it to Jecob. “Her name was Marrie, she took her last breath in my hands only, even with the last breath she wanted to save her husband, I still remember her last words...” John wiped his moist eyes. “I need to save him” Jecob mumbled and dropped the file after seeing the picture of Marrie.


Based after an encounter I had as a mailman, wrote a few years back just found it. Journal entry December 5th, 2014: Today I woke. I am not sure how to feel about it. I wake up stiff. Well, not so much stiff as stuck. I can’t sleep long. It’s as if my bodies only solace is rejected, so I am lucky to get five hours of relief a night. I go to bed late and toss and turn and wake up at five a.m. on the nose. The torture is that I have to wait for my daughter to wake and she helps me get out of bed. I have tried a few times to get out of bed on my own, but those attempts left me struggling on the floor and crying out for help. She typically doesn’t get up until six or seven and even later on the weekends. My Daughter is so patient. I don’t want to be a burden on her but I know I am. She has sacrificed so much in order to help take care of me. A husband. Kids. It’s better when I don’t dwell on it. I was so relieved to see her walk in my room this morning. I had to use the restroom fiercely. She helped me get cleaned and dress. It is an ordeal because I cannot stand unsupported for too long. Today was the thorough cleaning. Typically she uses a wash cloth and soap on me in the mornings to clean most of my body, but once a week I take a shower and get actually clean. It took over an hour. After my shower I sat in my usual chair and she turned on the television. Television doesn’t really appeal to me until about ten a.m. when Price Is Right comes on. Most of the time I do not even watch the television, just stare through it, listening to the loud noises and bright colors lighten up my face. Ding Dong! The doorbell sounded. Knock, knock, knock! Someone rapped at my door. I called for My Daughter. No response. I was pretty sure it was the mailman at the door since we don’t have many visitors. I grabbed my walker and headed for the door. “I have a package that requires a signature,” said the mailman. He handed me a pink slip of paper and a pen. It was a struggle to support myself in the walker but I was determined to sign for the package. I dropped the pen. He quickly bent down and picked it up and put it back in my hand. I didn’t want to say anything but it was clear I could not hold myself up and sign the slip. “Would you like me to sign it for you?” He asked. “Yes please!” That was so generous of him. He signed the paper and handed me the package and the rest of my mail. I was able to hold on to it for a few seconds when I felt the strength leave my body. I dropped the mail. I collapsed. “Unnnhhh!” I exclaimed as my face went into my walker. I put all my strength into picking myself back up but it was impossible. I could feel my pants sliding down my back and was humiliated. “Unnnhhh! My pants are falling down!” The mailman was frozen, not sure what to do. All was lost. Thankfully, at that moment My Daughter walked by and rushed over to me. “Oh my God! What are you doing?” She ran over and picked me up by my chest. “Stop!” I said as she was crushing my chest. “It hurts!” She tried holding me up for me to get a grip on my walker. I had expended all my energy there was no way that was happening. After a short while of her trying to hold me up on my feet (It was excruciating pain) she slowly lowered me to the floor. “Why did you come to the door?” My Daughter asked me as we both lay there in a heap. The mailman was still there, frozen, not sure how to help or what to say. “Thank you,” My Daughter told him as he walked away. She slammed the door. Picked me up and dragged me to my natural seat by the television. “What were you thinking? Why didn’t you call for me?” She asked. “I did! You didn’t come. I knew it was the mailman so I thought I could answer the door.” “You know you can’t do that!” There is nothing worse than being scolded by your own child. I think that is the natural order of things. We are born helpless. If we live long enough, we become victims of time. I want to feel embarrassed about what happened today. I don’t see the point. My Daughter couldn’t get her point across enough about how I shouldn’t be getting up, shouldn’t be answering the door. I get it. I don’t like that I am trapped in this body. I remember when My Henry and I used to go on hikes for hours. He would always tell me that “You could hike everest if you didn’t hate the cold.” It seems like a lifetime since that was true. Me and My Henry were invincible. I know that if you live to my age you have to see loved ones go, but why him? He was always so kind. So gentle. I have lived almost a century. There’s not much I think about beside my mortality. I have come to terms that I am going to die, but I don’t see how that makes much of a difference. My Henry lived for 70 years, he led a moral, hard-working life. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changes. People live, people die. That’s what happens. I think when we are young, we view life as a privilege. Isn’t it great I was born? Aren’t I great? The problem with life is we know we are alive and we have a lifespan. My cats don’t know what is happening besides the moment. I turn a light on when it’s dark, they don’t question where it came from, they are just thankful it is there. They don’t understand cancer. They don’t know they are seventeen years old and have cataracts and are an inch from death. I wish I had lived every moment in the present. Worry. Worry, worry, worry. That’s all we do. Focus on what will happen, what could happen. The best part of a vacation is the anticipation. Once you have it you are always disappointed. I read if I live for thirty more years they will cure the aging process. They not only will reverse aging, but eliminate death. How is life worth living if you don’t die? The greek gods were fascinated with death because it makes every experience, every moment mean so much more. I won’t make it thirty more years, but even if I could, i wouldn’t want to. I want to be back with Henry. I am so tired of being a burden on My Daughter. She has given up so much to take care of me. She doesn’t say anything but I know what she has sacrificed. When I was growing up her lifestyle wasn’t approved, but now it seems everyone is marrying everyone. I want her to be happy. I was never a writer so I am not sure if this is coming out the way I want it to, but I want to be useful. I’m writing this before I go to bed tonight. I haven’t really written since I was a girl but My Daughter said it was important I express myself and get my thoughts on paper. I am still struggling to see the point in life. Good. Bad. It doesn’t seem to make a difference. I led a moral christian, moral life. I prayed everyday and went to church. Henry went to church. I believe I’m going to heaven. I believe Henry went to heaven. I don’t think heaven is the way it’s described in the bible. I know that I am more than my body. My spirit is what is holding this pen right now. My consciousness is what is real. My body is nothing more than a vessel. What happens after this vessel is used up, I do not know. I know that I have enjoyed the time I have spent thus far on this plane of existence. My Daughter would make fun of me for talking like this but this is what I have always felt. There is nothing more real that staring at deaths door. I am knocking, pounding, screaming for him to come and take me. I don’t want to die. I’m scared of death. But I’m scared of life as well. How can i be alive if I’m not living. I’m just here. I’m just running out the clock at My Daughters expense. She has a life. She needs to move on. I wish I lived in Oregon where assisted suicide was legal. There is a point to life though. I know how much I mean to My Daughter. She means so much to me as well. I love her with all my heart. I don’t know what to say to her. She has given up her life to take care of me. I want her to be happy. We all want to be happy. I think if this was my last night on earth I would just want to say that every moment is precious. There is no future. There is the now. The right now. You don’t realize how much you are fixated on what’s going to happen or what happened already. As My Henry always said, “Life is the best thing that happened to me.” And I believe that to be true. Journal entry December 6th, 2014: I woke again today.


“Do you know what a homunculus is?” “No, never heard of it” “It’s this image of a little guy they use in neuroscience to show how many sensory nerves you have in each part of the body. The more nerves in a part of the body, the bigger that part is drawn.” “Yea?” “Yea. So he has massive hands and a huge d...” I dismissed his description with a feigned grimace and vaguely gay gesture of the hand. I’m not gay, and have used the ‘d-word’ many times before, but there is something oddly unsettling about an old man using it so casually. “Do you know why he has a huge d....” “Yes! I get it!” The old man shot a sideways squinted glance probingly at me. “Are you gay?” “No, I’m not gay.” Obviously, the ambiguous nature of the hand gesture from a moment ago was more apparent than I had realised. I need to be more careful with that. “You just seem a little uncomfortable with references to...er, the male organ of love.” The last part, enclosed safely in air quotes, was whispered breathily to me. “I’m not gay.” “It’s ok if you are.” “Just tell me about the homunculus...” The old man considered me with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and suspicion, but he was too tempted by the conversational bait he had cast. His frozen expression softened and, eyes alit, he took off from where he had left the lesson before. “He’s a weird looking guy, alright. Big ears, lips and...” He glanced up at me, searching my face for permission that was not there. “...and feet. But do you know what’s the weirdest thing about this guy?” “Yea?” “No eyes...he has no eyes.” I considered this image and felt a cold shudder ripple through me. It seemed out of proportion, more like I was anticipating some future coldness - something of which the details were obscure but the feeling of was disturbingly vivid. “Why does he have no eyes?” “Because there are so many nerves in the eye, if they put that in, all you’d see are two giant eyeballs and nothing else.” “Wow.” “Right? Interesting right? Those damn eyeballs are so big we pay little attention to the other five senses. And we completely ignore the subtler senses inside of us.” “You mean, like our soul...?” The word slipped clumsily out between my teeth, and felt as though I had somehow mispronounced it or said it with a heavy accent in the way a foreigner would. The word itself was not mispronounced, of course, but it felt like its meaning was. Is that even possible? Can one mispronounce the meaning behind the word? “Don’t be stupid. I mean like...like your liver.” “What?” “Well, all your internal organs. Don’t you wonder about everything that goes on inside there while you’re walking around doing your thing?” “I don’t think I’ve ever really thought of that.” “You should. It’s freaking amazing in there man.” The old man’s sense of wonder at my innards was, despite my current state, infectious. He must have sensed this as he continued with even more vigour. “Take your liver. It’s just the most incredible piece of nature...do you have any idea how many chemical reactions happen in your liver to keep you alive?” “No idea.” “Neither do I, but it’s a lot. The heart gets all the credit. Centre-of-the-soul, symbol-of-love and all that. And it knows it, too, beating arrogantly in your chest like it owns the place. It’s a brutish, ill-mannered organ, the heart. It’s like the politician of the body. All noise and no class. Or like the pretty-boy jock of high-school. You know what I mean? The guy with no brains who gets all the girls..” The derisive reference to the pretty-boy-jock sent a sudden wave of shrapnel through my mind. In a moment, I winced externally, but internally that moment separated into an infinite array of time capsules, playing out sequentially and mercilessly within my mind’s eye. My girlfriend (now ex, apparently) confessing that she has feelings for a work colleague - the pretty boy. As tall as he is good-looking as he is dumb. The previous girlfriend, less direct but no less devastating. A thousand loveless glances and snubbed embraces communicate unworthiness more slowly but more deeply. Passages from books and essays espousing the virtue and vindictiveness of love, taking the heart and mind back and forth until both come resting somewhere in the middle, more out of exhaustion than clarity. And finally, the father, defeated by the same question. If he couldn’t find his way, what hope did I, a much lesser man, have? Suddenly,I realised where the earlier shudder had come from. The old man must have noticed my little wince as his spoken thoughts trailed off into silence. His expression, now sympathetic, was focused squarely on me. “You ok there man?” “Yea... yea I’m fine.” I stood perfectly still as the house of feelings within me became taller and more precarious. I knew if I moved or shifted my glance, it would all come crashing down at once. That was certainly not something I wanted to happen in the middle of the day on a busy sidewalk. The old man must have known this too as he accepted my obvious lie and continued. “Yea, the liver is amazing. Silently doing all that work without ever resting.” “Why are you so obsessed with the liver?” As if on cue, the old man promptly lifted all the dirty layers of his clothing to reveal a large pale belly marked with a long scar on its right side. “I got a replacement when my old one broke. I’m a new man!” He grinned ecstatically at his own display, looking proudly at the scar and back at me many times. I noticed that the grin revealed a few teeth that would benefit from replacement too. For the first time during our encounter, I assessed the full extent of the old man’s situation. The dirty layers and teeth. Mounds of clothing and blankets, presumably donated by kind passersby. The mattress of cardboard that was his bed. And the little styrofoam cup that had caught my attention and received my deposit of spare change just a few moments ago. “How’d you end up on the street like this?” The old man winced as I did before, and I regretted the enquiry the moment I uttered it. I had not given him the same courtesy of allowing him to hide his pain. Instead, it remained edged on his face in a way that I would never forget. For the first time, his gaze, drifting down, could not hold my own. As his being deflated before me, I could see the time capsules playing out in his mind, even if their content would remain forever hidden from me. “That...is a long story.” Feeling the dull ache of guilt and helplessness, I made another, more generous contribution to the styrofoam cup. “Well, good luck to you sir.” “And to you, young man.” With both of our houses intact, I walked away, not feeling any better, but at least not feeling any worse.


I was in the middle of my morning stand up call when the plaintive meows reached my ears. Being a cat Mom my ears instantly transmitted the waves to my brain which could now no longer focus on what my manager was speaking. I waited with barely contained patience for the meeting to end and once it did I scampered to the balcony to locate the miserable kitten. But no matter how far I bent down the balcony wall I couldn't spot anything except the garbage surrounding our compound. The cries faded making me doubt my senses. Had I imagined them? I recalled the times when I'd drop my cats with my sister before a trip and my ears would still reverberate with their meows even if the house was empty. Oh well, a cat's meows are too similar to that of a baby's cries (intentionally) so maybe it was just a neighbour's kid crying in the morning. ***************************************** I walked back to my building having purchased the grocery for that week. Lockdown or no lockdown, I wasn't going to venture out everyday, and once a week was enough for a single person to buy their essentials. Vicky the building guard dog who greeted everyone with a wagging tail( except if you had the audacity to enter the gates after 11pm) , had followed me to the nearby store in the hope of procuring some glucose biscuits for himself. I petted his head and went home and got him some cat dry food to eat. Funny how dogs can easily digest cat food but God forbid you attempt to offer a cat, dog's food! And that's when I heard the tiny meows again. It seemd to come from under the Swift parked in the garage. I tried to bend down as far as possible and spot the source of the noise, Vicky joining me in lowering himself and growling instead. It was a kitten! Not more than a month old. My heart melted then and there and I rushed upstairs to get whatever cat wet food i had lying around, to give to this tiny tot. I placed it in a plastic container and slid it under the car, s/he ate it hungrily, keeping an eye on me and Vicky at the same time. All the motherly instincts I never thought I'd experience, made themselves known to me at that instant. I wanted to protect that baby, to give them a home and safely tuck them in bed, caressing their round belly and revelling in their satisfied purrs. But I had two male cats already upstairs. And knowing cats, I knew it's never easy for them to get along with any new addition be it feline or human. Luckily the building caretaker and his wife appeared at that moment. And to my surprise the kitten happily pranced towards the wife, rubbing against her and joyfully running circles around her. So they have trusted a human, I concluded; happy that the kitten is in fact not alone. ****************************************** It was past 10 pm when my building caretaker called me. He was looking for cat food. I looked at Sheldy who had just now puked out whole the remnants of his dinner on to my bedroom floor. Of course I had cat food; I carried a big tin of wet food downstairs and dropped it in the same container that was under the car. The kitten jumped down and hungrily started eating. In their eagerness they climbed right into the bowl, the front paws inside and continued eating. I had been standing still, but I moved to take a picture. It was a mistake. They let out a loud angry tell as if questioning my audacity for distributing their supper, and retreated back onto the car's hood. I apologised most profusely and moved away from sight. **************************************** It had been two days since then. I wondered why no one asked me for more cat food, why Vicky never growled or chased the invisible kitten from under the cars in parking. "It was trapped in the engine. It refused to come out,no matter how hard we tried. Ultimately the owners drove away, and when they returned it was not inside the car anymore". I was numb. If only I had taken them in. If only I had rubbed their full belly, scratched their ears and decided to revel in their purrs ... I'm an atheist, but if there is someone out there looking out for these tiny souls, I hope they have kept them safe and happy.


I didn’t want a career as much as I wanted something to do with life that would serve to cure my low self-esteem. That’s the first and only thing you need to know. However, please note that I truly wanted to be cured more than anything else in the world. My flesh, blood, and bones body was nothing more than a covering for that inner lowness. A dull, low, ache. (In English I don’t think that’s an official word - lowness - but it says what I’m all about. Sloshing through the days, slogging through the weeks, slipping through the months.) I thought standing alone, acting oh so autonomous and straight-backed, would help. The career was supposed to provide the place for that standing. The problem was, I hadn’t counted on standing alone against stinging slings and arrows. Those stings came from people I saw every day, my colleagues. Sometimes they were words I heard, but other times they were things said in halls and closets, by faceless voices and phantom minds. The speakers were so evil I thought they were mere figments of my imagination. It also seemed like the mean went with the territory. Smart people just acted that way. They spoke to kill. PHD? Yes, but for me it was more like PTSD. You really can catch it in high-fallutin’ places. A doctor informed me that was possible. Tears. It seems PTSD has no cure. Still, I did it. Kept searching for the way to blast the inner lowness by showing I knew enough to work in that place. I pretended the twisted ones didn’t exist outside their offices. Inside, inside me, I had my personal fight song. Also, although it took me a while to notice, I had music by steel women to take hold of my shoulders, prop me up, slap my face even, all the while showing sad eyes at how much things hurt. How much I hurt from all the aloneness. Maybe you would like some examples of songs that salved the scrapes and fissures, but I can’t bring myself to mention any. I thought publications would help. Conference papers, too. Prove it to myself, because I certainly didn't think much of what I did. Clearly everybody else was better, or at least ninety per cent of everybody else was better. At least I tried hard. (This low self-esteem thing is a messy bird. It squawks and flaps, makes you look awkward. You are.) The result was an annual report and a growing list of accomplishments. Words on paper or a computer. I thought nights alone with a good book or a paper to write would help. They were nights that were very alone. Achingly alone. Aching. That means, of course, that the inner coils just stretched and twirled more tightly. This is no lie. This is no exaggeration. I might have had a decent brain, but I was also a sick woman. Then, after a few years of not moving an inch toward the cure that was the reason for the career in the first place, I thought working eighty hours a week would be the be-all and the end-all for the esteem ‘glitch’ in my life. A career was necessary. That was what mattered. No sacrifice was too great. Quitting not allowed. Spend your life workin’ for the man. He doesn’t know or care who you are. It’s important to explain that another effect of this feeling unworthy was that I always felt like a fake. Certainly I didn’t deserve the degrees that had been earned during years of study. Nor did I deserve those publications, those conference papers that had my name inscribed beneath their titles. True, I may have deserved the bullying. I was rough, scuffed-up on the outside, not a smooth colleague whose parents had both attended Ivy League schools. Mine never saw the high school graduation ceremony. Sixteen and out. Definitely I didn’t deserve the partner I had somehow acquired. Class difference, it turns out, can be even greater than race in some cases. Class similarity can mean solidarity. The other way around, upper vs. lower economic level, meant that working class me deserved the criticism I received for not being a good housekeeper, perfectly neat, even-tempered. I grew up damaged goods. A damaged girl. Admittedly, I was not easy to get along with. That was natural, because my brain never turned off, thinking about the next article that needed to be written, overwriting the esteem that wasn’t there. I didn’t really know how to talk about anything else besides what the career was about. I thought, imagined, supposed he was also passionate about the same thing. He was probably bored to tears, but was too polite to say anything. There is something else to consider: I had been an only child, used to amusing myself because there were no siblings to play with. Time had to be occupied somehow. My young girl’s technique was to go deep inside my imagination and find a meadow for dancing. I already knew that I only deserved myself, not company. Solitude was my destiny. He was nevertheless my passion, even though my passion for finding a cure for no self worth was much greater, apparently. I thought he was handsome, exotic, and excessively intelligent. Was he all that? Maybe, but you’ll need to ask somebody else about that now. I don’t have any recent data. I didn’t know all that much about him. I simply tried to be the right one, be good enough for him. The important thing is that I was able and willing to be alone, which gave him a lot of leeway as well. Of course that was all right and good. He deserved to have his solitude. I shouldn’t be getting in his way. I just thought it was a good combination, the two of us. We gave each other space. I had grown up with it while he had been one of four and had a right to his space now that he was an adult. It was essential to give him what he wanted and needed. The years went by. Now we have reached the conclusion: He didn’t need me much, so when we were apart, tending to our careers (more something I did than he did), my absence would do no harm. I thought this because I wasn’t worth being with, as has already been noted. It had been quite hard to settle into a pattern that fit, not too tight and not too loose. Our life together. A relationship so tenuous yet surviving. Weeks alone, weeks together. It was all I deserved. Lots of space for me and the career meant, not to be rich or famous, but to console me for what I could never be: worthy. Long-distance commuting, from one continent to another: it was my protective mantle and my distracting mantra. I know some people thought otherwise, thought I was not working enough at fighting off the debilitating, tongue-tying low self esteem. Others simply thought I lived a very odd life. They didn’t know me. Nobody saw the working class kid in a ramshackle house on an unsophisticated street in town. Nobody knew I had a different sort of wealth. I didn’t know it myself for a long time. Did I say I was kind of the monastic sort? Hiding away means hiding from some/thing/body. Why was I hiding? Some days brought clarity. Others just fogginess and no horizon. As for the mantle or mantra, there were other examples of people who paid high prices to make life work. Once somebody told me a story about a couple who were happily married but dirt poor. The husband emigrated for a number of years. They had one child, a boy. I don’t know if the man ever returned for visits during all the years he worked on the other side of the ocean. The sacrifice paid off, though, because he sent money home, they had a roof over their heads and food on the table. Soon after he returned, he had a heart attack and died. His wife went from being a widow of the living to a widow of the dead. Her husband had come back to her, though. He had come back. He didn’t survive the reunion very long, but at least he came back. So, yes, I do know that lots of people make sacrifices all the time, and often they are ones they never set out to make. Ones they would be incapable of making if they were asked to make them. The thing is, I worked really, really hard at making my sacrifice work. I knew it was necessary if I were to someday, somehow, be worthy of him. Be as smart as he was. He was destined to be the great scholar. I could work to be half as good, perhaps. And so I stood alone. Again and again. Over and over. Feeling at times like Saint Sebastian. Wasn’t he the one who had tons of arrows shot into his body but he didn’t falter? Sorry, I don’t know a whole lot about saints. It’s not my field of specialization. I slept alone. You can get a cat or a dog but it’s not the same. It’s nice when the other body in the bed is human sometimes. I ate alone. This was the really problematic part. You see, I love to cook and am not bad at it, but never bother if it’s only me. Just some cheese and crackers, some olives on the side, maybe a glass of white wine. Great supper for a loner. Add some grapes or clementines to round it out. You could even avoid dirtying a plate; just put a paper towel in front of you. I worked and wrote alone. Well, not completely, because when you have students you are with them during the class. But you don’t usually socialize with them. That’s even a bit risky. All the class planning and homework correcting, that happened with nobody else around. Writing has to be solitary as well. You might go to a café or a terraza , and there will be people around, but if you want to get anything written, you can’t be gabbing. By noting this, I am admitting that I chose this type of career. I am to blame. Yet probably I chose what I deserved. I would read poem after poem, novel after novel, review after review. My life, a book, an open book. Only in one sense, though. The rest, the part not made of words and pages, was permanently sealed. We will go no farther on this topic, thank you. Yes, I knew I had the gift (not talent, by ‘gift’ I mean good fortune) of being able to have my eyes walk onto a page and become disembodied. I think you could call it that. I was on the page, in the book, and I wasn’t me but instead was the reader of another’s words. I was a ghost flitting about the characters on the pages.this might help explain why a career that required constant reading and writing was the only one that would chase out the low. Words, the strongest drug on the market. A sad poem didn’t speak for me, no. Instead, it led me to the source of the words and that was when I could cry freely, knowing the sadness was for somebody else. I could not be sad because I had made the choice to have a career. That was my story and I was sticking to it. I am sticking to it, despite the fact that this is all very convoluted at this point. I sincerely apologize. During all the things I’m describing to you here, I always had my low self-esteem for company. It was the person I saw in the mirror (poor, homely low self-esteem). It was the passenger who told me how to improve my driving. It was company on the couch reading. We - low self-esteem and I - used to hold conversations sometimes. I never told it to go away, because the long-distance thing I had counterbalanced that. I felt wanted, loved, at least a little bit. That’s what I told myself. It was like clinging to a leaky raft, but who knew? When there was nobody other than my faithful low self-esteem around, there was nobody to compare myself to. There was just a void. Void equals emptiness. In this case, it was a good thing. The fact was, when I had nobody around I just felt normal. A lonely normal, but still... After a few years, I began to think I was a rock, that the sacrifice was cool, that I was brave for managing career and couple roles so successfully. With lots of space. Then it was over. Gradually, things became raspier, splintier, chillier. Lots of subtle scowls. It was probably his plan so I wouldn’t notice. Or maybe low self-esteem (already identified as my company on lonely nights and weekends) blinded me. Perhaps I am on the spectrum, as they say. It wouldn’t surprise me. Career, planned and achieved, had won. Score one point for the Lady. Score none for Self Esteem. Drowning in words, devouring words, words even in bed and in the shower. This was supposed to be divine. Except that obsession with it became an either/or. Cure it or give up, surrender. Relationship, rather like the emigration story mentioned earlier, had lost. Take that point away from the lady. She lost. He, on the other hand, had gained another partner. The Lady stuck, wait, I stuck, with the aloneness. Yes, the lady - I - lost him, but at least I had consistently kept the career light burning. Sounds corny, true, and it’s kind of like the Motel 6 ad. We’ll leave the light on for yuh . (Actually, I like that ad. It hasn’t aged well, but it gives you a warm feeling when you hear it.) Too bad the lady couldn’t lose the low self esteem. Too bad the lady was me. If she hadn’t been battling low self-esteem, she wouldn’t have focused all her passion on the career. She would still have another person in her life. A person with words to speak. I do love words. This story ends with no resolution. The end had been determined before it began. The obsession won; love lost. There is still no explanation for the lack of self-esteem that caused my whole muck-up. Not even a tiny theory has been proven as to where it came from and why it coiled itself around my innards so tightly. It might be better not to know. After all, the low self-esteem has done irreparable damage already. Knowing its origin, which I don’t, could finish me off. Some things do not need speaking. In other words, and mark my words, I will take the reason for this disease I have (for it truly is a disease) to my grave. If the truth decides to come out then, more power to it. I’ve done my part by living the life of a clam (even when trying not to). I’m tired. Very tired. And so alone. Please, leave me alone or lie down beside me. Your choice. I’ll give you all the space in the world.


“Welcome to Kong’s Castle,” Faye said, forcing cheer into her now raspy voice, resisting the urge to collapse unto the restaurant’s hardwood floor and empty herself of a well-deserved sigh. “May I take your orders?” “Really?” The woman on one end of the square table whipped her head up from the menu she was scanning, then slapped the leather-bound book shut, with enough ferocity that a draft must have fanned her face. She trained furious eyes on Faye. “That’s it? May I take your orders? No apologies?” She ran her fingers over the fringes on her clutch, lips parted as she shook her head. “We’ve sat here for over fifteen--” “Amy it’s...fine,” the man across from her said, one hand sliding across the burgundy tablecloth to brush the knuckles on her left hand. “This is a busy place--” “Uh-uh, Cyrus,” Amy said, sending her red hair extensions flying as she shook her head, one hand raised in Cyrus’s face. “If no one tells them, they’ll just keep giving us mediocre service like the cheap things that they are.” She narrowed her eyes at the startled waitress, in what must have been her impression of a withering look. “Best believe I’ll be reviewing your service. You won’t want to read what I write.” Her initial shock ebbing, Faye’s left brow made a slow ascent, her eyes on the little woman in the flowy red dress. She would have gotten to them quicker if she could have; the restaurant seemed to be taking in more people than it was letting out today, and they were understaffed. Still, what was an apology? Ignoring the familiar fire that was stirring awake inside her chest, she smiled. It took a lot of work too, summoning the muscle power to push those cheeks up in a semblance of niceness. “My apologies, ma’am,” she said, linking her fingers behind her. “We do our best--” The hand was up again, this time in Faye’s face. “Save your little excuses for someone who believes them, girl,” Amy said, her nose in the menu again, the fingers of her right hand waving in the air before Faye’s nose for four full seconds before returning to her table. “Let’s see if your grub is worth it at all.” Faye blinked, speechless. Here she was, doing her daily service to mankind when all she wanted to do was disappear into a bed, and her reward was a biting tongue and a right hand that shushed her. She nibbled on her lower lip. Oh, for a chance to sink her teeth into that disrespectful right hand. She looked at the quieter half of the table. A gray shirt stretched over Cyrus’s lean frame, a black jacket slung over the back of his chair. The eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses rose to meet Faye’s, and he mouthed a quick “Sorry.” His date rattled off an option on the menu and clapped the book shut again. “And make it quick,” she said, running a hand through her shoulder-length bob. “Of course,” Faye said, tight-lipped smile on. She pulled a notepad from her pocket and scribbled both their orders. She returned the notepad to her pocket and patted it, the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind. Biting had never been her style anyway. There were other ways to take the girl down a few notches. And Faye could think of some. Sneaking one hand under her thick dark hair, she massaged her right earlobe, feeling her fingers tingle with excited heat. She reached for both their menus, letting her fingers discreetly slide along the tablecloth, till she heard the sizzle that would be missed by ordinary ears. Faye walked off, a spring returning to her step as a new sense of purpose grabbed her. The atmosphere churned with the heady musk of the strong spices that characterized Asian cuisine, and the odd harmony of cutlery hitting plates, of clinking glass, and conversation. But as she wove through tables and neared the kitchen, the voices of the couple at Table Five did not leave her prickling ear. “One kung pao chicken and one fried rice,” she called, pushing through the kitchen doors, just as another waiter breezed past her bearing bowls of steaming broth. She peeled the order from her book and stuck it on the order wheel, then picked up the order for Table Sixteen, only too happy to be going back out, away from the fiery heat and the cacophony of banging pots and swishing knives, to where she could observe Amy and Cyrus. “My family’s pretty large,” Faye heard Amy say. “How many?” “Besides my parents, there’s four of us.” “Six? In total?” Cyrus laughed. “Babe, just the males in my family are elev--” “One second love,” Amy said. Between placing a bowl of chow mein before the single woman at Table Sixteen, and encouraging her to “Enjoy your meal,” Faye looked over her shoulder at Table Five. Amy’s right hand drifted down--from where it had no doubt gone to silence Cyrus again--to join her other hand on her phone. “Grace just tweeted me.” The sudden slump in Cyrus’s shoulders, and the carefree laughter from the girl who had caused it, shot tiny sparks up Faye’s arm like an unchecked electric charge. Show time. While pink, zigzagging lines of static electricity, only visible to her, sizzled between two fingers, a command tumbled out her mouth like a breath. “ Munzadelfieri.” * “Aah!” Amy let go of her phone, her panicked eyes watching as it bounced off her thigh and crashed into the floor, the sound covered by the music floating from unseen speakers around the restaurant. Her chest heaved with every ragged breath. “Uh, sorry?” Cyrus’s unsure voice carried over to her, but she was too worked up by the sudden feeling in her fingers--and the painful possibility that her phone was as good as dead now--to concentrate on him. “Hopefully there’s no damage--” “It burned me,” she said, the words leaving her in a shocked whisper. “What?” She looked up, eyes shining in fear and unshed tears. “The phone. It burned me.” Cyrus, right elbow on the table, pinched his lower lip, eyes flicking between her and the phone on the floor. “Happens,” he said, shrugging. “You know it gets hot from overuse, right?” “I know,” she said, mad that he could imply she was dumb, and because she didn’t miss his emphasis on the word “overuse.” “It just--” She shut her mouth. How could she explain that the phone she’d been tapping a minute ago had shot a current of blazing heat through her fingers, so potent she’d vividly remembered that time when she was six and had accidentally seared herself with an iron? “Never mind.” Cyrus sighed. “Just...pick it up.” She frowned. Was that a note of tiredness she picked up in his voice? What was his problem? “Well excuse me for being a little stressed because you couldn’t take me someplace better for our first date.” He chuckled. “Keep it up, and it’ll be our last.” * Faye grinned into the bottle of water she had stopped long enough to grab. Table Five was stewing nicely in the little pot of mischief she’d stirred. “Order for Table Eleven ready!” She binned her bottle and filled her hands with a tray, the aromas pricking her nostrils, her stomach gurgling to remind her that she hadn’t consumed solid food in three hours, a frighteningly long time for someone who was surrounded by it. She went through the doors and strode to the table and its waiting patrons, her lips curving as more conversation hit her ears. “Really, Cyrus? Are you calling me a bit much?” Amy asked. “No, how could I?” Faye placed a ramekin before a customer, smiling at the heavy sarcasm in Cyrus’s voice. “What I am saying, my dear Amy, is you’re a little different from the person I was texting.” “Oh? What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t look exactly like my profile picture? Boobs not big enough for you?” “On the contrary, Amy, you’re easily one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever met!” Faye nodded. Amy was beautiful, even with the mouth on her. “I’m just saying. Your behavior. It’s...not cool. You didn’t have to talk to the waitress like--” Her piercing laugh interrupted him. “Of course. I knew it. You’d take her side. All of you do it, people of your class. You stick together.” “Excuse me?” Faye caught a section of her lower lip between her teeth. She didn’t mind being slighted; she was a waitress, and the larger number of people who walked in through Kong’s Castle’s doors thought they were better than her. Amy talking to her date like that, though. What could justify that? Moving a napkin so she could put a plate in its place, Faye turned to blow lightly through rounded lips on the hair that brushed the shoulder of her black shirt. In the light wind, a wisp of hair broke away, its ends glowing red-orange as it streaked through the air. It made a beeline for Table Five, where a man was trying to shake his head of rising anger, and a woman was reaching for a phone on the ground. The hair clicked against the glass on the woman’s side of the table, and, with a tiny pop, exploded into oblivion. The glass tipped, sending a cascade of sparkling water over the edge, and right unto Amy’s ducked head. “Aah!” * “What did you do?” Cyrus was too stunned to react immediately to Amy’s squawking. In his defense, none of his dates had ever glared at him while trying to peel their dripping wet hair off their eyes. “What do you mean what did I do?” he squeaked, when he could speak. “You--kicked the table! Or knocked the glass!” He swallowed, the back of his neck on fire as his discomfort rose. She was making a scene, if the growing sound of murmuring around them was a sign. “Why would I do that?” he asked. “Maybe it just--” “Just stop!” In one motion, she snatched up a napkin, stood, and flounced out, presumably to the bathroom, leaving him to rue his taste in women. His stare landed on the empty glass, perched precariously on the edge of the table, where it stood, right side up. * “Chicken for the lady,” Faye said, putting the black dish in front of the now dried Amy--who had spent most of the last ten minutes in the bathroom yanking sheet after sheet of paper towel from the dispenser and dabbing at her hair, her head under the hand dryer--, “and rice for the gent.” She set his meal in front of him, then smiled at the pair. “Enjoy.” Amy brought her nose closer to her food, her lips wrinkling. “Why did I expect different?” She made a show of coughing into a napkin. “Lowly place, lowly service, lowly food. Just...” she flicked a hand in Faye’s direction. “Go.” And Faye had thought raining on Amy’s parade--literally--would be enough to knock some humility into her. “Certainly,” Faye said, glad, nevertheless, to have another reason to practice. The charge pumping through her was reaching fever pitch. She turned on the heel of her ballet flats, picking the moment of the swivel to speak inaudibly, her thumb playing a familiar rhythm on her other fingers within her skirt pocket. “Eek!” Faye managed to keep a straight face while walking to Table Eight. “What?” Cyrus. The tiredness was creeping into his voice. “It moved!” “What?” “The chicken!” Amy’s voice was a composition of awe and shrill whispers. “It...bounced!” Cyrus’s sigh was audible enough to steal a giggle from Faye. “You’re poking it, remember? It will move.” “Not like that! It--” “Just eat , Amy.” His tone was a promise that if she didn’t just eat, he would leave her there. Just as well. Faye was beginning to think he was a masochist. There was a “humph,” and more metal on porcelain. “Thanks,” Faye said, smiling as she received payment, her other hand still in her pocket. Time to crank things up a notch. Table Five in sight, she ran her thumb over her fingers, and muttered a phrase. Three cubes of sauce-drenched chicken leaped out of Amy’s dish in rapid succession and socked her on the forehead. “Ow! Aw! Aw! ” Pocketing her tip, Faye winced as Amy’s shriek pierced her ears. Sometimes hyper-hearing was a curse. “What?” For a word that had no s , Cyrus’s utterance was a brilliant impression of a hiss. “It flew!” “What flew?” “The chicken! Look, it did! And knocked me here--” “Yes. Of course. The chicken, a flightless bird when alive, somehow found a launching pad in your meal, and decided that your face would be a good landing point.” “Oh? You don’t believe me?” “Well of course I do! Am I to think the reason there’s sauce dripping from your eyebrows is that you’re a messy eater?” “Oh shut up!” There was that arm of Amy’s again. From where she stood by the kitchen door, Faye rolled her eyes. That arm was beginning to piss her off, and she hated being angry. Indifference was her preferred disposition. She could not be blamed for what was about to happen. A vibrant magenta mist swirling in her left palm, Faye whispered another command. “ Manu’umtuarum nefrigore.” “Oh my God. Oh my God.” The insolence had left Amy’s voice long enough for surprise and terror to creep back in. “I can’t--it won’t--” Her wide eyes, shining with fright, switched between Cyrus and her raised arm, as if expecting one of them to react to her incomplete statement. One of them did--Cyrus raised his arm then, to catch Faye’s attention. “Bill, please,” he said, when she reached their table, not one second spared on looking at the petrified woman across him. “Cyrus!” Faye, taking her sweet time to get the bill, flinched again at Amy’s outburst. “Are you listening to me?” “I don’t know. Am I?” “My arm. It won’t come down.” “What do you mean it won’t come down?” “It’s...stuck!” The man sniggered. “Just as well. You’ve done nothing but keep it in the air all evening.” “You think I’m joking!” The waitress walked out the kitchen, glad there was still enough current simmering within her to work up a full, genuine smile. There sat Amy, her recalcitrant arm stuck in space, the muscles in her other arm tense as they tried to pull it back to her side, while her date wisely shoved the last bits of shrimp into his mouth and avoided eye contact. Faye put the bill next to Cyrus, and shook out her left hand. Amy’s arm hit the table as the spell broke. She gasped, and massaged the back of her hand with her other hand, her eyes darting around the restaurant in growing paranoia. “It’s haunted. This place is haunted,” she kept saying. Her chanting, paired with the hair that had turned ratty after her emergency pat-and-blow-dry, gave her the look of someone a few days from taking up residence in a home for the incurably insane. “This place is haunted.” Her eyes flitted up and met Faye’s. The waitress’s amusement was enough to kick away Amy’s terrified expression. Back was the anger. “You! You did this!” Faye blinked, at her innocent best. “Did what?” “Everything!” She snatched up her purse and stood. “You...witch! I’ll make you pay!” “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said on the back of another longsuffering sigh, putting money on the table, while his date left the restaurant in a symphony of clacking heels and huffs. “She’s...a little stressed.” “That’s alright.” He stood. A pang of guilt hit Faye. She had contributed to ruining his evening. “I’m sure things will...look up,” she said awkwardly, patting the back of her hair. He flashed her a smile. “Thanks.” He made for the door. From the corner of her eye, Faye saw the woman from Table Sixteen approaching the door. A pink rectangle peeked out the woman’s side pocket. Acting on the liquid heat rushing through her veins, Faye lightly tugged the air before her, her lips moving. A wallet slithered out the woman’s pocket and hit the floor. Cyrus’s good guy instincts kicked in. “Excuse me,” he called, bending to pick up the wallet, quickening his stride to meet the woman who had stopped outside. The ensuing conversation Faye observed through the glass doors was a little too long and giggly to be just a wallet exchange. Faye let out a breath, fanning herself. Who knew? It could be the beginning of something good. And if it wasn’t? She popped one of Amy’s chicken chunks into her mouth. They could always return to the restaurant for a little more magic.