Annie almost made it out the back door of her grandfather’s farmhouse. She actually had the previous morning, as far as the porch steps before she heard the old man’s voice carry like a horn. Annie paused, hand on the doorknob. ‘Don’t pick the apples,’ he said. ‘It isn’t time yet.’ Sighing, she turned. ‘It’s harvest season. And I’m hungry.’ ‘You just had toast.’ ‘I hate bread,’ Annie said matter-of-factly. ‘I spat it in the bin because I hate it so much.’ The old man made a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘You’re too pure a little girl to hate anything. Wait until you’re older and the world gives you a good reason. Trust me, it won’t be bread.’ ‘What about a boy?’ The old man nodded. ‘Sure. One day.’ ‘I hate Jazz,’ Annie said. Her grandfather arched an eyebrow. ‘Jazz music?’ Annie shook her head, confused. ‘No, Jazz. The boy from Penrose. He comes--’ ‘Shane’s son, the smart aleck.’ The old man adopted a smirk. ‘Could be that you like him more than you want to admit. We don’t choose the one’s we love. We can only hope they’ll choose us.’ Annie’s face grimaced and she shook her head wildly. ‘Anyway, he’s a little monster.’ He gave her a stern look. ‘Picks my apples.’ Annie made tiger claws with her hands. ‘Roar!’ Her grandfather’s face went panic-stricken as he backed away. ‘Who are you?’ he stammered. ‘What have you done with my granddaughter?’ ‘I’m Jazz the stupid monster,’ Annie said in her best scabby voice, ‘and I tore her up. She was shredded like leftover apple peels before I swallowed her. She tasted like a juicy apple, too.’ ‘Scary stuff,’ her grandfather said. ‘But you’ve made a rash mistake. A monster like you could never keep down something as sweet as my granddaughter.’ Annie’s face contorted comically. ‘Sweet? SWEET !’ She shook dramatically and fell to the floor. After a moment of poetic silence, her grandfather applauded. Annie rushed to her feet and took a string of bows. Her grandfather retreated into the kitchen and returned with a rose. He threw the flower at her feet and continued to clap, smiling his brilliant smile. Annie picked the rose up, observed it, smelt it, then widened her mouth as if to say one bite was all she needed. Disappointment flickered over her grandfather’s face. ‘Still hungry, huh?’ Annie nodded. ‘One apple,’ the old man affirmed. ‘But we’ll need to be extremely careful.’ ‘Because of the Pink Lady?’ A firm nod. ‘That’s right.’ The day was warm and dry, ideal for picking. Though according to Annie’s grandfather, it wasn’t yet harvest season. He made that crystalline clear, spieling on steadily about how the right time to pick an apple was after a frost. It made apples most sweetened and easy to store. But it was all one big soliloquy to Annie, really. She knew the truth, a truth so true it couldn’t have been truer: Her grandfather was awaiting the Pink Lady. You had to think about these sorts of things. First, there were hardly any frosts in NSW. They were most common in Central and Southern Australia. Secondarily, she first heard about the Pink Lady from Jazz. Despite the boy’s shrill presence, he was full of secrets. He entertained that he picked them from his garden, which might have been the most cock and bull story she’d ever heard. Notwithstanding, his secrets were always true. Thirdly... Well, what more was there to think about? Jazz told it, and the boy was never wrong. Annie’s grandfather might have been old, but he moved like a mature cat. It was hard to keep up sometimes. They made a beeline for the apple orchard. The sun shone, coating each tree with golden glitter. He eyed each apple carefully like a stubborn store clerk, his face tight with solemnity. The whole manoeuvre took a few minutes before deciding on a tree. Next was the apple. Her grandfather went quiet, so quiet that even the silence sighed. Annie performed patience by sitting and meddling with leaves and twigs in the same way a bellyful child plays with her food out of sheer boredom. A short wind gusted around her, swirling her hair, and rattling the grove. Her grandfather ran a finger across each apple, gentle as stroking a kitten, then looked down at Annie with a glimmer in his eye. ‘Would you like to pick it?’ he said. A grand circus took refuge on her face, and she nodded like a bobble head. Her grandfather lifted Annie onto his shoulders and pointed directly at a bright red apple. ‘That one.’ Annie reached out carefully and picked it. ‘Can we call it Appy?’ Her grandfather mulled over it. ‘Straightforward. I fancy it.’ She immediately bit down, and juice ran down her chin. There was nothing like an apple to stave off hunger. Nothing so charming and sweet. The old man put Annie down and rubbed at his back with a grimace. ‘You’re getting plump,’ he said. ‘Soon there’ll be nothing left to grip onto.’ ‘Like a ball,’ Annie said mid-chew. ‘Except you don’t let people kick you around.’ ‘A ball with spikes,’ Annie said, ‘like an echidna.’ ‘I suppose so.’ There was a moment of silence as her grandfather looked around the orchard. She saw many apples, each bright with blush. Annie took a final bite of the apple and handed the last quarter to her grandfather. He accepted it with a beam and gobbled the rest. ‘Are you waiting for the Pink Lady?’ Annie said. Her grandfather’s face warped with confusion. ‘Is it true the Pink Lady will poison the orchard if anyone tries to pick her?’ The old man’s brow frowned a bit. ‘Did Jazz tell you this?’ Annie nodded. He made the same regular dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘Bunch of bulldust. The Pink Lady is as sweet as the dusk sun.’ ‘Jazz’s secret says that the Pink Lady used to be a candy apple. She met a boy who ate her sugar candy coating and threw the rest of her away.’ Her grandfather blew a raspberry. ‘The day that boy’s pants light on fire I’m going to do a little jig, I swear.’ He stretched his back at an awkward angle, grimacing. ‘Tell you what. You invite that boy over tomorrow, and I’ll set the fib straight.’ Annie frowned. ‘Do I have to?’ ‘No,’ her grandfather said. ‘But a rumour whispered is a half-truth twisted, secrets being what they are.’ For a moment it looked like her grandfather had something to prove, but his eyes said something else. He was distant, and for a moment the orchard paled. Peter fell in love in the Autumn of 1956, and he was adamant on telling the world. But first things first, you had to earn your lover’s story and be as patient as stone if you wanted any part in it. Peter was a loud person who lived a quiet life. He preferred his regular pastime of fruit picking over the social extravagance of dancing and booze. Granted, he could dance. He was like the wind. But what did it matter? Manon never noticed him. Not until the night he slipped on some beer and corked his rump so bad that he thought he’d never sit right again. Manon was the only one who’d rushed over, her eyes bright with laughter. ‘Are you okay?’ Peter was dazed with both pain and affection. ‘Can’t say it doesn’t hurt. I think I bit my tongue at some point... I can taste blood.’ ‘Falling or dancing?’ Peter tittered. ‘You noticed my dancing?’ ‘Who hasn’t?’ Manon said. ‘You’re the talk of the pub, Busy Butt.’ How lovely it was, to fall for a woman like Manon. You didn’t pick someone like her. Attraction was not a choice. You simply did your best at giving them the opportunity to pick you. There were others who had tried to captivate her and failed. So, he resisted showing her how he truly felt, knowing that too much truth was a blockhead’s game. But in the end, she was the one who picked apples with him, and she was content to spend the last year of her life with a man who was every bit as shy and nervous as she had first been. It was 1957. The autumn was ending, and they were picking apples. ‘My oncologist says we’re looking at a year or two--tops,’ said Manon. Peter gave it a long moment’s thought, but his words abandoned him. ‘One year,’ Manon continued, her voice oddly calm. ‘How many apples do you think we could pick in that time?’ Peter said nothing. ‘Ah, Earth to Peter, the only survivor of the end of the world. Do you copy?’ ‘Hey,’ Peter said, ‘you’ll beat this thing.’ Manon sighed. ‘I don’t think so, darling.’ Peter sighed. ‘That’s not fair.’ ‘I can’t speak for my disease,’ Manon said, ‘but I’ve won the historical lottery and lived a charming life. What wouldn’t be fair for the both of us is for you to leave my side. Even if you’ll be there, there’s a chance you won’t be, you know?’ Despite feeling like a drenched dishcloth, Peter feigned a smile. Manon’s golden hair beamed beneath the sunlight. She smelt of cinnamon and rosewood. She ducked under a low branch and picked an apple from the next tree. She took a bite and pressed it against Peter’s mouth, forcing Peter to sink his teeth in and bite off his share. The apple was crisp and sweet as song is to clever ears. ‘Pink ladies,’ she said, ‘are definitely my favourite.’ ‘They’re very fizz-like,’ Peter said. His face went serious. ‘We didn’t catch its name.’ ‘Apple-ly,’ Manon said. ‘Apple-ly ever after.’ ‘Clever,’ Peter said. ‘I fancy it.’ Manon paused. Her face went stiff with an earnest curiosity. ‘Do you believe in reincarnation?’ Peter shrugged. ‘Never thought about it.’ ‘Do you think I’d make a great apple?’ ‘If reincarnation does exist, I’d think you’d make a fine apple.’ ‘They’d call me the Pink Lady,’ Manon said proudly. ‘If so, I’ll come back as an apple, too, and go by the name of Apple-lause.’ ‘Why, because you dance?’ Peter gazed at her. ‘You make an autumn day blush, you know that?’ Manon grinned. Then she began to cry. ‘I don’t care what your grandpa thinks,’ Jazz said. ‘My secrets are always true.’ Annie scowled. ‘He says he can’t wait to see your pants on fire.’ ‘Whatever.’ He pointed an accusatory finger at Annie. ‘You go on ahead and tell the fossil that my garden never lies, and that the only thing on fire is his wrinkly temper.’ A pale, clenched fist. Annie made her short way back home. Morning trickled into noon, and hunger befell Annie again. Her grandfather was outback minding his own business, fighting things in the shed, complaining to the half-deaf dog. Annie searched the pantry, grabbed a tin of biscuits, and went with three Tim Tams. Each one melted in her mouth, and she felt herself dance a bit. A knock at the door. Her grandfather was busy, so she stood upright, put on her best dutiful face, and marched down the hall. She immediately spotted Jazz through the screen door, idling like some stubborn statue. She opened up. ‘What do you want?’ ‘The garden told me another secret.’ He fell into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘One about the Pink Lady.’ Annie heard the backdoor. ‘Your garden is full of cow poop.’ Jazz shook his head. ‘ For every lie there’s a flower dead, and our garden protects its flower bed . That’s what my dad says. Means it’s not going to lie.’ ‘Is that Jazz I hear?’ her Grandfather called. He came down the hall, taller than usual. ‘Hi, Peter,’ Jazz muttered. ‘Mum says thanks for the fruit.’ ‘She’s welcome to it any time,’ Peter said. ‘Say, why aren’t your pants on fire?’ Annie giggled. Then stuck her tongue out at the boy. Jazz crossed his arms and raised his chin. ‘My garden doesn’t lie.’ ‘And what’s all this talk about the Pink Lady being tossed aside like some threadbare rag doll or jilted lover?’ ‘The Pink Lady’s sugary coating was eaten by a boy,’ Jazz regaled, ‘and she was tossed aside into an apple orchard. One day she met a man whose apple orchard she’d been residing in for some time. He fell in love with the Pink Lady and promised that she’d have her very own tree. But he never returned, and the Pink Lady began to rot. Birds pecked holes into her, field mice took their titbits. Feeling betrayed, the Pink Lady vowed that one day she’d return as a big orchard and poison anyone who dared pick her before her man returned.’ ‘Come on,’ Peter said with a knowing grin. ‘Let’s go apple picking.’ On the morning of August the 12 th , 2017, Peter died of natural causes. He was ninety-three and picked apples up until his death. He was buried in his orchard. Annie and Jazz sold the farmhouse and used the money to start up an organic grocery store in Sydney. Business bustled. They were young, ambitious, and in a position to welcome the prospect of children. On January the 9 th , 2020, Annie made Jazz squeal. She was pregnant, and they decided to visit Jazz’s parents in Penrose, mid-autumn, to share the good news. It was late Autumn by the end, and they spent their last day in Penrose lying about the house like rugs. ‘I miss home,’ Annie said. ‘I miss him.’ ‘I know,’ Jazz said. ‘Me, too.’ There was a stretch of silence between them. ‘Want to hear something funny?’ Annie said. ‘Sure.’ ‘I couldn’t stand you once upon a time. But Grandpa always said we don’t pick ‘em. They pick us.’ Jazz rubbed at his chin speculatively. ‘If that’s the theory, then who did the picking?’ Annie shrugged. ‘Well, I like to think we both did.’ ‘You know,’ Jazz continued, ‘I tattled with the garden yesterday.’ Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. What secrets, I wonder...’ ‘The apples have rotted this fall,’ Jazz explained, ‘all but two. One of them so happens to be the Pink Lady, the other goes by name of Apple-ause.’ Annie giggled. ‘Clever. I fancy.’ ‘You should visit him,’ Jazz said. His face was serious. Annie thought about this. ‘I will.’ It was two in the afternoon, and the sky was bare blue. Annie walked along the dirt track that lead up to the old farmhouse. Her childhood corner of the world had changed, though a certain virginial finality lingered. Some old cottages had been modernized, their charming chimneys and petite fences mutated into what the oldies described as a certain four-letter word. Now they were big blocks of cement with entry points. You did not tend their gardens or light their fireplaces. You came home and frittered away time, seeking beauty through a bright rectangular screen. The autumn was lacking, dead as ditch water. Most trees were either cut down or utilised to hang small business signs from. DAVE’S APPLE ORCHARD ORGANIC APPLES $3:00 A KILO Annie’s eyes went distant for a moment, then she returned. She strolled up the dirt road, recalling her childhood fondly. She reached the old farmhouse. Three children were playing out front as Dave sorted through a large tin bucket of apples. He was muttering to himself, his face foiled with frustration. ‘Hey, Dave.’ Dave bolted upright and used one hand to shade his eyes from the sun. ‘Annie!’ He stood up. His face riddled with enthusiasm. ‘Look at you, you’re like a potbelly stove, and for good reason.’ Annie gave an operatic bow. ‘The house treating you well?’ ‘Brilliantly.’ His face fell flat as a spade. ‘Up until this season, at least. If you’ve come for apples, you’re dung out of luck. The orchard’s dead, and the apples have rotted. All but one.’ He pulled an apple from his pocket. ‘Nice bright Jazz Apple. You hungry?’ Annie’s chest fell heavy, though she clung to her stomach. She nodded. Dave handed her the apple. ‘Thanks,’ Annie said. ‘And I’m sorry to hear it. Though actually, that isn’t it. Do you mind if I wander through the orchard a bit?’ ‘That’s fine,’ Dave said. ‘Something you need?’ ‘My grandfather--.’ Dave raised a hand, slightly embarrassed. ‘How stupid of me. Yes, of course.’ The orchard had an air of quietus to it, and a moment of appreciation. It reminded Annie of her grandfather’s funeral, a time for both grief and grace. Memories cuddled her mind, warm as a blanket; a time when she sat by her grandfather’s feet, awaiting the right apple. But never the Pink Lady, he always said. Not until I’m ready. She saw it. A bright pink apple hidden amid blades of grass tall as her shins. It fluoresced like a ruby, bright and precious as a full moon. Annie sat and placed the Jazz apple Dave had handed her beside it. ‘Annie?’ She turned, and Jazz knelt beside her. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hey, Peter,’ Jazz said. She laid her head on her husband’s shoulder and smiled her grandfather’s brilliant smile. ‘Hi, Grandpa. Hi Grandma.’


Day 0 of Transformation: I can’t believe no one’s done this before! I’ll be the first person to achieve super human status! I mean sure there are people who have crazy abilities like super binge-watching, super binge-eating, and super screaming but no one has tried to splice animal genes with human genes to archive biochemical superiority! I’m not really into science but I found this new slug cleanser thing that helps with dry skin. If I can manage to use the same method of “extraction” (a word I learned from a science articles) I can use sea slug DNA to make my skin toxic and I’ll be able to slide on walls! What do I know though? I’m just a full-time food blogger. Day 1 of Transformation: So, the DNA mixer thing was kind of a bust. I had to get some refurbished nanoscanners and a molecular printer (whatever that is!) to get the serum right. Damn thing took all night to run in the centerfruge. I poured out the slug compound into the kitchen sink and now I’m getting to ready for a test run. I figured it would be green but it has more of a yellow tinge to it. Just have to use a turkey baster to inject the stuff into well...the rear entry. Tetro...tredo...tedrodoxinaor -- whatever, it’s going to turn me into a super human. Wish me luck! Day 2 of Transformation: I injected the doxinator yesterday and I feel great! Besides the constant diarrhea and itchy skin, I think I’m doing pretty good. I have the costume ready to go. The fabric is body forming but in dark alleys and on roof tops the super villains won’t see my rolls. The slug logo was a little on the nose but they’ll get the idea. Kinda hard use the sewing machine when your fingers are all sticky. Little bit achy too. Speaking of nose and pus, my nose has been oozing since last night. Probably just a side effect. Time to watch some Space Trek. Day 3 of Transpirnation: Had a weird dream about a lizard trying to eat me. Maybe that means my mortal enemy should be a salamander or oh! a chameleon. “The Chameleon.” Scary! He (or she!) could fight me in the sewers where I’d have my secret base. My head feels a little woozy which kinda heightens my perception of reality, like getting over a cold. I’m more concerned over the fact that I can’t eat fries anymore. The salt turns my insides into mush and I still have snot bubbles. My eyes are starting to bulge too. Maybe I’ll have super vision. Day 4 of tranpirntation: I do not have super vision. Turns out I might be going bind. It’s becoming harder to write these journal posts. I’m becoming less excited about becoming a super hero. It’s not as fun as I thought. I’m asking my fans to keep me in your thoughts and prayers. I never assumed changing into something more powerful would be painless but this kinda sucks...My skin is starting ooze and my clothes are getting ruined. I’ll have to stay in the bathturb for a while. Update 7:03 PM: I can longer go to the bathroom. Eyes are bleeding. Dau 5 of tramsnorion: lost fingnenails. Only thing I can keep down is leetus and small bugs. Cant hold down nachos. Cant hold mouse without slipping out of hand. Horrible smell come up from the belches. Not sure if super serum or roaches. They try to claw their wauy out but taste ok after suome chewing. Skin melting off. Eyes hanging from sockets. Cat is missing. I smell dirt. Neighbor came banging on door abut the wuater from the tub, compleining about leakge. This will be all over soon. Chaenge is always difficult. Going to check teeth. I think they’re getting loose. Ill be super powered when this os ofver. Update 6bm: realizing this was mistaak Daw 8 of trans: lost 48 hors. Throte filng with fluwid. Fell unconktious in tub of water. Eyes growing into cheeks. Can barely move. Boudy ish bigger and slimie. Feel bloated. Hair, toenails gone. Not good. Everythang slower. Thoghts are slower. Everthfng withering. Moving ish sloweir. Laptop getting wet. Skin gone over fingers, typing with tips of beon fingers. Veary painfull. My insides are gello. Iy can taste blood. Also throwing up liquid tisseue. Cant get out of tub. Cant go on. Please heulp please healp Dhduej7& cauntcant.


She wasn’t my first heartbreak and she wouldn’t be my last, but she would be the most memorable by far. Even now, tangled in blankets and sleepwear, I can feel the ghost of the warmth she would bring to cold winter mornings. When I woke up, I had a feeling I would walk out of my bedroom and see her at the island in the kitchen of my large penthouse apartment placing bowls of fruit and premade plates on any free counter space available. “Lemons and Oranges for decoration,” she would say, though it never made sense to me, “And for healthy snacks during the sad season.” That’s how she would describe the weight that stopped her in her tracks the minute the sun set at 8pm for the last time. That’s how she would describe the way she was damn near unable to move from the bed for days at a time. It started the way most of my romances do; with the intent of finding the perfect balance between flirtatiousness and awkwardness. She, being unhinged in just the right way and I being protective in just the right way. We played the single game well, though we always knew who we wanted. We first met at a Halloween party of a mutual friend, I’d seen her when I came in. She had skin so dark brown that it looked as though mother nature herself could have created her by hand. She was dressed as a hare and I, coincidentally, a magician. We officially ran into each other at the drink table and when we spoke, everything clicked so abruptly that it was unnerving. We spent the entire night looking for and finding one another simply to make fun of the drunken debacle that was Halloween. It was just us in our world, but when she left the party without a word, I thought maybe it was just us in MY world. Months later, we met at a local bar during live music mondays. Again mutual connections. Again in autumn. That was the first time I'd asked her name: Ona, pronounced with a soft o. Once more, we gravitated toward each other all night, but this time, before she left, she actually said goodbye, leaving me with her phone number. I texted her immediately and we talked all night, but just as we’d gotten closer over the autumn months, she disappeared again and I was stuck missing her all throughout winter. I didn’t mind at first, one rarely does in the beginning. So I spent the winter flirting with other women, scrolling through random dating apps, and sleeping around if it fell in my lap, but Ona...Ona had been in the back of my mind the entire time. It was as though she’d created a perfect formula of social stimulation that would leave me empty each time she left. I would stumble through life clumsily and dangerously for four months just hoping to run into her again. Nothing would go right! I’d lost two jobs; I’d broken my foot by bicycle...mind you, one I wasn’t even riding; I even got a ticket while I was IN the car. I was beginning to think my luck turned to shit when I met her. Unfortunately, I wasted a lot of time bitter at a woman I’d only met twice, but when I saw her again, this time in summer, every negative emotion I was feeling dissipated. I’d seen her at a local arts festival. Ona was with another man and I couldn’t say anything about it. I avoided her the entire day until we ran into each other at the beer tent. She gave the people working the tent her ticket and turned so quickly she'd almost run into me. I hadn’t even known I was behind her, but when we locked eyes, something in me softened so quickly that it made me nervous. Ona grinned, the smile brightening her entire face. Before I could ask her what band she came to see, a perfectly manicured finger would lift between our faces to silence me. “Ah, ah ah,” She mused, “no coincidences. We should smoke.” To this day, I don’t know where that man she brought went or what even happened, but that was our first date. It took nearly a year of this back and forth. She would leave along with my luck and return it back months later. In those few months where we were together, my design for a building in the city was accepted by a law firm. They paid me 10,000 in advance and they would pay me another 70 once the building was in construction. Architecture was not and never will be something that people can do easily, but with her, everything seemed to just come effortlessly to me. It wasn’t until my salary was paid in full that I decided that I never wanted her to leave. I asked her to be with me and only me on my birthday. It’s always perfect at first. Even if she wouldn’t allow me over the entire first year of our relationship, Ona would come to my place every day and make my mornings just a little sweeter. She would make a large breakfast that she had to have started at 6 am and she would cook me dinner that same evening. I loved being with her. She filled my head and lungs with the kind of dopamine only hard drugs could provide. We could have just eaten dinner together a moment ago and I would help her clean the kitchen afterward simply to spend more time with her. Like a tornado of good intentions, the thin, sleepy woman would twirl through the penthouse with decorations and healthy snacks. They would go bad before I ever wanted any, but she would buy more hoping that maybe this time I would actually eat the fruit instead of potato chips and trail mix. It made my life more organized and kept my mind clear. Our first summer was better than I ever could have imagined and honestly, I was excited to have her in my life and attainable for the holidays. Unfortunately, the morning after the first fresh snow of the season, there was no breakfast, but it didn’t matter. Holding her delicate body felt better than rolling over to a freshly made bed beside me. Normally, after we would eat breakfast, Ona would run home to shower, grab clothes and reappear in the evening when I would leave the jobsite. The first cold day in November, she didn’t move from the bed all day. I took the opportunity to make her breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed. It was exhausting to do before, during and after work, but I powered through it because having her, even like this, felt better than missing her all winter long. It was the little things that made me want to do everything for her while she slept. When she woke up, we would cuddle just a bit longer. We would turn to face each other, with our fingers and naked legs entwined. Ona would run soft hands along my arms, my cheeks and my nose and I would tell her just how beautiful she was until I absolutely HAD to get up. In the evenings, we would lie in the dark with my oversized windows open for the city view. We would play i-spy, naked twister and make love all night. The second year was not so easy. In the second year of our relationship, I’d accepted a more reliable job with the city building different bridges, houses and political properties. This was more demanding; some days I wouldn’t even be home until about 7. Even knowing this, my Ona would make me a late, well done dinner and still wake up to make breakfast. I’ll admit that in that second year, I rarely showed her how grateful I was for her. I would eat, throw the plates in the sink, kiss her roughly on her hair and go directly to sleep. She would spend the evenings cleaning and the mornings as well with little to no help. I began to wonder why she even bothered. This sort of thinking was what led to our very first argument. And it was bad. All she wanted to know was why I didn’t help her clean anymore. I would tell her that I worked and I was tired. “But you worked last year too!” She would whine. “You would help me clean YOUR place and we would lay together the rest of the night. What changed?” “No one ever asked you to clean my place,” I would snap, “or cook! Why not just try ordering in sometimes like a normal person?” That would silence her for the rest of the evening and she would still clean and I would not help. I felt terrible the entire night, even when I felt her creep back into bed with me well into the night, I couldn’t shake the guilt. I helped her clean the next morning, caring very little about how late this would make me for work. When I got there, I would find people waiting for me, telling me they'd been looking for me since 8am. No one ever needs you until you’re not there. This led to a warning, but, to me, it was simply an empty threat and it was proven. They’d never spoken to me again about it. That night, I’d helped Ona clean the kitchen after dinner and apologized for the night before and things seemed to have fallen in place again. November was always hard for her and I. Last year, I’d spent the entire month feeding her and making sure she stayed hydrated during her long days in my room. This year, I had neither the time, nor the patience. As a matter of fact, it almost felt more peaceful at work than at home. It’s not like we would argue, but knowing that she rarely left the bedroom and I would find her sleeping in the same clothes for days at a time began to feel more like a burden. Most days I would leave without breakfast, get lunch for myself and then cook her dinner in the evening. I was too tired to play, chat, or cuddle, but I still loved her with every part of my body and every vein under my skin. I could feel her coursing through me the way blood does with any living creature. Everything was hers; My thoughts, my heart, my anguish and my impatience were all hers. Now I’m realizing that the second year would have been the time to lie down and tell her she's beautiful all night, or tell her about how my days felt weird when she’s just a thought and not with me, to just lay it on the line and say “I’ve loved you since before I knew your name.” My final year with Ona, I won an award from the city for diligence for every mistake or last minute change to building and how I handled it with little to no apology or praise. This motivated me far more than anything or anyone had in a long time. 12 hour days and leaving each message from Ona unread until I would leave well after 8. She would still show up, no matter the hour to cook me dinner. That year, I got her a key to my place, thinking maybe that would ease the tension. Yet and still, the arguments got worse over the summer and I fell back into the habit of being of no help after meals. When the seasons changed and her mood sunk, she stopped cleaning completely. Some days, I was so beat that I would fall asleep on the couch regularly while she sat, unmoving in my bed. Some nights I’d even made a point to eat after drinking with the company, leaving Ona, my Ona, with nothing but sex and sleep. On New Year's Eve, I invited her to my company party. Ona was putting them away to be such a petite woman, with little to no food. We caught a cab back to my place and, drunk as ever, we would retire in the living room. I’d prepared to sleep directly after the party but Ona would be wide awake, drunk and belligerent. “You don’t love me,” She spat out just before I’d fallen into REM on my couch. “What?” I would respond groggily. “You. Don’t. Love. Me.” “Why would you even say that? “Nothing is the same.” At this point, I sat up, now understanding by the crack in her voice, the strength it took to even say that. “You leave me all hours of the day! You barely eat what I cook and you don’t even go to bed with me anymore!” “You’re being ridiculous.” “Ridiculous?! You don’t see how everything has changed?!” “Ona, I need you to rela-” “Don’t you DARE! I am NOT CRAZY.” “No one’s calling you crazy.” “I'm not stupid either!” “What are you even talking about?” “You don’t see it?!” “Ona, I work. I don’t know if you do or how you even make money,” I began, knowing how badly things could turn out after this, but still, I continued. “I never asked you to do any of this! I’m appreciative, but at this point it feels like you're cooking for YOU because YOU don’t even eat! You just lie there!” “You used to lay with me for days at a time!” She recalled through her drunken haze. “Who wants to lay down all fucking day, Ona? I am BORED.” She got quiet, but it wasn’t a peaceful silence. It was heavy with words we wanted to say but couldn’t. “You’re bored...with me?” she asked finally, after plopping herself on the couch. “Yes, Ona. I’ve been bored,” I began, realizing my mistake. “Well...lately I have been anyway.” Silence again. “Happy New Year,” she stated flatly before swaying to my bedroom, placing a hand on the wall to keep her steady. That night, I slept on the couch again. The next morning there was no breakfast and no Ona. I didn't go to work that day, choosing instead to lay on her side of the bed all day. Her warmth was gone, but her shape remained. In that same week, they hired a more qualified architect and I was demoted to assistant. I called her; she didn’t answer. I texted her for weeks; nothing. She was gone. There was no break up. There was no hard conversation. It’s been nearly a year since I lost her and all my luck. At the end of this year I’ll have to downsize to a significantly smaller place, but Ona will be there in some ways. I’ll cook myself breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’ll clean up after each meal. I’ll put lemons and oranges out for decoration and I’ll eat them until they’re gone, though they won’t taste the same without Ona on my tongue. Now she’s just a thought, but it’s better than not having her at all.


The sunlight shafted through a gap in his bedroom curtains; he was not pleased to see it. Darren pulled the duvet up and over his head and let out a groan. What a night! He lost count of the number of beers, shots and joints he had partaken of. The night had been winding down when that blonde arrived; she was stunning. Every schoolboy’s wet dream in one tidy package. His hazy memory of the woman brought him closer to full consciousness. He felt gingerly across the bed under the duvet; he was alone, which came as a bit of a relief. She was gorgeous, but he hated post-coital conversations; so awkward, especially given that he couldn’t remember her name. He swung his legs round and sat up; his head spun and a stab of pain hit him right between the eyes. Standing up would not be a good idea, and lying down again wouldn’t help. Darren rested his elbows on his thighs and lowered his head into his hands. His mouth was dry and gummy, he ran his tongue over his teeth, they were furry. Must have been a wonderful night, he thought, he just wished he could remember more of it. He sat in the edge of the bed for a few more minutes, waiting for the spinning to slow down and the pain to recede before daring to stand up. He still hadn’t fully opened his eyes, the lids seemed almost glued shut. He rubbed the crust from his eyelids and, squinting, staggered through to the bathroom. He filled the basin with cold water and stuck his face in. “Hello there!” He snapped his head up, and it cracked into the open door of the bathroom cabinet. “Fuck!” He slammed the cabinet door shut, the noise and the added pain shot through his hangover. He gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head. “I said hello there.” A voice came from behind him. Darren spun around looking for the source of the words. His feet slid from under him, and he thumped down onto the wet floor, sending a shaft of pain from his coccyx to the back of his head where it joined the lump on his cranium in a crescendo of agony. It was just not his day. He was sat on the floor, naked with a monumental hangover and looking round he was sure he was alone. I’m still asleep, he thought, got to be. “And no, Darren, this is not a dream.” Darren hauled himself back to his feet and turned to face the mirrored cabinet, it was blank. Maybe I’ve been spiked, he thought. “Come to think of it that last drink did taste a bit funny.” He said this time out loud. “Again, no, you’re not tripping.” “Bullshit!” He’d had enough bad trips in the past and he thought he could recognise one when it arrived. Darren filled a glass with cold water and drank it down and refilled it. The icy water hit his stomach, which immediately cramped, sending a shiver through his body. The spasm ran through the muscles in his arm and he dropped the heavy glass on his foot. Darren yelled in pain and grabbed at his foot. He slipped over again and landed on the glass, more pain cut through his coccyx, but at least the glass didn’t break. He hauled it out from underneath his buttocks. Darren almost giggled, if it wasn’t for the aches throbbing throughout his body, this could have been a scene from a Buster Keaton movie. He lay there dazed, staring at the ceiling, determined not to move. He watched a spider crawl effortlessly across the ceiling and disappear into the light fitting. He tried to relax and closed his eyes, maybe he will wake up still in bed and this nightmare will be over. It is a nightmare, he told himself. It must be! Or a bad trip. Ignore the voice, it’ll soon get bored and leave. “You still don’t get it, Darren.” A deluge of freezing water cascaded from the sink over the prone Darren, he must be awake now. “You forgot to turn the tap off, idiot!” He struggled to his feet, shivering with cold, turned the tap off and pulled the plug. The water gurgled away, seemingly taking with it all comprehension from Darren. Leaning on the sink for support, he stared at the empty mirror. He could feel the cold water numbing his feet and he was shivering uncontrollably, not just from the cold but deep in the pit of his stomach an icy knot of fear was forming. What if this is not a nightmare or a bad trip? What if this was really happening? “Now you’re getting there.” “Shut UP! Just shut the fuck UP.” He wrapped himself in the bath towel and rubbed himself, trying to get some warmth into his pain wracked body. He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed. “Remember the poet, Darren? The one from Scotland, the one you hated at school? ‘O wad some Power the giftie gie us, Tae see oursels as ithers see us!’ Open your eyes, Darren, see yourself properly for the first time.” The voice ordered from just behind him. Darren didn’t have the will power to disobey, he opened his eyes. The blank mirror stared back at him, like a condemnation. The emptiness a witness to the desolation of his soul, the vacancy a reflection of his vacuous existence. He couldn’t bear to look into that void for long, he covered his face with his hands, tears were running down his face. Tears of pain or sadness, he couldn’t decide. He tried to turn and walk away, but his frozen feet wouldn’t obey him, and he only saved himself from another fall by grabbing the sink. Another sob escaped from between his chattering teeth The voice mocked at him, “Oh dear, poor Darren. Poor, poor little Darren, even his feet don’t work any more. Just like the rest of him.” The voice seemed to be coming from his left this time. He gripped the sink like it was his only anchor to reality and slowly turned his head. He felt the bones in his neck grind against each other, he winced as another jolt of pain speared through his head. “Painful, isn’t it?” said the face in the small shaving mirror, a sardonic smile on its lips. Darren stared at the image in disbelief, it was him, but not him. The shape and structure of the face before him was similar, like an idealised version of himself, completely symmetrical left and right, the eyes blue but a brighter blue than in reality, cheek bones sharper and better defined and the ears at the same height and smaller, the nose straighter and the hair was properly blonde. Despite these differences, it was still essentially him. The face in the mirror winked at him. His pain momentarily forgotten, Darren jumped back, just managing to save himself from another meeting with the floor. He leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the face in the mirror. He turned away and back again, but the image remained, the smile now rather more cruel than sardonic. He began to wonder if this was a prank. Darren pulled the mirror towards him, and glanced behind it, he searched around the bathroom for any tell-tale signs of a projector or speakers. Nothing, the image remained and still smiled. “Satisfied now?” it said, “No hidden camera’s or TV screens, no speakers in the walls. This is no joke. You are awake and this is real.” “Who the hell are you?” The apparition shook it’s head, the fine golden hair swirled in the ether as if alive. “Don’t you recognise me, fool? Can’t you see? I’m your Guardian Angel!” “Now you’re taking the piss!” He was getting angry now. “What about all the falling and soaking and freezing? Eh? As far as I can see, all the evidence suggests you’re a pretty crap Guardian” “No Darren, you don’t get it yet. I’m sick of you. I’ve helped you so often over the years, but still you manage to end up a complete asshole. Remember the fall from the tree around year five that only resulted in a minor concussion? It should have killed you. What about you missing that bus to college, remember, the one that crashed? Oh, and the final exam paper that you found the answers to in the teacher’s trash bin two days before the test. How you managed to fuck that one up is beyond even me. And there are many more.” A look of utter disdain passed over the Guardian’s face, “You’ve never finished anything, nothing. No job completed, no plan ever achieved, that is assuming that you ever made one. I have dropped so many chances into your lap and you’ve ignored every one. You’re a waste of space, so I’m done with you. I’m going to do the same thing as you do when you come across something difficult, leave!” The face in the mirror began to fade. “Darren Peter Finchley, from now on you are on your own. I am outta here.” The face disappeared. Darren shivered and pulled the towel tighter. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, all the world seemed back to normal. He still had a hangover, his foot was painful as was his back and the bathroom floor was sodden. He risked a glance in the mirror and saw only his own bleary face looking back at him. He checked behind the mirror and around the bathroom, nothing. He downed two Advil and staggered back to bed. Darren awoke the following morning, the hangover had cleared, he put yesterday’s episode down to over indulgence. Not unusual for him. He got ready for his shift at the burger bar. And, whistling a happy tune, walked towards his workplace. He didn’t see or hear the SUV that jumped the red light as he was crossing the street. He was DOA by the time the ambulance got through the morning traffic.


Content warning: Mental illness. How did we get here? We were married, inseparable, and then it all ended. Now I was seeing you again in our empty guest room after one long, stretched out year. The sheets were clean and crisp, but it was the floral patterned, yellow duvet that dressed up the bed the way I had. Lively daisies sat in that glazed-ceramic, chic vase. The room was just how I liked it. It was a preservation of whom I once was. When you looked at me, I grasped the reel of images that ran through your mind. The still captures from your memory were stained by the filter of blackened sorrow. There’s one picture buried under lost thoughts that spoke out. It enounced of the day your mum was coming over. We were in this very room fluffing the pillows, awakening them from their slumped state. The scent of your skin earthed me. Every touch was a static attraction that instantly lured me towards your warm being. A glint in your eyes apprised me of the sheer pride you had. Nothing could bring you down. Not when I was trying to get along with your mum for once. ‘Thanks for getting the room ready. Mum will be quite satisfied.’ You said. ‘Yes, well if only that were possible. Just tell her I did it and avoid mentioning my constant whining.’ You chuckled at the mere thought of your mum having any peace with me even after five years of marriage. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. We were young and it was just you and I. Now, things were different. I was the guest. You didn't appear the same any more. The rugged look that sported an enticing stubble, had distorted into a wild unkept beard that seemed to symbolize the growing hurt. Your eyes, sunken and rimmed by darkness. Your skin, like a faded painting, muted and distant. At least those heavy eyebrows were the same. They hooded handsomely over your eyes, but were weighed down by lines on your forehead. It’s been almost a year, but it didn't seem so did it? It seemed like an eternity. There I was in the guest room staring at your disheveled self. I was obviously there for a reason. You're not okay. You looked at me and shrieked like you've seen a ghost, but it was only me and you soon realized that my presence was worth more than your sanity. You knew. You knew deep within that you were sinking in the mess that existed in your mind, but then again, what's wrong with a little mess? ‘Hi you,’ I said. ‘Hi-i.’ Your confusion was evident, but with every second that shot by, you were easing in. Eventually, in just a few moments, your brown eyes returned with fire. ‘It’s you.’ ‘It’s me.’ You staggered over and then halted. A moment of hesitation that was immediately defeated by the pull. The pull for us . When you were close enough, you held out your warm hand to trace my face. The instant touch sent signals and my skin felt the flood of blood pulsing through, allowing me to beam with life. A few seconds later it was all gone. I had to go. * * * A week passed by, and then just when you thought it wasn't going to happen, it did. We met up again. It was like we had converged from different timelines. This time I get to see you in the garden. I was surprised. Very surprised. You detested gardening . I was the one that hurled in the hose everyday and made it gurgle and growl until water gushed out, drowning the soil. It was a passion I had, to see the flash of vibrancy return before branches had no choice but to be bare again. I wasn't any good was I? The daffodils would barely bloom. They would come so close and then just give up because stupid me had done something wrong again. I could never meet up with the demands of the ‘favorable growing conditions’ required. No matter how intently I listened to Gardeners World on BBC, with me being the one in charge, they never stood a chance. I tried. I tried during those spirited summers, when the gaze of the sun hit the color into the world. I loved summer. I remember dancing in the garden, jumping and spinning around to the sound of the soft breeze. “Get back inside, the neighbors will think you’re daft. Damn it.' You then laughed at me and imitated my every move. We looked like two insane individuals both dancing to no music, giddy and quite weird. You were right, the neighbors did see. They rolled their eyes to our ‘in you face’ expressions of youthful love, and just turned away. ‘Hi again,’ I said. You smiled when you heard me. The stubble has returned. You looked more like yourself this time. ‘Good, I didn't like the beard. It looked like it ate up your face. What was that for?’ You blushed at my ‘sort of’ compliment and a boyish grin came after. ‘Well, the beard was my face reacting to not seeing you in- how long is it? Ah, a year tomorrow. Your head tilted to the side as you analyzed the dress I wore. ‘I've been anticipating your arrival. I resolutely prayed for it.' You then broke off and gazed at the soft, chiffon I wore. 'That dress. It’s the one I picked out for you isn't it?' ‘That’s why I'm wearing it. Right?’ ‘Right.’ ‘I thought you hated all this.’ I gestured to the well kept garden. 'You said it was an unnecessary bother . Not when you could cover it all with cement and play basketball instead.’ ‘Yes, but the flowers remind me of you... I’m actually pretty good. See, they're blooming. Ha ha.’ You then started dancing to no rhythm like that day. ‘Get back inside, the neighbors will think you're daft.’ I mocked. They did. They looked at you, but they didn't roll their eyes. Their faces reflected unneeded doses of pity. I've always known how much you hated to be pitied, so I joined in with the dance and we laughed at ourselves again for a few hours. We talked for a while, flirted like we had first met, but I could feel time catching up. It was time for me to go again. * * * We didn't have to wait long. I was with you just the next day. You must have found your way to meet me huh? We walked through the park and stopped at the great oak. Our favorite spot. You would always say we would end up like it; old, withered and wrinkled, but still holding on to each other. We sat down close to its wired roots and watched the clouds traverse by. ‘Hey mate! Been a long time.’ It was Trevor. ‘Hey, yeah.’ He didn't know what to say. What could he say? ‘You’re looking better than before. You doing alright?’ You glanced my way and said, ‘Never better,’ and concluded your conversation the way you usually do. Quickly. We then watched the pigeons bob their heads as they stumbled their way towards the slice of bread in your hands. I remember you saying they walked like I did the day I tripped over your feet. You tripped me on purpose for sure. You laughed mischievously at their wobbly nature and I knew you had just remembered the same thing. We then held hands until time stood there tapping at its wrist watch, but that’s okay. I would meet you soon, wouldn’t I? * * * The garden again. This time you sat me down in the swing you got me. I had always admired how you coaxed out the child in me. Even those days when I was moody and petulant, you accepted me. Remember how you blind folded my eyes with my scarf and directed me by manhandling my shoulders in the direction of the surprise? When the scarf was peeled off, my body transformed into a five year old. I ran over (almost falling again) to those waving, magical, adrenaline suppliers. You laughed at me ecstatically. Back to the now. 'Gosh you were crazy,' you bore into my eyes and searched desperately into my soul. 'Still am,' I said. Getting off your seat, you wound around behind and began thrusting me up. I was projected high until I could feel the rush of the warm air cleanse my face with its enthusiasm. You looked so cheerful. Your eyes, like polished marbles, bright and so full of hope. Mr. Henderson next door gaped out his window, his one eyebrow raised up. * * * I was there when your parents arrived. Your dad still looked like Mr. Stevens, my primary school principal. The decrepit old man stood the whole six feet high. After he addressed himself, he passed by me without even looking my way. Man, they hated me. I was never good enough. The middle class would just not do it for the little prince. Now looking at you and knowing who you are, I thought maybe they're right. You are the most amazing person I’ve met. The luxury that surrounded you never fazed you, did it? It's like you existed in another realm where fortune was not worthy of your notice. ‘Michael,’ dad shook his head, ‘What are you doing?’ The last time he asked you that question was the day you announced our engagement. Funny story. Then his shoulders sank, he was very disappointed . He strived earnestly to persuade you another direction, but you knew what you wanted. Now, as he strode over to you, I could see he was perturbed and filled with remorse. His rare expression of concern made you wince at his touch. ‘Son, you need help. The neighbors called. Let me help you. Who were you...’ ‘No,’ you cut him short. ‘I'm' happy, can't you see? I'm smiling.’ ‘No, you're not happy.' It was mum's turn, 'You're sick love. You need help.’ You tried to contest and dissuade the decision , but the couple had their way this time. * * * Utter elation revved through when you chose me to visit the therapist with you. I held your hand all the way. She was expensive alright, her suit fitted so perfectly, you knew it was tailor-made. She wore glasses that framed blue, gentle eyes. They gave you a sense of comfort. Her nonchalant ways and lack of intonation made it seem otherwise. She was obviously desensitized by experience. Her words tore at you bit by bit, until you were there with your insides exposed. She ensured that every smile she gave you, had a witty plan devised to lead you into all the conversations you didn't want to have. ‘Let’s talk about Beth' You rolled your eyes and wore a peevish expression. You knew you were caught there. You hadn't ever mentioned that name. Not since, well, you know- that day. The session droned on, but I must applaud her, she found a way to get through to you. I wanted to implore, to fight, to demolish this impending change, but I knew. As the visits became frequent, I wasn’t anymore. You were growing your beard again. Your eyes translated brewing anxiety. Time was approaching and as they toiled away in your case, you began to grow distant. So I waited. I waited for you to need me again. For you to be with me again. * * * The wind gusted by and the trees rustled in a mournful choir. I stood behind you as you stared at it. We were in an unfamiliar place. You stood there disheveled again. Head drooping down looking at the ground below. A beard, long and unmanaged. You then knelt as your fingers reached out to the grass, stroking at its blades. A tear rolled down your devastated face and then it plopped onto the dirt. Those fingers dug into the soil yearning for the connection needed. Your eyes drifted back to it. It was the gravestone that was meant to represent the part of your life that was so full of joy. Instead it was a mundane and disrespectful rock that did nothing. I knew why you had called now. Your head turned my way. Tears smeared your eyes red. You looked at me. ‘I remember the call. I rushed over to the hospital, but..’ and then you simply sobbed with convulsive gasps. I couldn’t see you this way. I knelt down beside you and made your eyes look into mine. I knew what had to be done. “It’s okay. I know. It's time.’ You stopped weeping and then found the courage. Determined, your mind was made up. Even though your outward appearance looked lost, I was pleased that your mind had accomplished its task. It had found its way through the mess and was not so confused anymore. Today was not about ‘being’ with me. This was closure. ‘‘You're-gone. You are gone ... I have to let you go or I'll never be okay again.’ The crash filled my conscience. I had no control. All I saw was the car that had no choice but to pummel into mine. We both closed our eyes to stop the visions. Today you had a mission and I was going to help you. ‘It’s ok,’ I said. You needed this. ‘Just say it. You need to say it.’ My heart felt the clot in your throat, the solidification of your suffering heart and the anger under your breath. But this time you chose wellness over insanity. ‘I love you, I do. So-so very much. Forgive me. Forgive me.’ You closed your eyes. I knew that was the first step to those final moments. Your eyelids quivered to the agony, the silence pierced through the air, then was that deep inhalation; there was nothing I could do. Nothing, until you did it. You said it. ‘Goodbye Beth’


The smell of rock salt fills the outside air. Burning the lungs of anyone that inhales. The deep mist in the atmosphere brings out the most depressing of feelings. Even in this time of year. I, at the moment, happen to be inside, huddled under a quilt, facing the stone made fireplace. My hands dangled a little bit above the crackling wood fire. I sigh in fatigue yet satisfaction. Just another Christmas in Bruinsburg. Barely anyone comes to visit. So I'm here all alone to warm up and mumble bad words at the people who choose to do otherwise for Christmas. I'm a fifty year old hermit trapped inside an eighteen year olds' body. That being a metaphor. Can you imagine if it were true? How weird would that be? That'd be a terribly weird case of Freaky Friday syndrome. If such a syndrome were real. Is it? I don't know. What I do know is that barely anyone is left outside. Deserted it is. They're all either around the big Christmas tree in the town square or they're inside with their families having a feast. I may be the only exception. As my family has all gone south for the winter like the Mallards they are. They wanted to spend Christmas unwrapping gifts in a tropical setting. Where as I wanted to stay in our medium sized penthouse, knawing on hazelnut toast roasted on the open fire like an irregular person. I lay in the recliner pulling the quilt over my body, snuggling a stuffed animal. My eyelids would occasionally close and open as I dazed off now and again. Can you blame me? There isn't much to do. No television. While everyone on the block rocks a general electric, we still got a radio. And it don't get good reception much. I tried tuning into a ballgame and all I got was static. No games or toys neither. So I'm just gonna sit in this seat basically until something happens. And as it looks, ain't nothing happening no time soon. After a few more minutes of being huddled up in the quilt, cold sweat dripped down my face. It was starting to get too hot now. I quickly got up from the recliner and threw the quilt behind me. Having it fall to the other side of the room instead. I looked around. The toast was gone and in its place, a plate full of crumbs. The fire was still crackling with the blissful noise that felt like gold to my ears. The house may have been as warm as a furnace however the wood floor felt as cold as ice on my bare feet. Frost grew and grew on all the window sills. Making quaint shapes. I walked out of the living room into the kitchen. Where the the chandelier was hanging as it should only it was glistening more than usual. It looked like real diamonds this particular day. Though, let's be real, they were nothing more than glass. Still, was nice. Below it, the circular dining table where the plates, silver ware, and glasses would be. I walked to the cupboard where the snacks were. Pizza Spins, Swiss N' Ham Flings, Corn Pokes and in the refrigerator, raspberry, pineapple and orange Sherbet. I took it all out and had a feast of my own. This is the peak of nineteen sixties snack food. Or at least to me it is. I grabbed a spoon and dug into the Sherbet first. Taking big spoonfuls, one after the other. Stuffing my face as much as possible. When the Sherbet was done, I went after the Pizza Spins and so forth. Not even half full, I grabbed the Pineapple upside down cake in the fridge mom made the day before. I just kept eating and eating and eating. No one was around to judge me. I was all alone to do whatever I wanted and eating all this food felt like a favorable thing to do at the moment. I mean I could never eat like this had mom and dad been here. Especially since it was so close to dinnertime. Not even halfway into the upside down cake and a timid knock arises. I stop eating. Waiting to see if the noise would repeat itself. And it did. For the second time, a timid knock arises. I get up from the table, wiping my face with a dish rag and approached the door. Next to the front door is a mirror. Of course before I opened the door, I needed to check myself out. See how I look. I fixed my boobs a little. Make sure they don't look lopsided. Fixed my mop top so I looked more like a girl and not a prepubescent boy with breasts. I even checked my teeth to see if there'd been any vegetation lingering around. The person knocked once more. "Hold on!" I said as I continued to check myself out for the last time. When I felt ready enough, I opened the door through the chain. "Can I help you?" I said in a whisper. A man with bifocals stood. He wore a college tweed jacket with elbow padding holding a puffy jacket in his arm. His hair was a little messed up a bit. And his pants seemed to be sagging a bit. In his hand, a wrinkled paper he kept looking down at and back up at me. " 'Ello young bint. Is this the adobe of the Westin family? I've very much like to congregate with my relatives once more, but an elder bloak such as myself keep getting caught in the limelight of the city, I don't know where I'm goin'." I stood there analyzing the words he's just spoken. It sounded like he was speaking another language. "Huh?" He gave an awkward smile before handing me the paper. 1301 Pope avenue. This was it. Since I couldn't understand him, I nodded. "Ahh splendid. Now. Where are is Elizabeth Westin?" Now that I understood. "Elizabeth Westin is my mom!" I said, excited. "Really? Well, she's my aunt. She raised me back in Cambridge." "Cambridge? Where's that?" "Why it's a city in England , of course." He poked his head into the place. "Fancy livin'. Can I come in?" Words escaped me however I still tried to communicate. "I uh- erm uh. Sure. I guess... Hold on. Lemme just unlock the door." As I did so, I rolled around the details in my head. Cambridge. Why didn't mom tell me about that? All I knew of our history was that mom was an escaped holocaust victim while dad is a political vet from Uganda. But I've never heard of any British descendants of such. As he came in, he sped walked to the table in the kitchen and finished my meal. I had so many questions. How did he find us? Who raised him when mom moved to the states? How much older than me is he? He turned around, catching my gaze and gulped. "Oh how terribly rude of me." He got up and walked back to me. Taking my hand into his. "The names' Jamerson. Jamerson Winslow Baker. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." I nodded for the third time. He looked at me, smiling. What was he waiting for? Oh s@#&! Right, I forgot! "Oh erm, my name is Estelle. Estelle Westin. Nice to uh- meet you too. Cousin?" He grinned and sat back at the table. I sat besides him watching him scarf the food I was previously eating down his throat. I'll give him one thing, he eats like me. And mom. And Lelly, my littlest sister who looks the most like mom and dad. She has the most beautiful kinky chocolate colored curls and caramel skin like dad, but with beautiful green eyes and button nose like mom. I just have mom's dead strait hair and pale tan-ish skin with dad's roman nose and full lips. I've been told I look masculine. It doesn't surprise me. Thinking about it now, Jamerson looked an oftly lot like me. Only his hair was in a messy top knot and he had monolid eyes. Otherwise, we were twins. Same complexion, same eye color, smae body type only I have breasts that are sadly not as engorged as the many young women my age, same height, same grin and same hands. As when both our arms rested on the table, my fingers seemed to be the same length as his. Cool. A long lost relative. But why now? Why not earlier like a day ago when everyone was here? Once done and hopefully full, he looked to me. "So..." "So..." I replied. It was so eerie seeing him now. I know I should turn him away, but for some reason, I couldn't. Mom said never to let someone in when she wasn't home and I should've told him to leave, but I couldn't. "How did you find us?" He shrugged and a weak smile spread across his face once more. "She told me to come here." "Who my mom?" "Why yes. She didn't want me to be lonesome, all alone in Cambridge. Since nana died and I was left with her flat. Aunt Elizabeth said I could come over here to spend time with my cousin." Figures mom wouldn't leave me all alone. Ever since last Christmas I was left alone. It wasn't even that big of a party! Nothing got destroyed or stolen! So what if one guy vomited on the bush daisies in the window sill garden? Didn't someone say that vomit and with crap makes a good fertilizer? Besides, we're rich. She could've just bought some more bush daisies. Whatever. He's already here and it'd be rude to turn him away after having just arrived. "So what do you like?" I asked, rolling my eyes unenthusiasticly. "Ahh" He dug in his jacket. What was he gonna pull out; a list of rules mom wants me to follow? Or is it a note mom sent him in Cambridge full of things I'm not allowed to do. To my surprise, he pulled out a mushed up baggie of brownish green flakes that looked an oftly lot like cannabis. "Do you know how to roll?" My jaw dropped. "Where did you get that?" "My nana owned a farm. Not a big one. Just enough to make some money to pay our rent and food necessities." I grinned. Okay. I like him. This might just be the most interesting holiday week I've ever had. "Jamerson, did you drop from heaven?" "No I'm from Cambridge remember?" Ugh okay he obviously doesn't understand metaphors. No matter. It'd be fun teaching him all the stuff I know that he doesn't.


He didn't remember much about his life, and nothing from before he was six. They told him it was normal in children to forget things from such a young age, but he didn't believe them. After all, the things he *did* remember were in such bright, sharp detail, when he delved into his mind to them, it was almost like living the events over again exactly as they happened. The day the Men came and took him to the facility was a particularly bright memory. He had dreams of it, dreams that were so detailed it was as if he had stepped back in time. Over and over, he would relive the terrible moment. *He was sleeping, and having the most wonderful dream. In the dream he had a mother, and a sister, and a father who went to work during the days and came home at night to tell his family about his day, and the boy would listen intently, and his sister would look at him and start to ask a question, but the boy would not hear the question, for at that moment he was woken by the sound of splintering wood and the startled shrieks of the other boys in the orphanage, the sounds of heavy feet on the wood floors, and dark silhouettes in the darkness, and then rough hands gripping his arms and pulling him off his bed, still in his pajamas and no shoes, not even socks, and the boy too afraid and confused to even make a sound and then men carried him out the door and into the street to a car parked at the curb, and the door slides open and the boy is thrown inside impersonally, and his entire world is pitted into darkness as the door slides shut again, and he feels the car start to drive, and it drives and drives...* He always woke up then, when the car started to drive. he didn't know why, but it was the way it was, and he couldn't do anything about it. The car had taken him to a large white building in the middle of a desert. He had been carried inside and put in a room with a bed and a dresser and white walls and no windows, and had been told to stay there. As soon as the goons had left the boy had tried the door, of course, but to no avail. Later that first day a fat lady in a white smock had entered his room carrying a tray of food, and the boy had tried to run for it, out the open door, but the lady was fast for being fat, and she grabbed him as he tried to dodge past. She had fat, oily fingers that made the boys skin crawl, and he knew he never wanted her to touch him again. The food was flavorless and stale, and the boy hardly touched it after the first bite. And so it was for the next four years of the boys life. He never saw another soul, except for the fat lady. She never spoke to the boy, and didn't have a name tag, but that was okay with the boy, for even if she had told him her name, he would still have called her the fat lady. Every night he dreamed the same dream. The day of his abduction to this horrible place, and every night he woke up as the car began to drive. Everyday he had the same horrible food, and spent the days scratching pictures into the white wall paper of his room. Then one night, something changed. The boy had always remember everything about his dreams, and he always felt as though he was a camera inside the eye of his past self, with no control, only the ability to observe through his own eyes the horror that ensued. But this night something was different. *He was woken from his wonderful dream by the crashing noise, and the boys shouting, and he sat up, ready for what was to come. But he could feel his hands, his feet, he could blink when he wanted to, and he raised his hand to look at it, and it obeyed. He was so stunned he didn't even flinch when the men grabbed him. They took him and threw him in the car, and it began to drive...* He woke with a start and looked around the room. It must have been daytime, because they only turned the light on when the sun came up, and they turned it off when the sun went down. He stared up at the ceiling, questions filling his mind like a swarm of ants pouring out of a disturbed ant hill. What had happened? What was going on now? Was it just another part of the dream? A part he had forgotten? How could it be? How could he do it? What did it *mean*? With the many questions, however, came fewer answers, and the boy groaned in frustration. Just then the Fat Lady came in with his tray of food, and he sat up and watched her until she left, then he grabbed up his tray and slowly munched on his food, thoughts of the dream change running wild in his mind. That night he couldn't wait for the lights to go out. And when finally they did, it took him a long time to fall asleep. A funny thing happens, the more you think of sleep. Not sure why, but if you are trying to go to sleep, the absolutely worst thing you can do is think about going to sleep. Unfortunately, the boy did not know this, and spent much of the night with is eyes scrunched shut, willing himself to sleep. For hours he did this, but to no avail. Finally, he gave up and went to staring at the ceiling, wondering what it would be like to have windows, wondering what season it was, if it was raining, snowing, what? *He was awoken by the sound of the crash, and the other boys, and he immediately sat up and looked around and realized; HE HAD DONE IT! He was in the dream, and he felt the same surge of power rush through his body, and he had control. He heard the thumping feet on the wood floor and quickly jumped off the bed and sprinted for the other side of the room. There was a window there, and he pushed it open and had just gotten one leg over the sill when a beefy hand grabbed him around the neck and pulled. The boy fell back into the room, choking and spluttering, and then the two men had him on either arm, and they carried him past all the silent, gaping boys, out the front door and to the car, and the darkness closed in, and the car began to drive...* He woke with a start, and immediately noticed the change; he was in a dark room, and the floor was cold on his bare feet. The mattress he had been on the night before was gone, replaced by a small cot with a small wool blanket that he could barely see in the gloom. Where the white walls and door had once been was now cold gray stone and a steel door with a small slat at the bottom of it. What was this place? What had happened? He tried to think to remember, and suddenly a blur of images came to him; an angry thin, gray woman, yelling at him, a smaller gray room with shackles that attached to his bare, sore ankles, the Fat Lady smiling cruelly at him. But those images weren't *his*, were they? They couldn't be. Could they? Why was he in the gray room now? When had they brought him there? He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He was not stupid, and his imagination had always been his most important tool in that plain white room. And now, slowly, a thought began to form. A thought so impossible, so amazing, so *dangerous*. And the boy smiled. He could fix it. He could fix it all.


I gently untie the rope that holds the figure underneath me in place. "Soon you will be free.", I whisper. The figure looks up to me, still in shock from the rough fall. I see some open wounds. "Let me help you with that." The figure nods carefully and holds out their hands towards me. I lift them up with no effort at all and soon they are standing right in front of me. I see the fear in their eyes slowly be replaced with hope. Big, blue, hopeful eyes that glimmer in the faint rays of sunlight that shine through the trees above us. "Yes, that's right, there is no need to be afraid or to despair. You will soon be saved." Now I see a hint of confusion pass the figure's face. Don't they understand what will soon happen to them? Are they really that clueless about their path? I shake my head and proceed to neatly roll up the rope and put it into my backpack. Then I turn towards the figure again and look them straight into the eyes. "Are you ready?" "Ready for what?", I hear a very soft voice say after some while. "You really don't know?" The figure shakes their head, hands trembling ever so slightly. "I will show you.", I say and take their hands. We are moving through the forest, me, with a clear goal in mind, striding purposefully, and the figure, passively following my lead. Soon we reach the edge of the forest. The sun breaks through the clouds. "Soon you will be free.", I promise, using the same words that I used the moment I had laid eyes on the figure. My eyes follow their soul as it flies out of their body and disappears into the heavens. Another one saved from the torments of life. Another night where I can sleep sound with the knowledge of having helped a helpless soul. ~ "They have found you brother." Alyia stares silently at her aunt who has just entered her small cottage. "Is he-?" Her voice breaks. "He's dead." Alyia feels several things in that moment. First unbelievable sadness. It tears through her heart and leaves her breathless and unable to shed a single tear. Then longing. The need to see him, to hold him in her arms. And then the hot breath of anger fulfils her, her sight turning red, every inch of her body aching with the need to rush out, to find the thing who did that to her brother and strangle it with her bare hands. Alyia lets out a scream that travels through the whole village until it reaches the edge of the nearby forest and echoes from the mountains surrounding them. She puts everything into that scream. Her pain, her grief, her longing, her rage. Nothing matters any more. The person who was dearest to her, just gone. Never to return. "I will find it.", she swears. "The creature that killed my brother. I will find it. And by the heavens, it will regret it. It will." They set out the following day. It is early in the day, the morning dew has not dried yet. They assembled a whole combat troop. Alyia had gone from door to door the other day and found her brother's friends, acquaintances and anyone really, who was willing to support them in this endeavour. Now they are all assembled, facing her, looking almost as determined as herself. She cries out again but this time it's a battle cry. The others follow suit and soon they can be heard throughout the whole valley. Alyia imagines the creature that killed her brother hearing this cry and hiding inside its hole and the thought brings a smile to her face. "Just hide or run while you still can.", she thinks, "But we will find you anyway. And woe betide you when that moment has come." She raises her fist one last time and then turns around and begins marching towards the forest. She doesn't look back to check that the others are following, she knows they will. They are loyal people. Brave people. And first and foremost, vindictive people. If anyone had a chance of getting revenge on the thing that killed so many of their friends and relatives, it would be them. ~ A couple of hours after the saving, I hear a scream. It's faint but I can make out the violence behind it. It seems to come from the village of the lost souls. "There are so many more to save.", I say to myself and scratch my head in sorrow. No more time to rest. I must build more traps. Determined I grab my tools and head back into the darkness of my forest. ~ The forest is a dangerous place. Every Manki knows that. Most of them don't even venture into it and leave that to the few brave gatherers that search the forest for food. Some of the people in the group have never entered the forest before. They nervously scan the environment for threats and panic with every small noise. Alyia would laugh at that, were it in any other situation. Instead she scolds them, reminds them to be quiet, to try to not make any sound. They look a little embarrassed after that but they seem a bit calmer at least. Alyia has no time to be afraid. Not that she would be otherwise. She knows the forest as it was a part of her cottage. She is here on every day of her life. As a kid she used to play here, with her brother. They would play a lot of hide and seek and she remembers their mother being quite worried for them because she thought they might get lost. But they always found their way back home. As they got older they became gatherers. Her brother proficient in finding all kinds of berries while she developed an extensive knowledge of edible (and perhaps not so edible but very enjoyable in small amounts) mushrooms. When her brother hadn't come back from a berry picking trip she had known something was wrong. And she had felt a sense of foreboding, of terrible things to come. Her aunt had tried to calm her down but she had known something was wrong, she had had that feeling that her brother would never be coming back home again. And she had been right. Alyia feels tears trickling down her face. "I will revenge you, my brother. I swear to-" To what? What is there to still place faith in? She always had faith in her brother. But he's gone. And her faith in the world, in the heavens, in any divine being... Gone with him. They hear it before they see it. A cracking sound. A scream full of terror. And then Arjim is gone. "Stick close to me.", Alyia commands in a quiet but stern voice. Her people form a dense cloud around her. There is a deep hole where Arjim used to stand. Alyia approaches it carefully. In it, unconscious, lies Arjim. Like an animal, like prey. Alyia almost lets out another scream of rage at that sight. But she composes herself as she remembers what this means. "The creature, the one that took my brother. This might be how it traps its victims.", she whispers, "If we stay close to the trap we might be able to catch it in surprise." The group members nod in understanding and soon they are hiding in the nearby undergrowth. After a while of waiting, to Alyia it feels like an eternity, a shadowy, ethereal-looking figure appears. Its ghostly black form is floating towards the trap where Arjim lies. Alyia feels a panic rising in her chest. How can they defeat a being that does not possess a tangible body? But before she can form any strategies in her mind, Maniam, Arjim's closest friend, is running towards the figure, their axe raised above their head. They let out a battle cry mixed with anguish and hack into the creature. The creature turns and has a surprised look on its face, mixed with something else that Alyia cannot quite decipher. "Friends", it begins and Alyia can no longer hold it in. She lets out her own scream, with all her pain, her sadness and her anger. And then she steps out of the undergrowth, not even paying attention any more to Maniam's reckless attack. She looks the creature straight into the eye, determined not to let any emotion shine through and asks: ~ "What did you do to my brother?" I look questioningly at the figure that just burst out of the dark. They look similar to the figure that I saved just the day before. Brother... They must be associated in some form. I can see a deep sadness in the figure's eyes. Sadness? Why sadness? They often express sadness, the ones I save. They cry and beg. I don't understand them. Don't they understand that there is nothing to be sad about? They transfer to a purer, a more peaceful, more beautiful plane of existence. No more pain, no more sadness, no more resentment, no more fear. They should be grateful! Instead of begging, they should fall on my knees to thank me! "I can take your sadness away.", I say finally. I smile at the figure, trying to reassure them. The figure cries out again. "Could you please be more quiet? You are disrupting the calmness of the forest.", I respond. "You killed him, didn't you?" "Killed?", I ask. Such a weird word to describe what I did. Killed . I don't kill. "I saved him." The figures head turns red. "Saved?!", they shout. Still so loud. I see a couple of animals fleeing into the distance. I shake my head sorrowfully. Then I extend my hand. "Shall I save you as well? So that you may be together with your - eh - brother again?" Instead of taking my hand, the figure hits it. Then they reach into their bag and take out an axe just like the one that is now lying on the ground, to hit me with it as well, I assume. I just smile. They don't know that they already sealed their fate by touching my very being. "You are being saved.", I whisper, "Whether you like it or not."


Stupefied, the little girl sat in her chair while her grandfather repeated the same card trick again and again. She watched him shuffle the pack. “Pick a card. Look. Don’t tell me. Put it back and here, I shuffle it again. The card is gone, right?”, he wore a mischievous know-all smile and took out the same card from his pocket. “How do you do it? You have to tell me.”, Samantha insisted. “I will teach you. Now go, help your mother with the dishes.”, he would grin. Samantha always believed her Grandfather to be a magician. “Grandpa is the greatest of them all.”, she would tell her friends. Her grandfather’s trickery never failed to amuse Samantha to the fullest. He made a coin disappear and pulled it out of her hair, put a piece of cloth in his coat and brought out a bunch of roses. Samantha would clap and laugh. Samantha-7 years old, pale yet beautiful and fair haired- lived with her mother and grandpa in a summer house. Her father was always travelling for work. Johnson came home once in a blue moon. “Why don’t you stay? It will make me happy.”, Samantha would tell him. “I will, darling. Someday.”, he replied. Samantha was a much loved kid. While her father stayed away, he wrote a number to letters to her. Her mother, Julia, would read Samantha a letter everyday before putting her to sleep. “Daddy is working very hard for his little girl. He wants you to grow up into a beautiful and kind lady. Be nice to everyone, will you?”, Julia would tell her. She always replied with a nod- nod of agreement. “Samantha Linhares, Warden calls. You’ve got a visitor.” Samantha walked down the stairs to find her Dad waiting. She has grown into a fine lady. Her hair is a mess but she is still beautiful and adorable. “Hello?”, she greeted her father as coldly as it could be. “Hey sweetie, How are you?”, her father tried to make a conversation. He examined his daughter head to toe. All this while, Samantha only wondered if she was dressed appropriately to be seen by her father. Her ways had changed since last time they met. “I see you have dyed your hair red. Looked better before. You had beautiful hair.”, Johnson soon realized that he might have hurt sentiments of his daughter. “This. It looks fine too. It does.”, he approved. Ten long years had passed, since Samantha saw her family last. She was 18 now and with each year passing, she only got angrier with her Dad for being away all the time. Johnson did return for his daughter but too late. Samantha had joined college and stayed as far from home as she could. “Grandpa is not well. He wants to see you.”, Johnson said. “I don’t plan to see him any sooner.”, Samantha replied. “Sam, it is bad. Please come see him once.”, Johnson said helplessly. “It is bad.”, these words kept ringing in her ears. Samantha had hated her grandpa all these years for a reason. But all of a sudden all the reasons seemed stupid to her and she realized that she had known it for a long time. She just never was strong enough to face her grandfather again or to justify her behavior. Samantha left with her father to see Grandpa one last time. She recalled her time with Grandpa and cried all the way to the hospital. As soon as they reached, she was taken to her Grandfather. She found the old man lying in his bed with a number of machines synchronized to his system. Samantha had seen similar machines long time ago. That was when Julia fell ill. Samantha, in her thoughts went back to that time. The beeping of the machines got louder and she could see Julia and everyone there. She saw herself younger again. “What are you doing, darling?”, Grandpa asked. “I am writing a letter to daddy. I will tell him that mommy is ill and he needs to come back to her.”, Samantha replied. “Her condition is deteriorating. I am worried that we won’t be able to help her any further.”, Samantha was there when doctor told them this. That was the first time when she was angry with her father for not being beside her. “Help her. Why don’t you help her? You are a magician. Use your magic tricks and bring her back to life.”, Samantha had expected a lot too much from his magician grandfather. “She died because you did not save her. You killed her.”, those were her last words to the oldie. After that there was just hatred and anger. A pat on her head pulled Samantha out of her thoughts. “Grandpa, you are awake. I wanted to apologize for my behavior.”, Samantha held his hand. “He can not talk. He wrote this for you.”, the nurse took a diary from the trolley and gave it to Samantha. Samantha opened the diary. On the first page was a roughly written note: ‘Dear Sam, Grandpa loves you. I am sorry my magic did not work when you wanted it to. Please do not hate me anymore. I had promised that I will teach you a magic trick. Here is a step by step instruction that you need to follow.’ Second page: ‘Raise you hand and hold your fingers together.’ Third Page: ‘Now place your hand on my chest. Feel the heartbeat.” Samantha did as instructed. She felt the heart- Once, twice and a flat line showed on the heart monitor. Next page: ‘Hey Magician, you just made my heart stop.


She was crumbling before them, dirt and blood mingling with the scattered tears; ugly sobs escaping from her small, petite form. Her knees pressed harshly into the ground, the wind snapping at her clothes and hair. Bloody knuckles splayed towards the sky, white palms trying to stablize her trembling form. They watched her fall, head bowed, shoulders shaking. And he smiled. Arms crossed behind him, feet delicately dancing on the gravel to a silent beat, he approached her form. As he stood over her, she shook her head, finally tilting it up to look at him. He crouched down, taking her face between his thumb and forefinger. He dragged his thumb over her cheek, brushing away the blood, sweat, tears, dirt, and everything else that sat on her skin. She heaved through the sobs, trying to catch her breath through the tears. "Shh." He cooed, eyes tracing her face, memorizing every detail in his mind. She hiccuped, sobs pausing momentarily before picking up again. "There, there." He raised his other hand to comb through her hair, "Now, then. Let's take a deep breath, and try to calm down." He took an exaggerated breath in, leading her through various steps to stop the sobs so she could properly breath again. "In, and out. In... And out." He voice soft, he looked into her shiny eyes, his thumb tracing lazy circles over her cheek. Finally, her sobs quieted, breathes shaky, but slower than before. "Now, are we feeling a little bit better?" His tone was almost concerned. She gave a weak nod, the colour in her palms finally coming back as she leaned off them slightly. Tears still streamed down her face, albeit slower now. "Good... That's good." He murmured, his hand still absentmindedly dragging over her face and the other through her scalp. "Why?" She croaked out, glossy eyes burning into his own, searching for an answer, a reason, *anything*. "Because," He smiled, "We're just alike, you and I." That's when she pulled away, jerking her face from his hands, a scowl upon her trembling lips. His smile never faltered. "Broken. Damaged." He stood, fixing his cuffs and straightening his tie. "Unwanted. Unloved." She flinched, eyes taking refuge on the gravel, fingers picking at the tiny pebbles. "I know what you're going through-" He began. "No, you don't." She spat. "Yes, I do." He insisted, crouching low again. "I've been in your exact same shoes. I've had people chase me away, cry out at the blood on my hands," He reached his hand out to cup her face again, but hesitated. Curling the long fingers into a fist, he drew it away again. "Shiver away from my touch." His voice trembled this time, but he cleared his throat, looking up into her curious eyes. "You're not a monster." "I am." Her tone almost broke him, heavy with self guilt and blame and remorse. "You're *not*." He placed his hand atop hers, placing his knees on the gravel as well. "I can help you." She looked hopefully into his eyes, straining to see any lies. "I can. And I will. They'll love you again. They'll forget you ever did anything wrong." He spoke quicker, overcome with his own excitement. She flinched again, eyes fluttering away. "Not that you did. In my eyes, anyway." He dipped his head, locking eyes with her again. He brought his head up, leading hers with his own. "It was an accident, wasn't it? You didn't mean to, did you?" She shook her head, eyes pooling up with tears again. "O-of course not- I would... I would never-No!" "Shh, shh, shh. Its okay, I know you wouldn't." He pulled her into a hug, dragging his fingers through her hair, the others gathering the fabric of her shirt in the back. She let out another choked sob, arms tangling around his back, fingers grasping weakly at the fabric. He scooped her into his arms, carrying her away. Trudging through the smoke and ash, through the dead bodies, which were still smouldering and burning. She tucked her face into his shoulder, pulling slightly at the fabric of his jacket. He carried her away from the burning town, sweet nothings drowning out the cries of pain.