(WP) The Color of Secrets Indigo was her name, but no one could figure out exactly why she was the way she was. As a baby, and later, a toddler, she’d literally turn blue, either out of frustration or heat. She’d taken her strangeness, her peculiarity, as a fact of life. All her life she’d been told she was special by her parents, weird and freaky by her peers. She’d heard versions of both kinds of comments for so long that they bounced off. For a while, people left her alone; it wasn’t any fun to a bully if you didn’t react. Until this morning, when she’d tripped on the way to her locker and skinned her knee. That all too familiar current of low laughter followed her, spreading through her classmates like a virus. Much to her own chagrin, she could feel her cheeks heating, darkening to a shade of sapphire. She tried to cover the wound; it stung like hell. Much to her shock, the blood that seeped through her fingers was bright, electric blue, the color of a clear sky. For a moment, she was stunned by the sight; it hit her like a blow to the chest. Was she hallucinating? How was it possible for a normal human being to have blood that was blue? She was bitterly reminded of her cruel nickname: ‘Blue Blood’. It was ironic, considering and she and her family were one of the poorest families in town. Cruel laughter and whispers followed her, all the way to the nurse’s office. \*\* After an admonition about not running in the halls and watching her step, Indigo walked out of the office, intending to return to class. Instead, though, there was a pair of people, a boy and a girl, barring her way forward. “Hello, Blue,” said the girl, dressed head to toe in different shades of green. “It’s lovely to see you with my own eyes, at last.” She grinned at Indigo, and her teeth were sharp, pointed. Something stood out livid against her neck--gills? Indigo was pretty certain that she had hit her knee, not her head. But it felt as if she were in a movie, or a frightening nightmare. “Way to sound creepy,” The boy murmured, rolling his eyes. “You realize we’ve never met this girl before?” He added. “You don’t want to scare the poor thing. This is going to be enough of a shock as it is without you intimidating her, Emma.” “I’m Porfirio, and this is my sister, Emerald. Emma for short. It’s a pleasure to meet you. We’ve heard so much about you.” “How did you find me?” Indigo replied, looking in between the two newcomers. “Our father demanded that we find you. We have a mission, you see. Emma, you, and I.” “What are you talking about? This all sounds like a bunch of nonsense.” Emma piped up at last, bright eyes on Indigo. “Hate to break it to you, Blue, but this is real life. Sounds like a comic book, though, doesn’t it?” “We need to see you after school. We have a lot to explain, Blu--I mean, Indigo.


He comes in asking for coat hangers. “Not the plastic kind. The metal ones,” he says, making a gesture like he is unbending and rebending the curved part of an imaginary coat hanger in his hands. The part that makes a hanger, a hanger. He’s tall and big. I’d say about six foot, two-forty, with a noticeable belly. He’s wearing a black hoodie - hood up - with red basketball shorts that went to his knees, and black skater shoes. Not a single thing he was wearing was clean, or without any rips or tears. His voice is deep and loud. Not the kind of deep you’re thinking of: low pitched, bassy. No, his voice was deep, like it came from the dark and lonely allies in the otherwise thriving city at the bottom of his stomach. It carries from his diaphragm, through his chest, out his mouth, and all the way to the back of the dollar store. The way you’d talk if there was an urgent problem, but you knew exactly how to solve it. Now let me tell you something about his chest. It’s infected. Badly. I know this because, before the kid in the green apron could point him to aisle three, he let out a loud, heaving cough. Like it was accompanied with a yell. Like a man being vocally overdramatic about an orgasm. But it explains the deep, congested voice, the air of each word being forced through a defense of dark green mucus that has been mobilizing for days, perhaps weeks. It also explains the snorts. You’ve heard people with the sniffles, right? They have a runny nose, they sniff, and it sends that falling bit of snot right back up their nasal cavity, into their throat, down their esophagus and into their stomach. On one hand, you empathize; having a runny nose is worse than you simply having to endure the sound of the sniffles. On the other hand, you fantasize about shoving a Kleenex - you don’t even know where you got it - right in their annoying face. Not this guy. These snorts were satanic. I didn’t even realize the full extent of their ugliness until he’s right there behind me in line. I have my headphones on - three-quarter volume - but his deep, glutaral snort easily surpassed the soft, orchestral drums of *Rocket Builder.* A cough-yell, and I’m focusing on keeping my eyes straight ahead. A snort, and I’m trying not to look bothered. Buddy in front of me, Jewish looking guy with glasses, takes a step forward and turns his head. Unsuccessful conspicuousness proved that he’s taking in every inch of this guy. Pretending not to stare, but obviously doing so. I take another step forward myself, keeping my eyes forward. But now I do something strange. I take my headphones off my head and droop them around my neck. I wonder why I did that? I wonder if anyone else wonders why I did that. I wonder, why the coat hangers, why metal specifically? The unbending gesture... Chest Infection takes another step, as lines go. Now, he is a little closer. A cough-yell, and now I glance back for a millisecond, hoping to see any evidence of an attempt to suppress the spread of whatever he was suffering from. My sigh of relief. “Fuck me, excuse me” he remarks. I thought about who might’ve followed that advice, in that order. He snorts, and this time, I listen. I really listen, thinking, what is this sound? I mean, I know it’s just a snort, but it’s not any regular snort. This is much more like something else, but I just can’t place it. I’m pondering and I’m interrupted by another cough-yell, just as loud as the other ones, except this time, a small, dark sticky green chunk of infected mucus splattered onto a small Doritos bag beside me. For some reason, I feel like I can smell it. My reaction is to step forward, which prompted Chest Infection to follow my cue. Problem was, Jewish glasses guy front of me never moved forward, so now all three of us are crammed together. Another snort, and I realize: it’s a pig. He snorts deep, like someone is hitting a small bass drum in his chest, but inhumanly fast, each beat as loud and tonal as the last. There was no fluctuation in pitch, no evidence of liquid. Just pure mucus, which lead me to believe he really needed one of the three bottles of water he had bundled in his left hand. In his right hand, a small basket barely hanging from his pale fingers. Inside were a single pack of about twenty-five metal coat hangers, white dish cloths, and rubbing alcohol. A cough-yell and I brace myself, this time visually as well as mentally. A swinish snort. An oink. The woman in front of Jewish-Glasses is now called to the counter, allowing Jewish-Glasses to make a temperate escape from the barrage of obstructive pulmonary disease that was raining down on us. Luckily the woman, pregnant girl in her late twenties, is two whole immune systems away from Chest Infection during the duration of her stay at the dollar store cash line. The small, pregnant girl steps up to the counter, where she fumbles her future purchases - three king sized Snickers bars, prepackaged bundles of forks, spoons and knives, and a - A cough-yell. Followed inevitably by a disease-fueled oink that belongs nowhere but barnyards and hospitals. Jewish-Glasses takes the pregnant girl’s former spot in line, Chest Infection closing the gap between him and myself with haste. In the midst of her fumbling, the tiny pregnant girl drops one of her Snickers bars on the poorly mopped floor. She makes a quick attempt to pick it up, but her soon-to-be baby was not having any of it. She teeters from heel to toe, in hopes the momentum from the forward lean would give her the push she needed to stretch all the way to the floor, but her belly is preventing her from bending over. Jewish-Glasses, being the nice guy I’m sure he is, runs over and picks it up, placing it gently on the counter. “Thanks,” she said, a smile on her face revealing a traintrack of braces tacked to the top row of her teeth. She is now holding her belly the way pregnant women do, the way that you can immediately tell they’re pregnant, even if they’re not showing. “No problem. We won’t let that baby win this battle,” Jewish-Glasses replies. “No, but it certainly won this one,” she says, holding up the three Snickers bars. “Have a good night.” “Yourself as we- “ A cough-yell. Right in my fucking ear. I didn’t realize how close he was, and now I can feel his breath through my flannel jacket. “Damnit,” blurts out Chest Infection, sounding agitated. Becoming increasingly obvious how disgusting he is. By now, the cashier is finished scanning the pregnant girl’s things. She pays, smiles again at Jewish-Glasses, and slowly makes her way out of the store. Jewish-Glasses takes her spot, and I am called to another register. My things - three light bulbs, a pack of dish sponges and dish soap - were quickly scanned, and I practically follow the pregnant girl out. I took one last look at her as she wandered into the busy street, bag in one hand, half-eaten Snickers bar in the other. I can’t stop thinking about those coat hangers.


I hug my parents. They both look at each other astounded. My mother opens her mouth but no words come out. "Mom, I know" I laugh "You've just never acted like this before" My father smiles " I'm 22 now, It's Thanksgiving, I've had a little change in heart" My father pats my back. They both seem afraid I might change my mind. I hear my nieces and nephews chattering. I change my persona. "HEY! Have you guys been thankful?" "Oh yes yes yes" Precious announces as I let her hop on my shoulders. Dion simply nods. Imani latches onto my leg and Dion grabs my other one. I look over at my sister, Olivia. She looks completely exhausted. " You've got an awesome Mom you know!" I speak " The bestest" Imani conceres Olivia mouths the words "Thank you" I shrug my shoulders which causes Precious to start giggling. I walk into the kitchen where my mother is all smiles. She waves at me. "Only 3 hours until dinner so we've got to hurry!" She uses a fake military voice. I pretend to salute. One by one the kids get bored with me and go back into the living room to play. I put the turkey in the oven. I mash the potatoes. All through the day, I am thankful. Thankful I moved on. I used to despise my parents. Not like all teens do. I hated them. My mother is African American. My father is white. I hated them for making me a mixture. In 1987 Rose Valley Elementary school was still very divided. If you were white, That is who you sat with. If you were black, that is who you sat with. If you were mixed? Well, you sat alone. I always thought that was my parent's fault. When I was eleven, I came home sobbing heavily. Once parents found out what was wrong. They told me their story. It was the 1960's. They met in college. My dad needed a belt. Their was a local craft fair. He decided to go. My dad had never really cared much about race so... the fact it was mainly African American didn't bother him. He went up to my mother. She makes leather accessories and jewelry. It started out as a conversation about a belt. It grew into much more. They became Mr. and Mrs. Evans in May of 1966. Blossom and Marcus Evans. I understand how important that story is now. Back then, All they got was... "Love is so overrated, I HATE YOU!" I can barely believe my parents dealt with that so well. I laugh it now. I go into the living room to greet my family. The room is full of color. First I meet my brother's fiance, Jessica. She seems really nice. Her father keeps shouting "We flew in from JAPAN!" There seems to be some sort of traveling distance battle out here. Friendly competition is always welcome in the Evans house. "DETROIT!" "ST. LOUIS" "JAPAN" Jessica's father repeats "MEXICO!" My cousin Jackson shouts before his wife and newest child come in the door. Miguel is the newest addition to our family. Jackson and Sofia's first child. 9 months old. I see more and more people flood in. There are nearly 40 of us. I step back into the kitchen. I find my mother bawling. I change my expression "Mom are you okay?" "Happy tears baby, these are happy tears" I hug her again. She is now laugh-crying. "Oh Symphony, do you know why we named you that?" She strokes my hair. "Because we knew there would be hardship" "But we also knew nothing could stop our family, stop you from becoming a beautiful Symphony." Now she's got me crying. I hold to her and don't let go. Were different. But who wants to be the same anyway? We nearly let the turkey burn. Hugging, Happy-Crying, Feeling love, feeling grateful. I take the turkey out and delicious smells spread across the house. Jessica steps into the kitchen to help. I hear everyone gather at the table. I start taking heaping plates of food out. We have honored everyone's traditions. We have everything from enchiladas to sushi. Everyone seems pleased. I watch everyone grasp one another hands. My mother grabs my hand and squeezes it. I get to pray the blessing. I bow my head. I close my eyes. I can barely gather myself to pray. I'm just so full of joy. I gather myself. Mostly. I am nearly crying the whole prayer. I thank god for my family. The food. Once I'm finished everyone gives me concerned looks. "These are happy tears" I laugh. "Happy enough to eat?" My uncle smirks "Definitely" I respond We chatter. We laugh. We have fun. (Especially Precious). I watch the kids play and come back to steal extra food. I have a brief lapse of wanting to go back. Wanting to be a kid so that I could be as happy as they are. Have moved on sooner. I look down at my hands. I am not sure what race I am. That doesn't make me sad anymore. I return to my happy place. I watch the kids. I watch Jessica making funny faces whenever her father isn't watching. Now that makes me laugh. I step into the kitchen to help my mother clean up. She is washing dishes over the sink. I hear her singing quietly. "You are my sunshine" I sing along "My only sunshine" She harmonizes with me "You make me happy" "When skies are gray" I know that our family is very musical and will sing along if we step into the living room. "You'll never know dear" Everyone sings. I don't even care that half of them are off-key. "How much I love you, please don't take my sunshine" "Away" This makes me feel overwhelming joy. Love and Joy. I am thankful. I am thankful for my family. I am thankful for my friends. I am thankful I got over myself. No matter where anyone sitting here comes from. They are my family. Black or White. Or a mix, just like me. I am thankful for this Beautiful Symphony.


"Why are you here?" She asked wearily. I thought I had come prepared to answer this, I knew I did but when she did actually ask me, I was lost for words. It wasn’t so much the nature of the question or the lack of an answer on my part. It was her. She looked so sad, her eyes void of hope and her voice fatigued. I felt responsible, I had taken this beautiful woman, the love of my life, and broken her piece by piece till she became a shadow of the person I fell in love with. When you fall in love, you never intend to hurt the person you care so much about. You would rather die than see them in any sort of pain. All you want to do is spend every waking second with them. I wanted to be her everything and she was everything I wanted. I never wanted to imagine a world without her. Slowly, but surely the magic wears off. Words and expressions become routine. You become comfortable and begin to take her for granted. The playful quarrels become hour-long screaming matches. Sometimes my actions became louder than my words. You can only take so much and I should’ve done better. I thought I was better than that. I resented who I had become and what I had done, but I always had hope. I just wanted her to forgive me, I wanted us to be us again. I wanted to make her happy and carry on like nothing had come in between us. She prompted me again, “Why are you here?” I saw her eyes tear up, every terrible decision I made or thing I said to her exploded through my head. That’s when I asked myself, what was I doing here? The hardest part of knowing that it was over between us was that no matter what I did, I could never make her feel like she did before. I was only causing her pain and this was a hard truth for me to swallow. I turned around to leave knowing that I would never see her again. I mustered the only three words I saw fit, “I am sorry.” Her face expressed more than her words ever would.


I woke up in a cold sweat, the stench of dried blood and an oppressive musk was heavy and I coughed a few times as my eyes started refocusing on the dimly lit room around me. *"I was dreaming..."* I sat up in my rough bed, the heat of the summer night forced me to remove the thicker layers of the bed sheets. I checked my alarm clock, the red glow of the LED display was flickering slightly. *"It felt so real"* I pondered apon my recent experience with the dream when I put my attention towards the thick odour in the room. It was the middle of summer and a hot room did this, especially when the clouds persisted through the night and trapped the heat in from the previous afternoon. I pulled off the remaining sheets and opened the window to release the odour from the room. I felt the wind enter the room on my face, it tickled my cheeks and that small relief was enough to keep me from closing the window again. It was only a few more hours until sunrise, and I could not leave the window open for too long or the room will be too cold for a comfortable rest. I decided to turn on the lights to illuminate the room. *click *"Holy shit..."* The lit room from the celing light revealed a much different perspective of the room. My fingers were covered in blood, and everything I had previously touched had darkened brown stains. I looked down on the floor only to notice my stomach had massive cuts that were actively bleeding. The realization of the upturned room was startling, my stomach was still bleeding, blood was now nearly pouring out of the cuts and it spilled onto my fingers. I slid onto the floor in pain and attempted to grab something for support. *"Oh god"* I looked at my stained hands, the nails were extended and sharp, revealing small nubs on the tips. I tasted blood in my mouth, only to find my teeth to be sharper and my tongue to be longer. I could no longer breath and I felt like everything was falling apart. The world slipped underneath me and my vision went black. *"I was dreaming"* I sat up in my rough bed, the glow of the summer mid morning sun forced me to remove the thicker layers of the bed sheets. The window was open and the wind was starting to pick up, blowing in and replacing the stale air from my room. I shut the window and pondered apon my recent experience with the dream I just had.


Nora entered the spacious pub on a corner of Katonah Avenue at midday on Monday, an hour before the bar opened. A guy about her age, mid-twenties, with a button down shirt and neatly combed hair was waiting for her at a booth next to the bar. Seeing Nora, he climbed out of the seat and shook her hand. “Nora?” “That’s me. It’s nice to meet you. Joe, right?” “Yep.” Joe gestured to the booth and Nora sat in it. She was holding a folder with her resume and some references from other bars she worked at. Joe examined the resume and references. “So, you have a lot of pub experience it looks like. I see you worked at the Crown & Jockey, Harry Smith’s, Begun’s.” “I did,” Nora replied brightly. “I’ve worked at bars and pubs ever since my first year of college.” Nora had heard that it was notoriously difficult to get hired at this pub, which was the liveliest in a neighborhood full of lively pubs in a tiny quarter of the Bronx, nestled next to the cemetery that gives the neighborhood its name, Woodlawn. And she wanted the extra money, which was, as rumor had it, excellent. “Pretty typical setup here,” Joe began. “So all that should be easy. What we really need is the right personality. We have a lot of loyal patrons, a lot of events, a lot of private parties. We need someone fun. Someone who can remember the regulars’ names. Sound like you can do that?” Nora tucked her hair behind her ear. “Definitely. I always get to know the regulars and the local VIPs.” “That’s perfect,” Joe replied. “We can also get pretty busy. In your experience, what does a typical night look like for you?” Nora pointed to a few of the bars on her resume. “These are the ones where I worked four hours of Friday and Saturday night alone at the bar. I can handle a big crowd. When I was waitressing, I was often doing three four-tops, a six and a large party.” Joe’s eyebrows raised. “That’s a lot. How did you pull that off?” “Magic.” Nora smiled. Joe laughed. “Okay. Let me go talk to the owner, see if she has time to meet with you.” “Great!” Nora stole a look at her phone and tucked it back in her purse. She looked around the bar; polished mahogany and green-backed booths. There was a stone hearth in a back corner and, over her shoulder, the entrance to a larger dining room. “Nora?” Joe peeped his head out of the dining room. “The owner will see you.” “Nora followed him through the dining room, back into a party room, back further into a tucked-away cocktail bar, down a short staircase, and into a small stone cellar. “This pub is huge. Is this a wine cellar?” Joe looked around. “Yeah, might have started that way. We use it for storage now.” He led her out of the stone room and into a well-appointed office. An arresting woman sat behind a desk. Her hair was an enormous halo of red curls, streaked with white. She was wearing a hunter green dress and her large, round eyes were two different colors; one blue, one honey brown. She stood and offered a thin, white hand. “Siobhán Brennan. They tell me I run this place.” She had an Irish accent. Nora shook her hand. “Nora Meredith, thanks for seeing me.” Siobhán looked at the door. “I’ll send her up in a minute, Joe.” He slipped out. “Joe’s one of the managers,” Siobhán said. “Also my son.” Nora smiled. “A family enterprise. That’s great.” Siobhán settled back into her chair and looked at Nora over the tips of her fingers. Nora thought she saw tiny strings of dancing light moving among the strands of Siobhán’s hair. “Another thing we need here at the pub, Nora, is discretion. Do you understand?” “Yes, of course.” In Nora’s experience, most bars were doing a thing or two that wasn’t entirely above board. Siobhán retrieved a crystal goblet from the sideboard behind her and filled it with wine from a decanter. She swirled the wine around the glass three times and ran her hand over the top of the glass. The liquid inside churned into a thick, glowing green, and then, before Nora could even register what had happened, returned to red wine. Siobhán lifted the wine to her mouth, smiled and said, “It’s good to have you on board Nora.” Nora spent a few, sleepless nights trying to rationalize what she saw in Siobhán’s office, which was miles away from what she thought Siobhán meant when asking for ‘discretion.' But, eventually, the pace of work at the pub pushed it out of her head. In addition to her day job, she worked Friday and Saturday nights at the pub, adding party shifts on Sundays and, not infrequently, weeknight shifts. She was too exhausted to think about much of anything. And besides, she loved the pub. The money was incredible. The staff worked together seamlessly. Pints and bottles slid down the bar top. A second cocktail appeared almost instantly with the flip of the mixologist’s arm. She laughed and gossiped with the patrons, and laughed and gossiped with her coworkers. The entire place seemed bathed in twinkling lights, like every night was a blend of the best parts of Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve and St. Patrick’s Day. In fact, it was two days before St. Patrick’s Day that Nora called out of her day job to help set the pub up for the weekend’s festivities, when a man came in, his face obscured by a thick, wiry beard and a flat cap. Frigid air followed him into the bar. “Siobhán. Now.” “Excuse me, sir?” Nora asked, setting down the string of plastic shamrock lights she was unboxing behind the bar. She had trouble understanding his heavy Irish accent. “I. need. Sio-bhán. Right now.” “She’s not here right now, can I take a message?” The man slammed one fist so hard on the bar the glasses in the overhead rack rattled, and with his other pulled Nora toward him. Nora yelped, but before she could say anything, Siobhán emerged from the kitchens. “Hands off, Dáithí.” Dáithí stomped toward Siobhán menacingly, but she held up a hand. “Now, Dáithí. You’ll be wanting to stop right there.” Dáithí halted instantly, but continued to grimace. “You tricked me, Siobhán. Make it right.” “Nora here doesn’t need to know all the world’s business, Dáithí. Come to my office.” Nora, whose heart was pounding furiously, watched as the pair disappeared behind the dining room. She knew it wasn’t wise, surely there must be cameras all over, still she followed behind them through the dining room, then the party room, then the cocktail garden, and down the short staircase into the room of stone arches. Loudly from Siobhán’s closed office, Nora heard, “Damn you, Siobhán. This was a trick, it was. And a rotten one.” Siobhán’s icy voice responded, “Greedy, greedy, Dáithí. You thought you could cheat the system; thought you could cheat me. Don’t you think I noticed the deliveries were padded? And I was going to let it go, I was; find a new butcher and move on. But then you came in asking for my special help so you can go cheating even more. You got what you got. Don’t be crying about it.” “You’re a demonic woman, Siobhán, and I’ll tell everyone what you are!” Nora heard feet thundering down the steps and she retreated beneath a shadowy arch. It was Joe. He stormed into the office. “Everything ok in here, Mom?” “Show your man Dáithí the door, Joe. He’s finished.” Dáithí sized Joe up. “I know my way out.” Nora pressed her back to the wall, tripping on something sticking out of the floor. She caught herself before she made a noise. “He going to be a problem?” Joe asked. “Not for long. Check on Nora, though. He scared her pretty good.” “I didn’t see her up there.” Siobhán nodded. “She probably went to go clear her head. Have a talk with her when she’s back, yeah?” Joe and Siobhán ascended the stairs out of the basement. Nora, panting from adrenaline, slinked to the ground. She felt around her feet, trying to determine what she tripped on. It was a wooden trap door, slightly open. She crouched down to examine it, and through the opening could see an illuminated space beneath. Nora paused a moment to listen for anyone who might be coming back downstairs. Satisfied that she’d be left alone, she prised the door open, revealing a ladder down to a tunnel whose walls were lit with hanging light bulbs. This is a mistake, Nora thought, but she climbed down the ladder anyway. “Good god,” Nora whispered when she saw that the light bulbs were actually free-floating flames, dangling at even intervals along the walls of the tunnel. She continued on, terrified that she’d be caught, that she’d get trapped, and yet unable to turn around. At one point, she heard the roar of cars, trucks and buses above her and worked out that, given the position of the pub and how long she’d been walking, she was under 233rd street. This must lead to the cemetery. Nora continued along the tunnel as the stone path turned to dirt and the walls narrowed. She was ready to turn back when she reached another ladder. She climbed part of the way up toward a cold light at the top. Nora heard a chant of echoing voices. She paused on the rung trying to make out what the voices were saying, but she couldn’t understand. Curiosity pulled her a up a few rungs more, until she could see the bottom halves of three people gathered around a table. Based on all the marble, Nora realized this must be the interior of one of the cemetery’s grand mausoleums. Something on the table was hissing and bubbling. The voices grew louder, crescendoing until a small bang emitted from the cauldron. The commotion was followed by a sweet mewling. Two of the women sat on the ground playing with a tiny, russet kitten. Nora could just make out that one was Lisa, Siobhán’s daughter. She also worked at the bar. The other woman Nora recognized as Reina, who owned a bodega on Webster Avenue. “See, Dáithí,” Lisa said to the kitten. “Things are easier when you’re a nice boy.” Nora gasped. The women in the mausoleum froze. Reina came over to the opening to inspect, her long braids falling just over Nora’s face. Nora tried to climb back down the ladder as fast as she could, but her foot landed on Siobhán, who was on her way up. “Back up you go, Nora.” Nora, sweating and shivering, forced herself up the ladder and into the mausoleum. The three woman stood in front of the table, arms crossed. Nora did not recognize the third woman, who was white-haired and of indeterminate age. The kitten nestled itself on to Reina’s shoulder and closed its eyes. Siobhán gracefully emerged from the opening in the floor and guided Nora by the elbow over to a chair. Nora sat, looking up at the women. Siobhán picked up the cat from Reina’s shoulder. “Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it Nora?” Eyes wide, Nora squeaked, “Please don’t kill him.” Siobhán laughed. “Dáithí? Oh, he’ll turn up right as rain in a few days having learned a good lesson. Won’t you, Dáithí?” The kitten rubbed its face hungrily along Siobhán’s hand. Tears brimmed in Nora’s eyes. “What are you?” The women laughed. Siobhán said, “Of course you know, Nora. You’ve known all along. I’m not just a publican. Reina isn’t just a purveyor of delicious Jamaican food. Mary isn’t just a lady in the Altar Rosary Society. We all have other gifts, so to speak. Sometimes, people seek those gifts. We help them when we can. But, they’re not always happy with the help they get. Like with our friend, Dáithí: he was cheating me, and other customers. Then had the gall to ask for a spell to grow his ‘business.’ Well, I gave him one; earned him a trip to the hospital. Furious, weren’t you Dáithí?” Siobhán stopped to a moment to allow the kitten to amble up her chest. “You’re a good girl, Nora. You won’t tell, will you?” “No one would believe me,” Nora whispered. “That’s true,” laughed Reina. Mary limped over to the door of the mausoleum and opened it. “Go on. Time to go.” Afraid to break eye contact with them, Nora walked backwards toward the door and stumbled down the marble steps. She broke into a run; pumping her legs as fast as they could take her until she had to stop, gasping for breath and covered in sweat. She leaned over a headstone to nurse a stitch in her side. She glanced down at the name on the headstone and jumped back, yelling when she saw it read ‘DOLAN, Dáithí.’ She read the dates etched into the stone four times just to be sure it wasn’t the same Dáithí from the pub. Her first impression of the man was bad, but she didn’t want him dead. Nora told herself not to go back to the pub; go home, take a shower, and find a job somewhere normal. And she did go home and take a shower, but then she dried her hair and got ready for work and headed back to the pub, ineluctably drawn there, unable to stay away. “Nora!” Joe greeted her at the door, concern on his face. “Everything ok? My mom told me Dáithí got aggressive.” Siobhán and Lisa stood in the corner of the pub, watching her. Nora made eye contact with them and looked backed to Joe. “Yep, just clearing my head. Thanks for checking.” The rest of the weekend whirred past. The bar was near-capacity all day on Friday and Saturday, and was mostly full on Sunday. Nora worked thirteen hour shifts each day, but never felt tired. It was like she was moving to a inborn choreography: step this way to avoid a waiter with a tray of food; keep this tab open and this one closed, even though the patrons never specified; bring this table a plate of nachos after their third round. When she had time to recognize it, she understood that so much of how the place operated must be part of Siobhán’s ‘gift,’. Everything always worked. Drinks just materialized. Taps never ran out or tasted off. Even on their busiest and most packed nights, no one ever fought, no one ever got too drunk. They hired a bouncer who slept in a booth next to the entrance; he had nothing to do. She’d worked in a dozen or so bars and restaurants and never experienced anything like it. The following Tuesday, Nora went to the pub to get her tips cashed out from the weekend. Joe told her to head down to Siobhán’s office to retrieve them, so she followed the familiar path down and knocked twice on the heavy wooden door. “Come in!” Siobhán was seated behind her desk, Lisa, Reina and Mary behind her. Nora stopped in the doorway, unsure if she should continue. “You’re ok, girl. Get in.” Mary commanded. Nora came in, less nervous than the last time she was in their company. Siobhán handed over an envelope with the tips. “It’s $2,500. A very good haul.” Lisa said. Nora opened her mouth, but was too shocked to speak. One St. Patrick’s day she made $700 working the bar. Nothing close to this. “Please sit.” Siobhán gestured to the chair across from her desk. Nora obeyed. “What if I told you, Nora, that these extra gifts we have, we can share them with other people?” “You mean like doing spells or something?” Reina grinned. “We mean showing you how to do them.” She extended her arm, her brown fist closed. “Go on. Look inside.” Nora looked at all of them, and then gently peeled back Reina’s fingers. In her palm was a tiny, golden morsel. She understood that these women could just as easily be killing her with this, or turning her into a cat, but still she took the morsel and ate it. Something electric coursed through her veins. Once she was used to the feeling, she stood up. Things around her seemed more possible than they had before, like the world around her was something she could control. “I feel...” Nora searched for the word. “I don’t know how to describe it.” Siobhán held an empty glass bowl in front of Nora. Remembering her first encounter with Siobhán, Nora put her hand over it and it filled with water. She inhaled sharply. “Did you see that?” Nora looked to the other women. Lisa smirked. “We did.” “What you feel,” Siobhán said, gently guiding Nora out of the office and toward the secret passageway to the mausoleum, “is power.” In time, Nora found that there were many more people in Woodlawn with the gift. They met in the cemetery, at the full moon, to discuss the goings-on of the neighborhood, to set limits on the use of power, and to decided how to handle threats. Nora soon learned to recognize when someone else had the gift, wondering how she ever missed the signs of it before. Joe left the pub for law school, and Siobhán promoted Nora to manager. She quit her day job. One morning at dawn, she headed to the pub to accept an early shipment and she walked passed Dáithí, who was opening the grates on ‘Dave’s Irish Butcher and Supply.’ They locked eyes and, after hesitating, Dáithí tipped his hat. Nora smiled. That’s a good kitty. (This was submitted for Reedsy contest #190: Set your story in New York, where someone’s been waiting for your character.


“I can’t believe we have to do this,” Allie huffed, tossing her phone into a bin labeled with her name on it. She grabbed the required headphones-earmuffs really-and moved through the queue. “It’s too far. If I make it through this I might just quit anyway.” Ginny, her coworker and best friend, rolled her eyes and she shuffled along, fidgeting with her headphones, trying to size them correctly. She tossed her phone into a bin as if it was on fire, smiling and sighing like she actually enjoyed keeping it distanced from her. “I think it’s nice spending a whole day in silence,” she stated, and really, she would. As a mother of two toddlers, this was a vacation. A whole day at a silent retreat-mandated and paid for by work. “Now quick, get your talking out now before they shut it down!” She winked, and Allie huffed again. Ginny offered her a granola bar and Allie accepted it with angst, hating that her friend knew her so well. She shoved the snack into her mouth in large bites as they grabbed the rest of their necessities for the day, which turned out to be a bag full of notepads, pens, and resources about meditation and taking time to listen through body language and facial cues. “Noooooo,” she groaned, mouth full. “I don’t even have my phone to play Scrabble on the sly. What am I going to do all day?” The queue led to a medium sized conference room with a stage and small two-chaired tables scattered throughout the floor. There were only about 30 people attending, all local HR departments torturing their reps with an exercise in patience. “Let’s sit by each other and we can play tic tac toe the whole time,” Allie said, elbowing her friend and pointing to an empty table. She searched her bag for a bottle of water and couldn’t find one. Ginny nodded, handing a water that she pulled from her bag like magic. “That’s what I’d do with my kids if they were here, she agreed.” Her tone wasn’t lost on Allie, but she didn’t care-games sounded much better than whatever this would likely entail. The two sat down and waited for instructions. Allie had assumed a silent retreat meant yoga and yurts, not sitting in a stuffy brown room with a bunch of strangers with plastic smiles on their faces. She was sure no one wanted to be there, but honestly she couldn’t tell by looking at them. She glanced at the schedule, seeing yoga was in fact on the agenda at the end of the day. She nodded to herself, mindlessly smoothing her hair and pasting her own smile across her betrayingly expressive face. After a few moments a small woman walked to the stage microphone, seeming to tiptoe or float, her heels making absolutely no sounds against the wood floors. Allie was so focused on that feat of magic, she barely heard the quiet voice through the speakers around the room. Snapping to attention, she tried to put the shoes out of her mind. “Welcome, everyone. We’re going to get started on an exercise in just a few moments. It’ll challenge you, and hopefully educate you on the forms of communication that exist without words or sounds.” She mumbled on about the research, and Allie nodded to herself, thinking the shoes must have pads on the bottom of them. This woman went far in her quest for silence, that’s for sure. “Pads on her shoes,” she whispered to Ginny. “I’m sure of it.” Ginny looked oddly at her, then raised a finger to her lips in a shushing manner. “Whatever,” she mumbled and turned back to the woman on stage, who had moved on from research and onto the rules of engagement for the day. “So when you’re ready, I need you all to rearrange yourselves to share a table with someone you’ve never met before. This works best with someone you don’t already have a shorthand knowledge of.” Allie looked around the room in panic. There went her plan of sticking with the one person she knew. She felt like an HR imposter. Who worked with people without liking people? Ginny hit at her shoulder. “Pay attention!” Allie nodded, not paying attention at all. She wondered if there would be a silent lunch after, and how would they even know if no one could tell them? The thought made her snort. Ginny nudged her again and pointed to her noise canceling headphones. Everyone was putting them over their ears. Shit, she missed something again. She followed everyone else and slid the headphones over her head, huffing again when she had to adjust her ponytail to accommodate them. Suddenly she couldn’t hear anything, and everyone else seemed to know what they were doing. Panicking again, she stayed seated in her chair. Surely someone would notice and guide her to their task if she just sat there. Like when a child is lost, she thought. They always say to stay where you are and wait for a grownup to find you. “Is that what they say?” she mumbled to herself. “Or do you go find someone?” She couldn’t even remember how to be a lost child, she thought, rolling her eyes. She looked down at her shoes, wondering how she would attach magic sound muffling pads to them. Someone sat down in the chair across from her, startling her. “I guess staying put was the right way to go,” she mumbled, raising her eyes to her guest. She started to wonder how she’d pretend to know what the frick was happening, but embarrassment reddened her cheeks. The man across from her was gorgeous. His suit-SUIT-was fitted, and fit well, she thought, before cursing herself for objectifying him. The suit fit well but didn’t look overly expensive. He had a short hairstyle that allowed for his headphones to easily fit over his head. He was clean shaven, had an open and approachable face, and looked to be in his late 20s or early 30s, if she had to guess. Allie herself was only 25, just a few years out of college, the baby in the room, which looked to be mostly jaded 40 year olds trying desperately to get promoted out of the job they’d had for a decade and a half. The man held out his hand and Allie offered hers in return. His handshake was firm, the way you’d expect from someone who worked with people all day. He smiled and she could see his white teeth. One tooth had a small chip in it, but why did it look so charming? She wondered how he’d chipped his tooth. Falling asleep and knocking his face on a table at a convention like this, probably. She sighed. “I’m Allie,” she said loudly, and then slapped a hand on her mouth, feeling like an idiot. She stifled a laugh, and then because she tried so hard not to, she burst out into a snort. She was so glad at that moment the man couldn’t hear her. She mouthed sorry and he held back a laugh too, a dimple appearing in his left cheek. Then she grimaced. She still had no clue what they were doing, and she didn’t know how to find out. Sighing again, she motioned to him and put her hands out in a “What do we do?” shrug. He motioned back to her in a “go ahead.” She narrowed her eyes at him and stared him down. There were brown specks in his green eyes. She narrowed hers more so he wouldn’t see that her brown eyes had green specks. It seemed like information he just didn’t deserve to have. Without breaking eye contact, she crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. She could do this all day, she thought. Except really she couldn’t. The truth was, Allie was bored. She turned to look at what everyone else was doing, and honestly, it just looked like they were playing charades. Their arms and hands moved around and their faces held exaggerated emotions. She shrugged, and reached for her bag to grab the pen and paper. “I give up,” she wrote. “I don’t know what we’re doing. Oh, and I’m Allie.” She grimaced and slid the paper toward her partner, shrugging and handing him the pen. She expected him to be angry or at least exasperated for wasting his precious time. She waited for him to write something scathing about wasting her time, but he just winked and wrote something down, using his hand to cover it so she couldn’t peek. He looked left, then right, and then slid the paper across the table. It reminded her of when she was in school, passing notes to her friends in Study Hall. She mimicked the exaggerated looks to make sure no one was watching, and then looked at the page. She instantly laughed-snorted again-and glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised. “I wasn’t paying attention,” he’d written. “I was hoping for puppy yoga. I’m Daniel.” She looked at his hastily drawn lines, a big X in the center square. “Tic tac toe?”


I was the first to recommend the procedure to him. The technology had been around for a few years at that point, but at first I was too afraid to ask him. To me it felt unnatural, and to erase memories was, but I would have tried anything. I’d seen what grief had done to Patrick. Anything would be better than what he was then.  I’d watched as the family went from the two of us to three, and then suddenly back down to two again. And six years after that it was only me. After the fire, when Patrick moved back into the house with me, I was forced to watch as he faded into no one. His body became thin. His hair became thin. It turned grey. Everyday he looked more like dust.  That night, I stood over him shaking the pamphlet in my hand and begged him in a raised voice, “Please, consider it. It’s been six years and I don’t see any end, and it hurts me to see you in so much pain, but you don’t have to fight it anymore.” “And I envy the fact that you don’t feel so empty all the time,” He spat from his armchair. I walked back to my chair and sat down across from him again, resigned. I sighed, “If I could bear your pain, I would do it in an instant. You know that Patrick... I’d be a terrible father if I didn’t. But I don’t know how much longer I can see you this way, and...” I gestured at the collection of unopened envelopes on the coffee table, “this is still piling up.” He stormed out of the room.  I sat in on one of his therapy sessions after I first suggested the procedure. That’s how I learned that his friends had left him because he had been “too depressed to be around.” When he said it, he looked to check if I was still in the corner of the room before he turned back to Dr. Kuntz to speak. I couldn’t help but notice how old he looked: he was thirty-three. Patrick continued on: “But there’s this notion of happiness, that it’s a flowing, unending. Pure ecstasy that fills every crack. That’s not true though, the cracks don’t get filled. They exist on the edges, because to be filled with a single emotion is, well, boring. The cracks are what define you and remind you what it means to be a person...” There was a pause of silence, all of us understanding his reservations on part of his person being erased, because of course his fears were valid, and it wasn’t Dr. Kuntz’s or my decision to make. Then Dr. Kuntz said, “But what your so-called ‘cracks’ drain every emotion you’ve got until all that’s left is emptiness?”  In the end, Patrick decided that it was for the best. And I was the one to gather all the photos, tokens, anything that might have significance to him. I was the one to do the erasing. I scoured the house for anything that might remind him of *her*, but most of what Patrick and Quinn had owned was lost in the fire. I created a small pile on the kitchen table. Bits of paper with her name on them, photographs of the two, a few metal trinkets. Patrick walked through the doorway while I arranged the memories, and spun around when he realized what I was doing. In the end, every piece of their life together fit neatly inside a small wooden box. When I told Patrick I finished, he came in and left a letter and their wedding ring on top of the wooden box. The night before the operation, I went out into our backyard, dug a hole and buried the box, covering the hole up so it was indistinguishable from the rest of the yard, all while I wept and Patrick tried to sleep.  When we arrived at the clinic, we were met with the jeers and howls of a handful of protestors. I tried to usher him from the car to the doors with my arm around his waist. I tried to take his attention away from the signs, but even I couldn’t help but glimpse the word “unnatural” on one of them as we walked past. Right by the door, a balding man in his forties hissed in my ear, “You’re erasing yourself. You’re giving up.“ I ignored him, but at that moment I was reminded of a quote by the writer Osamu Dazai: “Is non-resistance a sin?”  The operating room was lit with harsh fluorescent lights and smelled sickeningly of disinfectant. White floors, white walls, white lights. The doctor walked in wearing a white lab coat. And I held Patrick’s hand as he recapped the basic procedure with him, but I don’t think either of us were listening. “The next thing you know, you’ll be waking up in your house,” he said to Patrick. I helped him onto the operating table. The doctor flipped a switch on the side of the table and a howling whir of machinery began to start up. He said, “Dad, I’m scared.” I squeezed his hand even harder as they slipped the anesthetic mask over his mouth. The hiss of gas added to the noise, the whirs, and high-voltage hums of the room, and I felt myself going faint. Before a masked nurse ushered me out of the room, I said to Patrick, “A lot’s going to change.”  I don’t have many videos of Patrick as a young child since it’s always been the two of us, but do have one I watch alone every once in a while. There’s no audio, but in the video, he’s four or five, and I’m chasing him around on the lawn of our old house. He’s laughing silently and at one point he trips, and I pretend like I’m going to grab him. Just as I close my hands around his leg, he gets back up again, smiling.  That afternoon, he woke up in his armchair at home to me sitting across from him, as the doctors had instructed me to do. The sun shone through the translucent curtains and bathed the room in a soft light. A summer breeze rustled the room. Patrick gave me a questioning look. “How long was I asleep for?” He asked. I looked up from my book as I shut it. “Not too long,” I said, “Do you remember falling asleep?” After a pause, he said, “No, I feel... like I’ve been in a deep sleep.” “Probably just the grogginess,” I replied, my voice getting shakier with every word. “Would you like to make us some tea for the afternoon?” Patrick nodded and walked out of the room. I looked out through the french doors and thought of the wooden box buried in the yard--that part of Patrick he had bestowed upon me to keep: almost an equal exchange, but not quite. Not quite because my life was almost over and I could bear the knowledge he lacked so that his life... could begin again. A tear came to my eye.  This is what Patrick’s letter--buried deep underground--read: *Dear Quinn,* *They’re going to do an operation on my brain that will erase all my memory of you. You know I would do anything to bring you back, but I can’t fight it anymore. I’m just not strong enough to carry all the guilt and pain and anguish, and I’m sorry for that. Everynight, I wish it had been me who had died that night in the fire.* *This has been the most painful decision in my life. You made me who I am, and brought me love that I didn’t think possible to feel, but I think that you would want me to be well. I am going to try to live again.* *Maybe I’ll see you again soon. Until then, thank you for all the years of happiness.* *Sending you all my love,* *Patrick*  I sat in my armchair and listened to the muffled thuds of cabinets opening and closing, the clink of ceramic mugs on the counter, the hiss of the water-boiler, and through my own quiet sobs of both sadness and relief, I heard Patrick too. It was difficult to make out, but it sounded like he was humming a tune that I hadn’t heard in years.


Trigger warning: This story contains mentions of physical abuse and self harm. Running is a poor man’s exercise. So why am I even doing it? Oh, yeah. Because I’m poor now. These sneakers are tight but my budget is tighter. Dad bought me these shoes before he cut me off. I mean, Dad also used to hit me before he cut me off. Sneakers for some bruises. It was a fair trade, I guess? We don’t need to think about that anymore, though. I’m free now. And broke. No gym. Just running. At least this neighborhood is safe. Well, technically, I cut myself off. I didn’t do anything wrong, right? I just moved out like adults do. I’m an adult. Financially independent. Am I just going to ignore that Mom has cancer? Yeah, I’m trying not to think about it. That’s why I’m even running in the first place. Exercise relieves stress...and prevents cancer, which is what Mom has. I have to go back home. I’m her only child. Her baby. Mom used to call me that all the time. Her only baby. I cried in her arms countless times. Soon those arms will be lifeless. I miss her. It’s so hard to say it out loud to her face. Words of affirmation don’t come naturally to us. We’re more of a read-between-the-lines kind of family. In our case, the lines are ultra-thin. Oh, yeah. Mom’s cancer. Sure, she looked okay on video call, but did she, though? She lost so much weight. I could literally see all her bones. She looks like a cancer patient. She used to be so beautiful. She still is. It’s just that she aged thirty years in three months. But she was energetic! And smiling! Of course she was. I’m her daughter. I know her. As always, she’s putting on her best performance. For me. She’d rather die pretending than let me see her crack. That’s why I can’t go back. I’ll take up all her energy. Or rather I can’t go back because I’m not like Mom. There’s only so much I can fake. If I break, I’ll have to stay in that house forever. With Dad who’s only hanging on by a thread. He loves Mom so much. Mom is dying. He’ll kill himself if she goes. He wouldn’t stay for me. I know that. Remember when I failed that math test? He got so angry, he went to the garage and got a pistol and unlocked the trigger and aimed it at me then pointed it at his own head yelling, “I regret having a daughter like you! You useless piece of shit!” He said that a lot. I thought I was going to die. I thought he was going to die. All because of a math test. Our lives were worth less than a math test. “It’s because he loves you.” Mom said that a lot. In our house, love is learning every expression of anger on Dad’s face so that I know when to expect a blow up. Love is accepting that I deserved it. Because he wouldn’t hurt me if he didn’t care. Love is pain. I felt a lot of it. Dad only knew how to express love with anger and money. That’s why I’m recovering three-thousand miles away from him. And running in the shoes he bought for me. Maybe I am a useless piece of shit. Just running, running, running. It’s all I’m good for. Running away from all my problems. What else can I do? What’s wrong with me? I should care so much more, shouldn’t I? That my family is falling apart? I should be crippled with grief but my legs won’t stop moving. I haven’t called or texted in half a month. That’s not normal, is it? Well, it wasn’t normal going to school with wounds all over my body. Or lying to my teachers about it. It wasn’t normal when Dad socked me so hard in the stomach, I couldn’t breathe. Folded on the floor and sobbing. Or when he locked me in the garage for a week. I slept on the cement floor, listening to rats scurry around at midnight. I was eight. Moving out is a rite of passage for most eighteen-year-olds. But for me, it felt like a long-awaited escape plan. It’s not normal to be afraid of your father. But I don’t think “normal” is our style. And what about Mom? Strong-headed, quick-witted Mom who always knew how to make me feel comforted and ashamed at the same time. The effects of her words have lasted longer than any of Dad’s bruises. “You know you had it coming. You just make him so angry. He can’t help himself when you provoke him. It’s your fault." I believed her and sometimes still do. But I don’t want to anymore. It just makes me tired. So, so, so tired. Yet I can’t stop thinking she's right, especially now. Mom has cancer and I’m making it all about me. My pain, my grief, my guilt. It’s hard not to agree that I’m terrible. Mom, Dad and I had good times, after all. Watching movies together, eating dinner, joking. But even the good times were riddled with anxiety. One second we could be laughing and the next second a fist would hit my face because something I said was out of line. And there were so many lines. It was hard to keep track. It was so much easier to just expect violence at all times. No matter how good things were. Happiness and anxiety are a package deal. Anxiety keeps me safe. It’s family. I’m running but I can’t escape it. Family. The only one I know. It’s broken and it's mine. Mom in the hospital. Once regal, now frail. Dad beside her. Once feared, now hopeless. And me. Once trapped, now lost. We’re drowning, but at least we’re drowning together. I've tried to hate them but I can’t. They’re all I’ve ever known. So, after this run, I’ll call them. Tell them I love them. I miss them. I can’t imagine life without them. But I’m not going back. I can’t. For my own sanity, I need to keep running. Full speed ahead.


She stared down at her feet realising it was covered in the slimy greenish water. She gave a disgusted squeal when the slime creeped between her toes. This wasn't what she thought the Victorian Castle camp would be like. She visualised herself walking around the castle and imaging people dancing all kinds of different dances in the ballroom. Instead she's building campfires and swimming in the Victorian lake next to the castle. Camilla sighed and called Mr. Wicksen her history teacher who planned the entire trip. "So are we actually going to go into the castle", she asked him. He looked at her and thought a while before answering her question. "Yes Camilla but we must first wait for Mrs. Anderson to approve the entrance form before we can proceed". Camilla knew that if they get time to enter the castle their time would be limited and she wouldn't have enough time to see Miss Small's bedroom. Miss Small lived during the Victorian era she was considered as a well accomplished young lady. She was soft spoken, sophisticated, elegant and she was truly beautiful, men has always said it was the innocence in her eyes that captivated them. She had every feature but unfortunately in 1855 she passed away due to a heart attack when she was only 17. Her life is considered to be tragic due to the fact that she would've married the handsome and wealthy Prince Louis who she was in love with but passed away the night before their wedding. After her death he was forgotten, he went on and lived in a foreign country leaving his crown for his nephew to grasp. Rumours said that Prince Louis never looked at another lady and died alone on a cold winter evening somewhere unknown. Camilla relates in alot of ways to Miss Small and always believed that in some unknown ways they were the same she has always been obsessed with her. Miss Small's first name is also Camilla and both Camilla and Miss Small celebrate 21 August as their birthday date. "I honestly think that she'll only approve the forms once we're away, she has secrets and she's scared someone will find out the truth about the castle", said Mark who stood beside her. She turned to face him and looked at him curiously, "I have a plan, I also think that the next 3 days will be swimming and waiting. I think we should break into the castle". "Are you crazy?", he was surprised by her plan and thought it was wild and that they can get into big trouble if they get caught. "I'm just thinking that no one's in the castle at night we can climb through the basement window which is always open and we can solve the mystery the castle has kept for centuries. Plus I really want to see how it looks like inside you know I'm obsessed with the Victorian era". He agreed with the plan and said that he only agreed because he strongly believe that the castle holds secrets and if anyone were to find out these secrets it would be him. When their watches struck at midnight Camilla and Mark sneaked out of their tents as quietly as they could. The night watch who was Mr Wicksen and Thomas were both sound asleep next to the fire. The window of the basement was wide open and they both climbed through the window. The room was dark and only lighted by the moon that pierced through the window. Mark took out his phone and turned on his flashlight. The basement was a fairly large room there were stacks of papers and some furniture stored in the room all covered in a thick layer of dust. They went up the stairs which led to the drawing room. Everything in the room was exactly as it was the day it was abandoned. The next room was the ballroom which was the most favourable room in it's day accompanying more than 300 guests. The Small's hosted the best balls and everyone who was invited saw the invitation as an accomplishment rather than a dance. The room's walls were covered white paint and a portrait of Miss Small with Mr and Mrs Small hanged on the wall across the entrance doors. Miss Small had round blue eyes with dark curley hair and a fair skin tone illuminating her other facial features. Mark stood with Camilla and stared at the portrait. They walked through the castle until Camilla came in view of Miss Small's room. She turned the doorknob, this was it everything she has waited for so long she held her breath until the door was open. They stepped into the room and it looked exactly like Camilla imagined it. It looked exactly like a princess's room. The bedspread was ivory in colour and made of silk. Near the window was a stack of books original editions of Shakespeare, Austen and Dickens she was accomplished in literature. All the books was on a desk with some ink and wax an unfinished letter caught Camilla's eyes. It was Miss Small's handwriting. The letter's content was about Miss Small's feelings of the wedding and her love for him it was written to Prince Louis. Camilla read with passion the letter aloud to Mark who listened and applaud once she was finished. The letter unfortunately had only one paragraph and Camilla left is exactly the same way she found it. She looked at a wedding dress on the dressing table with a corset on top. The dress was made of lace but dust made it look more brown than white. Camilla gazed through the rest of the room admiring every single object that completes it when they heard footsteps. Both their eyes were glued to the door. The doorknob turned slowly and the door opened revealing a lady standing there holding a lighted candle in her hands. Camilla and Mark's eyes were filled with terror and their faces were as white as sheets. 'It couldn't be' was Camilla's last thought before all else perished.


TW: Eating disorder, body dysmorphia. Have you ever read a horror story where the main character has a mirror that doesn't reflect what's standing in front of it? A mirror with a reflection that talks, or speaks, or walks, or moves on its own? Have you read anything like that? Surely you have. And if you're anything like my mother or my best friend or her brother, I'll ask you this question, then perhaps you'll get a scared look in your eyes and you'll say: "But things like that don't really exist. It's great for fiction, and I once saw a scary short film on YouTube that was pretty good, but it's nothing more than that." Why will you look scared? The question I asked - it's a normal question, isn't it? Well, that's because you'll notice that as I'm asking you this question, I'm standing in front of a mirror. I have my back to it, but I know you're too curious not to look. And I know what you're seeing in there. You'll stare at your reflection in the mirror as your voice trails off. That's okay - for some reason, it's a natural human reaction to look at yourself in a reflective piece of glass whenever you have the chance. Your eyes will drift away from mine, and you'll keep bringing them back until you can't anymore, and your gaze is lost in the mirror. I know you will, because I do the same thing. The mirror is across from the door that leads into my bedroom. Whenever I open the door, its brass knob cold in my hand, that mirror - and my own reflection in it - is the first thing I see. It’s so hard not to look at it. Even if I’m in a hurry, or if I was thinking about something else before, I still freeze in front of the glass. Every time. I see the outfit I chose the night before, the one I put together painstakingly while listening to the song my classmates raved about in the group chat, lyrics so muffled I can barely understand them. I’ve never heard it before, and I don’t think I like it. But since I’m doing what I should be doing, it's a cozy atmosphere, one where I feel like I'm fitting right in. Though, when I look at my clothes in the mirror the next day, the coziness is gone. Instead, there's only wishful thinking. Thinking that they should have looked nice, but they don't. I see little red spots on my forehead, relics of relentless hormones and cheap drugstore skincare that was supposed to be helpful. No amount of makeup will cover them up. Wearing makeup, in fact, makes me such a fraud that nowadays, with the mirror as my guide, I don't dare. One time I tried, and I looked into the mirror and saw a dried-up wheat husk. It sounds crazy, I know, but you have to think about the way the foundation caked on my dry skin, the wavering line that was meant to be eyeliner, the red spots peeking through like a child's messy coloring ... and when you look in my mirror through my eyes, you’ll see it too. I see my schoolbag, loose and heavy, draped over one shoulder. It has seen better days. I didn’t choose it - Mom did. I was thirteen when she grabbed it off the shelf, held it up against me, and smiled. “Do you like this?” she asked, and I did. It looked like something a preppy, fresh-off-the-bus high school student - the one that all the seniors would baby - might carry. I saw a little metal grommet where I could attach a keychain. I’d put a photo there, I thought, pictures of me with friends or silly photoshopped pictures of me with celebrities that my friends and I would laugh about together. But I’m still waiting for that. The plainness and the wear and tear adds character, or so I thought when I saw my bag sitting on my shelf. But when I looked at its reflection in the mirror, it just seemed shabby. Strange. I see that I forgot to exercise this week. Hold on - is that thought really coming from the mirror, or did I just happen to remember it right when I opened my bedroom door? I don’t like to work out, and I’m always hungry, and I can’t stop myself from eating a good cookie when Mom makes them to tempt me. But, come to think of it, I guess I should get back on my "routine." Maybe my clothes would fit better if I did, and I wouldn’t have to see them bulging out in all the wrong places. The scale says I’m underweight, but BMI is all a lie anyways. I don’t look underweight, and it’s better to be under than over, isn’t it? That’s what the other girls at school would say if I asked. They’d laugh while they said it, too, and that would be intended to make me feel better, but it wouldn’t work, for I'd still be hungry. It’s safe to say that other people’s mirrors aren’t like mine. When they look in their mirrors, they don’t see wheat husks and tired eyes that were laughing just a moment ago and ugly sweaters that were bought at trendy stores. They see reality - they see themselves. Just themselves, just what other people see. I have a friend who calls herself an “influencer.” I don’t know what that means exactly, but I do know that she’s pretty, pretty enough to call herself whatever she wants. She wears platform sneakers that would make me look like a tree trunk, and they make her look willowy and dainty and cute. She wears a little white skirt that would show too much of my veiny thighs to be attractive. She scrunches with her heels flat to the ground and holds her phone up over her face. Click. Her phone flash reflects off her mirror, adding an eerie, angelic glow to her photo. And voila, she’s beautiful. That’s all there is to it. So I’ve been told, but it has never been that easy for me. I thought that when I saw myself in her mirror, I would look beautiful too. Because the reflection in my mirror at home, I think, isn’t reality. How could it be? How could I be so wrong about myself? But I was sadly disappointed. I only saw my reflection in passing, but it looked just the same as it did at home before I left. Sad, sorry, pathetic. Droopy and lame. The mirror isn’t magic, not like the mirrors in horror stories. The problem is me. It must be. But you see it too, don’t you? You have an idea of what you expect before you look in the mirror, but you don’t see it when you finally do look. Your reflection is all wrong. You’re shaped differently than you thought, and your clothes aren’t the same color, and your cheeks are waxy and sallow. Never, ever does a mirror work the opposite way, telling you you’re better than you really are. It's like mirrors have a secret plot to take over the world by making themselves superior to those who look in them. Now the only question is, which one’s real - the mirror, or the reflection I think I should have seen? Will I ever find a mirror that tells me the truth about myself? That mirror - will it be someone's eyes, perhaps my best friend's, or Mom's, or a person that loves me? Or ... my own?


“Why did you turn me?” I asked Him once, a few months into my vampire life, and not out of maliciousness or a desire to draw out of Him any secrets. I was simply curious in my teenage fashion; I only wanted to know why I had become His companion in immortality, why He had chosen me and not any of the other beautiful boys at the Catholic school He plucked me from. He responded to this curiosity by ripping my door off of its hinges, by tearing my pillows until they exploded into puffs of down and cotton, by taking my favorite of His antique lamps and shattering it against the wall. There were certain topics which He was extraordinarily sensitive about, only one of which being the question of why He crawled into my boarding room that night and stole me away. He was unwilling to talk about His own turning, nor the existence of vampires aside from the two of us. Politics bored Him into slumber, most music irritated Him. He could tolerate few TV programs, with one nonsensical exception in the Andy Griffith Show. He petted my hair mildly while we watched it together, like I was some sort of exotic cat He had spent a pretty penny on. He preferred, at least for that first period of our time together, to discuss our current life and reality. And it most thrilled Him and He was at His most jovial when, every night, we went on the hunt. My first time was a disaster. I had just accepted that I was truly a vampire, against all logic and the teachings of my childhood. For the days it took for me to escape my maze of confusion, He spoon-fed me blood from His own kills in His Manhattan penthouse. Besides, He said, my powers needed to develop. And develop they did. My hearing sharpened until I could, if focused, hear a bird chirping from three blocks away. If the neighbor downstairs cut himself shaving, the scent wafted to my nose. I was too fast for my own good, often overshooting my distance and ending up ten paces ahead of where I wanted to go. I fought my urges to do those human things, eating and using the toilet, now only out of habit rather than need. On the very first night I was with Him, He showed me my first corpse, told me how He paid handsomely to have them disposed of discreetly. He knew everyone in this city, I found, had his fingers in everything. I spent the time from then until my first hunt wandering His apartment, probing my teeth with my tongue, waiting in fear of the day I would have to gather the limp form of a man and fly it over Central Park. I knew I would be inclined to drop it, to watch it splatter on rocks from this great height, to show the world what had been made of me. But I was far too scared of Him for that. He placed the most exquisite, soul-rending fear into my soul. He would have it no other way. As we walked to the location of our first hunt, which He would not disclose to me, He explained which kinds of people we ought not to kill. “Policemen, obviously. Anyone rich. Celebrities, though they can be tempting. Those who may not be rich but are notable in the city, those popular with their peers.” The night was cold and dark and dry, so unlike my home in Atlanta. It was hard to keep up with Him, so quick and assured in His every movement. “So, who should we go after?” “The rabble.” He shook his hand dismissively. “Prostitutes, beggars. In general, the poor. People who will not be missed.” I supposed it made sense in a logistical fashion, but the thought made my stomach hurt. “But shouldn’t we kill the rich? Those who do bad things?” I could tell His easily-triggered temper was flaring up by the way the high heels of His boots clicked insistently on the sidewalk. I purposefully avoided His gaze by looking up to the buildings that rose high above us. I was forced not only to get acclimated to my new vampirism, but to a city I have never even visited. My whole life was in Atlanta, then Decatur, where my private school sat like a crown gem. New York City, though, was the crown gem of America. Later, I managed to tease out of Him that He stayed here because it reminded Him of His original birthplace. Much later, I learned that this birthplace was Constantinople, a thousand and change years before it became as we know it now, Istanbul. He did not dignify my supposition with a response. I knew He tried to be gentle with me, in those early days. From this I gathered that He had some sort of wound from His own turning that had never been quite healed over. He did not want to treat me as He had probably once been treated by His own maker. It was these pinprick moments of kindness, which I justified largely through fictions of my own creation, that stoked my love for Him. The hunt was the only thing that promised to turn His mood around. I watched His demeanor relax once more as we got closer to our apparent destination. “It will be jarring at first.” He admitted to me, with a rare note of tenderness in His voice. “But you will grow to enjoy it. Everyone is different. Some go quietly. Others...” He trailed off. I knew He was trying not to upset me before anything had even transpired. “Are less so. But you are stronger than them, faster than them.” We came upon an empty lot, so rare in the city, dotted in makeshift tents of tarps. Grocery carts filled with piles of indistinguishable trash park next to them like cars. He must have detected my confusion and said, “Building burned to the ground two months ago. They’ve already made use of the place.” His upper lip curled into a barely disguised sneer. They , the homeless, I supposed were meant to be our meal. I nodded. “How are we supposed to get them? Seems as if they’ve all turned in for the night.” “We’ll wait.” So we did. He led me to an alley across the street, where our vantage point was good, and the two of us crouched and bided our time. I took the time to use my newly acquired night vision, to observe every inch of His face. From the side, He looked like a grand statue, or a picture in a history book. His complexion was tawny and His hair was black and pin-straight, relaying a complicated racial makeup. He was quite beautiful, in a harsh way, like a desert of snow. If he noticed me staring, He said nothing. I was sure that His interest in me, that the reason He’d taken me and me alone, was less than pure. But we spent years and years together after this (nothing, in the scheme of his 1,626 total years on earth) before He deigned to touch me in any way that mattered. I think I was still basically human to Him at that time, not yet ripened. He didn’t want me until I was as much a demon as He was. Eventually, one of the homeless wandered out of their tent and stumbled towards us. The man wavered, unseeing in the dark. My maker took me by the wrist and pulled me back, as gently as He could ever. “Quiet.” He whispered to me. “He will relieve himself. Sneak up behind him, and put your fangs into his throat, like I showed you.” The night before, He brought a man back to his (our) apartment and fed from him in front of me. He showed me the exact place where it was best to pierce the neck, when they stop spasming in pain, how much blood is enough to be satiated. I have never, in my decades after that night, forgotten the raw look of that man dying, the wildness of his hands as he tried to dig his fingers into the shag rug. I felt confident that I could perform my task successfully, but I didn’t think I had the stomach for it. Despite His descriptions of my new life as a good thing, a powerful thing, a thing to be respected and cherished, I had a hard time seeing it that way. It felt like a tremendous responsibility to be 18, to be told that this is your life now, and you better give this man a good death, or he will die suffering and knowing that an unimaginable creature is killing him. I looked to Him with real fear in my heart. “I can’t.” I whispered. “He didn’t do anything wrong.” “Of course he didn’t.” He whispered back. His eyes flashed menacingly in the dark. “This is the sacrifice you make for your power. Now do it.” But greater than my moral compass was my terror of the idea of saying no to Him. I still didn’t know how a vampire could die, if He as my maker could snap me from existence with ease. I wasn’t yet aware that He was extraordinarily fond of me, despite his brusque manners, and that He might rather kill Himself than me. His motives still confused me, the idea of His hatred petrified me. And the hunger was setting in, quickly and maddeningly, with the ferocity of a wild beast. So I moved, as slowly as I could, towards the homeless man who had just unzipped his pants. I could feel His eyes on my back as I crept up, unheard. Before I could talk myself out of it, or cry for God, I wrapped my arms around the man's waist and pierced his exterior jugular vein with the new fangs that I still wasn’t used to yet, that will snagged on my lip painfully. Feeding is a whole, messy process, especially if you’re as inexperienced as I was. You’re supposed to bite, immediately release, and form tight suction around the wound. But with the first hint of blood on my tongue, I became deranged, ravenous. I sucked his blood around my teeth frantically, holding the man so tightly to me that I heard his ribs and spine crack and break in my grasp. He tried weakly to pull himself free, but He had been right. I was stronger. It was almost comical, how easy it was. I slurped until the blood flow slowed to a trickle, until I was wet and sticky down to my shoes. Then I dislodged my fangs and looked up at Him, my maker, the man who put this monster inside of me. He leaned against the brick wall of the alleyway, floor-length jacket rippling. He had a smile on His face, the first one I’d seen of His. I am still shocked today when it’s directed towards me, the hint of pink tongue behind His teeth, the cracking of the stone resolve in His eyes. His approval was warmer than blood, could prop me up better than my own bones.


I woke up with a start, the sound of footsteps on the creaky steps pulling me from my dreams. I slipped out of bed and left my room, peeking down the hallway. “Rose?” My sister limped into view, “Hey Mari, I’m just going straight to bed.” I didn’t have to look closely to see the mud on her boots, mixed with the easily recognizable crimson of blood. Her knife was peeking out of her belt, it was permanently stained red. “Rose, where did you go?” She rolled her eyes, even though I was older than her, she still acted like I couldn’t be a mom figure. “It doesn’t matter, I’m going to bed.” I opened my mouth to object, but she stomped into her room and slammed the door behind her. I heard the lock click into place. Rose Crasson, my little sister, fifteen years old and an absolute firecracker. It usually wasn’t a good thing. Rose tried to hide it from me, but I knew, of course I knew. She was just like mom, a killer. She left at night to, “go hunting," but really, she was going into towns, snatching up random people, and slitting their throats. I had followed her one night, the nightmares still terrorized my brain. The vision of her crushing skulls with her steel toed boots, plunging her knife into flesh, smiling the entire time. Sometimes at night I could hear her, listing the names of her victims, the sound of stone on steel as she sharpened her blade, small giggles escaping her mouth. It made me shiver. The hardest part was knowing that she has killed countless people, and I just sat around and watched. I didn’t have the guts to call the guard, they would take her away, she could be in a dungeon for the rest of her life. She was all that I had left of my family, I couldn’t lose her too. I sighed and went back to my room, wondering who had died this time, and how many. So many lives stolen from this world, at the hand of my sister. I had had this argument with myself so many times, every day, multiple times. I could end all the suffering she was causing, but lose her in the process, or I could keep her close to me, but people wouldn’t stop dying. She wouldn’t stop killing. How high would the body count be before she was stopped? How many children would lose their parents. I sat up, my racing thoughts refusing me sleep. No, I couldn’t. But... I had to. I slipped back out of bed and threw on boots, creeping out of the house, making sure to grab a lantern on my way. Her footprints were easy to see, bright red in the pale white snow. I followed them, all the way to Andervia, a small town about twenty gegits away from us. It wasn’t long before I found what I was looking for. A fire, dozens of bodies burning away in it. Most of them reduced to nothing but ashes. Out of all the ones still in tact, there was one that caught my eye. I covered my mouth to stifle my scream and felt my knees buckle under the weight of what lay in front of me. Nothing but fear and pain spiking through my heart. I felt my eyes get wet, the tears slipping down my face. There was a child, a child that I knew. My best friend's child. It was hard to tell through the flames, but I recognized the little blue dress she was wearing, I had made it. I staggered to my feet and ran, pumping my arms and legs, trying to escape the inevitable truth. She couldn’t have, she couldn’t have, but she did. She did, and now, she was murdering children. I couldn’t let this go on any longer. Rose couldn’t hurt anyone else. My throat felt tight, I wheezed and coughed as the cold air hit my wound up vocal chords. My feet pounded against the snow covered ground, pushing me forward. I didn’t stop until I reached the house of the enforcers, or, the guards. Throwing my fists against the door, I banged on it, screaming for help, until someone threw the door open. It was Kace. My long time friend. My bottom lip trembled and I broke down, sputtering, “Rose, Annie, fire, dead, please.” His eyes widened, “Annie? Layla’s kid?!” I nodded and he ran inside, leaving me to fall to the ground, a heap of tears and ash. Kace, alongside the rest of the guards, all piled out at once. Kace pulled me to my feet, “Mari I know you’re upset right now, but I need you to take us to where it is, ok?” I nodded and broke into a run, I didn’t want any of the evidence gone. When we got there, all of the bodies had burned, all except for little Annies. I collapsed into Kaces arms, he held me tightly as the guards quickly doused the fire in water and pulled her tiny form from the flames. The head guard came to me, “Mari, who did this.” I turned to him, Kace slipped his hand into mine, squeezing it. “My sister, Rose. She’s at home right now, sleeping, or sharpening her weapon; if you don’t stop her now, she’ll go back out tomorrow, and the next day and the next. She wont stop, the bodies will keep coming.” Kace looked at me, his eyes seeded with pain, “Rose is underage, the most they can do is lock her up.” I nodded, my voice shaky, “I know. Do whatever you can.” “You realize you won’t be able to see her-” I cut him off by backing away, “YES, I KNOW THAT! JUST PLEASE...” I sank down and hugged my knees. “Please, don’t let her hurt anyone else.” Kace nodded to the guard and he and a bunch of the others left in the direction of our home. Some staying behind to take care of Annie. Kace sat next to me, “Do you want to be there when they take her?” I sniffed, “I think so.” He sighed, helping me to my feet yet again. It felt like my world was tipping over, like a gust of wind would throw me to my death. I clung to his arm, holding on to him, using him like an anchor to my soul. They had already gotten her when we got there, she was fighting furiously against them, her blonde hair matted, her green eyes glowing with hatred. She stopped struggling when she saw me, “Mari?” I felt the tears pooling in my eyes, my voice barely coming out in a whisper. “I’m sorry.” Her face was struck with realization, her eyes set on me. “You. You did this.” I lowered my head, staring at my feet, Kace looked down at me and then up to the guards. “Take her away, take no chances with her. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” Rose started screaming as they dragged her away. “YOU’RE DEAD TO ME! YOU HEAR ME? I SHOULD’VE KILLED YOU LIKE I KILLED DAD, YOU MEAN NOTHING!” Her screams echoed into the night, getting fainter and fainter as she was pulled away from me. I held my hand against my heart in a fist. I’m sorry Rose. I did what was right, even though it broke my heart to lose her, I had done the right thing. Rose would never hurt another person again.


“I want to express how lonely I am here, but I am finding myself short of words. I am getting really really bored out here. Just imagine that I learned how to make animal shapes by using hands. I have learned 5 languages, have studied all sorts of psychological theories and studied few religious manuscripts even. I can’t take my mind off anywhere else...sick and tired of brooding all day long. When I see earth from here, I listen to all kinds of earthly sounds, the traffic, sea waves, a dog’s bark..every single sound of earth is audible to me for half of the day. Though this feeling is temporary, the permanent feeling is of accomplishment, I am getting very meaningful data which can result in milestone findings. The samples I am collecting here shows that, we can build up colonies here and can live in a controlled environment. Anyways, say my hi to everyone out there. I better be a famous personality when I come back after 5 years.” He stood up from his chair after completing his mandatory daily video log. He knew that there is no way he can send these video back home. They will see them once he has reached back home, in case he does. The trip was supposed to be of 7 years and after 2 years, the nature of trip was becoming sempiternal. He looked at the mirror and noticed the mark over his chin and that day flashed again in his mind. **2 YEARS AGO** In a bathroom pub, only quite place there, he was noticing the mark over his chin. Then a friend came inside the washroom and said, “Dude you’re leaving in a week and therefore now will be a good time to have fun for the first time in your life.” He hated socializing, but his colleagues insisted that before this milestone journey, they should all have a fun night wherein they can ease off before the daunting task ahead. Sitting in a group at a pub, he generally is a surreptitious one. Not today though, he was facing all kind of questions; ‘What will you miss the most?’ ‘What will you do there when a day work is over?’ “You’re just 25, what made you take this decision?’ ‘Won’t you miss sex?’ Frankly, he had no answer for any of these questions and cursed himself for giving into his colleague’s pressure to come to this place. He decided he need to go away from them and started to look out for a place to smoke. Smoke saved him from such situations and let him be alone with himself and apart from science, loneliness was his bailiwick. Away from everyone, he lit up his Ultra Mild and looked at the Moon. He started staring various dark spots the moon had. He could recognize each spot and was looking at his own spot for a long time when a girl interrupted him and asked for a lighter. ‘I borrowed from someone too, I am sorry, here use my ciggerate and light up yours.’ She obliged and was smoking quietly when he noticed the Jim Mullen T-Shirt she was wearing. He was genuinely surprised. No one knows him, no one listens to him, how can she listen to him? He found himself intrigued by her and he just went to her and asked her, ‘How do you know Jim Mulen?’. ‘I don’t’, she smiled.’ I just listen to him.’ She took a puff and gave him a long stare as if studying him. ‘I am impressed you recognize him, not many people know him, is he your companion too?’ She asked. ‘Yes he is! The last one of the self taught jazz player. I keep listening to him in these prolonged emptiness when I travel from one place of relevance to another place of relevance, both in time and distance.’ She smiled and asked, ‘Let’s go inside and dance?’ They both threw away there half burnt smokes and left for the dance floor. Both of them were awkward dancers, clearly both of them were not used to such behavior, neither dancing and talking to someone unless it is work related. After 5 minutes they left the dance floor and were sitting at a private booth. Both of them had a drink in their hands but not drinking, uneasy and unsure about each other, both of their minds are asking them to stand and leave now but both were just sitting there and staring nowhere. Then he said, ‘I don’t do this generally, like dance..or talk, but I feel lighter with you.’ She said to that ‘Don’t ruin it by mentioning it.’ He smiled and she returned the favor. He asked for the bill and paid and they both started to walk towards the exit. ‘So where do you work? he asked, ‘I work with the government’, answering his own question initially. She told him that she was a teacher at school and then he told her that he was going away for 7 years. She was clearly surprised but then trying hard to not show that to him and asked. ’Where are you going?’ **PRESENT DAY** His thoughts were disturbed by the siren signalling him that it’s time to work. He gave himself a last look and then he wore his work suit. He had to be very meticulous with his suit, he checked everything and finally checked the oxygen levels and then opened the gates of his shuttle. Earth was visible from his shuttle, it was visible half of the time. He sighed and went on with his work. Every day he has to take air samples in the controlled environment he had built over moon. He took some soil samples and started making notes. He had built more than hundred controlled environments sectors so the checking would generally take more than 12 hours, but he loved it. He liked if any progress in any of the controlled environment is made. That would be a landmark thing. He had left his girl of dreams back in earth, it better be worth a ground-breaking discovery. **2 YEARS AGO** He just told her that he is going to the Moon for 7 years for a feasibility study of possible colonization at Moon. He was dropping her back home, wanted to say so much but was not able to. Million possibilities, there was an obvious connection. He knew in his heart that she feels the same too. He finally found someone whom he wanted to know but the timing was such a bitch! In his heart he was playing millions of scenarios. What if she agreed to wait for me? Why would she? We just met 3 hours ago! What if she agreed to wait and when I come back she won’t be waiting anymore? What if she is not interested? She is just being friendly..No it doesn’t seem like that! I am sure very few must had reached till here! The connection we have is not normal!! The things we are sharing are arcane for everybody else. She was blank. She just wished he would stop and won’t go. But in her heart she knew too many things are riding on him now. He can’t back out now. That won’t be fair to him. She still just wished. The eagerness to know him better was very high. ‘So what about us?, he asked blankly. He had used all his courage to say these four words. She was taken aback by sudden candidness, and the blood started rushing inside her body and her face was red within seconds. ‘You know that it is not practical, right?’ Silence. ‘I know’, he finally said, reluctantly ‘But this is not something which happens to me on regular basis, all my life I have been a loner, never been able to gel with anyone, I found every other one pretentious, hence trivial. You are real. You get me. I feel like I can be real me around you, who spends major part of the day studying research papers and listening obscure jazz players.’ ‘ I know, its new to me as well, but tell me, you are going next week, what’s the point, it will bring us pain and nothing else. What do you expect? I will wait for a guy for 7 years without any contact with him all this time and whom I have just met 3 hours ago? Part of me wants to, trust me! But there is rationale part of my brain as well who will overcome the stupid one, then what?’ ‘You are right! This thing is conceptually wrong! No point! I am leaving in a week, I will be better off up there if I know no one is expecting my return. Will focus on my work instead. Sorry for bringing this up.’ They have reached till her place. She kissed him goodbye and both were on their own way. As he reached home, he sat down and was trying to decide what is that he was feeling. He was not sad. He was experiencing butterflies for the first time, He was happy that something like this happened to him. He was feeling alive after many years. He decided that he should be happy that it happened. This was a new feeling. He was happy in his own little world and needed no one else. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Next day at office, one his colleague came and asked, ‘Where were you last night? We realized that you met a girl and you guys were hitting off very well and hence we left without disturbing you. We never saw you smiling so much, did she drugged you?’ He smiled and said, ‘You guys did a right thing by not disturbing!’ Colleague kept staring and was wanting more info on what happened but he was not giving away anything. ”That’s it? You are not going to tell me what happened?’ ‘I’m going next week anyways, so no point’, he said with a smile on his face, ‘I will like to keep it this way only.’ His office phone rang and the caller from other side said someone is here to meet him. It was *her.* He asked receptionist to show her the way to cafeteria, and inform her that he will join her in a minute. ‘Hey! What a pleasant surprise!’ he said awkwardly. ‘I am sorry to show up here like this but I had no other place where I could reach you.’ She was speaking too fast. ‘No problem! So what’s up?’ he asked blankly, urging her to keep speaking. ‘You said that you have a week before you leave for the Moon?’ ‘Yes, exact 7 days!’ ‘Look, here’s the deal! I am not the one who live her life by thinking what could have been, I know the odds are not in our favor and I still want to take this chance, between no feeling at all and pain of missing you, I chose pain.’ **PRESENT DAY** ‘Hello Earthlings, What’s up? Everything is same here at my level. Still miss earth. About findings, I think we may have found a controlled environment which is stabilizing and is almost identical to the atmospheric pressure one would feel at the height of Mount Everest. Not ideal, but still a start. We will reach there I am sure.’ After completing his video log, he put Jim Mullen on his music player and started looking at her pics which were everywhere in his room. These photographs were of those 7 days they spent together before he left, they were eating, laughing and even making out in a photograph. He refer those days as the craziest week of his life. Had to be. He had 7 days to create memories that will help him go through these 7 years. Those were enough. Her words kept haunting his mind, *“between no feeling at all and pain of missing you, I chose pain”* He stared at earth from his window. His country was visible to him. He waved at her, hoping she knew that he is waving right now, Back at earth, she waved back, smiling.