THE FICTION POLICE The doorbell rang on a snowy midnight followed by an urgent pounding on the door. I stumbled out of bed and peered through the curtain. In the cold stood a man and a woman in uniform, so I opened the door a crack. The woman flashed a badge. “I’m agent Smith, this is agent Weston from the FP,” she said, “can we have a word?” “Umm, from where?” I said. “The Fiction Police. We seek out bad writers and bring them to justice,” she said. “Is this some kind of a joke?” I said. “Trust me, I’ve read your writing, it’s no joke,” she said. Right then years of combat training kicked in. Muscle memory never fades. In one swift motion I drew the eraser from my pocket to neutralize the threat. But she was good. She lunged for my hand and twisted it hard; the pink eraser fell and bounced on the concrete. “Keep your hands where we can see ‘em!” she shouted as she drew a steel pen from her holster. She had me at penpoint, a red laser dot danced on my forehead. I put my hands up. These people were pros. Probably pros at prose too, but I digress. “And before you drop the sad cliché about the pen versus the sword thing, I need to read you your rights,” she said, as I stood trembling. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a fictional court of law. You have the right to a fictional attorney. If you cannot afford a fictional attorney, one will be written for you. Do you understand these rights?” she said. I nodded. “With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to us?” she said. Just then I got the joke about the pen versus the sword; I tried to suppress a laugh but it snuck out. “Oh, a wise guy! Are we gonna do this the easy way, or the hard way, downtown?” she said. Her face twisted into a scowl as both agents stepped in closer. Her breath smelled of wine and, oddly enough, hand sanitizer. “No, I’ll talk, come inside,” I said. Slowly I turned and labored to heave the ancient oak door open, it creaked on rusty hinges like the unholy howls of a wounded beast in the… The sudden impact rattled my skull and sent my glasses flying; she hit me with a hard backhand then twisted my arm tight and slammed me against the wall. “Stop that, RIGHT NOW!” she yelled as she put the handcuffs on. I tasted blood. “Stop what?” I asked, as she patted me down for weapons. “That’s a 387, aggravated literary assault! Punks like you make me sick! What did those defenseless adjectives ever do to you?!? What!” she shouted. I stared at the floor as the gravity of the situation sunk in, and yet they both looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place them. “You sure you don’t recognize us?” she said. She was tall and thin, with short brown hair and striking blue eyes, surely more like a model than any cop I’d ever seen. “You can hear my inner dialogue?” I said. And then it hit me: Lottie Smith, the protagonist from my latest novel and Jim Weston, her square-faced older partner. I always forgot to give him dialogue. I blinked and took a step back, this must be a bad dream. “Dreams and flashbacks are code 412,” she said. “What’s a code 412?” I said. “Lazy writing,” she said. Just then she gazed out the window into the fetid gloom, her pale blue eyes reflected the glint of the summer moon. The same moon where she met him years before when… “STOP IT! I’m warning you! A 387, then a 412 and now an aggravated 423!” “Let me guess, a 423 is using the view from a window as a plot device to give backstory?” I said. “Bingo!” she said, “you’re not as dumb as you look.” >* * * The patrol car smelled strange, like cheap wine and expensive hand sanitizer. Weston drove fast, as if he could only express his inner anger through driving, not words. “I never meant to be a writer,” I said. “Let me guess,” she said, turning to face me, “you wanted to be a cop?” “I wanted to be an editor,” I said, “but I have an irrational fear of pencils.” Smith rolled her eyes, wishing the precinct was closer. “It was a tragedy. Both my parents were killed in a freak pencil sharpener accident. This scarred me for life. The mere sight of a red pencil can put me into shock.” “Sorry I asked”, she said, and meant it. We rounded the corner and the Fiction Police precinct building came into view. It was an amalgamation of the House of Usher and an Ikea store, but nobody knows why. Snow covered the lawn and lay piled around the building; the car splashed through puddles as we entered the parking garage. The booking process was fast and efficient; fingerprints, mug shots and writing samples. I met with my court-appointed fictional lawyer; he said I was looking at twenty years hard labor in an author re-education camp, maybe out in ten if I mind my p’s and q’s. Later that day I was transported to McKittrick Federal Fiction Prison to await trial. > * * * As the days passed and more fictional snow fell, a state of melancholy fell over me. My only option was to escape. I traded my daily ration of mashed potatoes for some cutting tools. For some reason the mashed potatoes at the prison were excellent, nobody knows why. After two weeks of careful planning, I was ready; I would escape or die trying. I sat in my cell thinking about life and how much I would miss the mashed potatoes, but my freedom was more important. The next day was perfect weather for an escape. Heavy snow had fallen and plows left a pile of it outside the fence; this would prove to be useful. I found a length of steel pipe left carelessly in the prison yard and no guards were in sight. So with the wind in my face I began my run to freedom. I held the pole parallel to the ground and sprinted towards the fence. Right then my years of pole vault training kicked in. I remember vaulting from my crib, from my parent’s car, even from the bathtub. At top speed I planted the pole at the fence; it stuck fast, flexed and soon I was sailing over the razor wire. The snow bank was more slush than snow, but it was good enough. I landed unhurt and now was free. I expected to hear guns shooting, alarms blaring, dogs barking or even dogs shooting and blaring but it was silent. I simply stood up and walked away. But suddenly a police cruiser roared into sight, so I turned to run. I started to sprint for the tree line but tripped and fell into a massive hole. As I looked up, I was greeted by the smug face of Agent Smith looking down on me. I cursed under my breath and struggled to my feet. “Well well well, if it isn’t vaulty mc-vault the pole vaulter! That was a nice try!” she said. “I almost made it. Dammit,” I said as she helped me from the hole. “You’re only making it harder on yourself,” she said, “is there anything else I need to know?” “Well, the story I told you about the pencils. That was a lie,” I said. “What story, I wasn’t listening,” she said. “I said I was scared of pencils.” She laughed out loud. “Only fictional characters are afraid of pencils--an editor can kill us in a heartbeat,” she said. Her smile turned to a look of horror when I drew my weapon, a red model two Staedtler pencil. She jumped back. The red pencil tip glowed like the light up nose of Rudolph the reindeer from the iconic low-budget stop-motion film of 1964. I passed it from hand to hand so she could see the weapon. I was ready to fight. “Nothing personal Smith, but I can’t let you take me in,” I said. In a flash she drew her weapon and crouched into a fighting stance. A ray of afternoon sun made the polished steel of her pen gleam and sparkle. She too passed it from hand to hand. “It’s not a choice, it’s my duty. Writing is not some kind of game,” She said. She breathed hard, making steam in the air, like a bull pawing the ground, ready to charge. “Put down your weapon, I promise to go easy on you,” she said. Sweat formed on her brow. “Sorry Smith you know I can’t do that,” I said. We circled each other like two alley cats ready to strike, weapons nearly touching. She advanced and swiped left but I dodged the attack and pivoted right. I swept my weapon forward, and made contact, a line of red formed on her arm. She grunted and shook off the pain, then swung wildly and struck back--a burning pain tore through my shoulder. Our weapons made contact, locked, arm against arm, strength against strength. Her blue eyes burned into me. “Give it up! Not worth dying over!” she hissed under her breath. Suddenly she swept her foot under mine to trip me. I fell backwards with her on top but twisted at the last second. She stabbed but missed and hit the ground. I scrambled to my feet, spun and made contact again. She staggered, this was taking its toll. “Don’t make me do this Smith, I don’t want to hurt you!” I said. But she advanced in a frenzy, swiping left, right, then left but I blocked and blocked again. But then I spotted the hole--it was behind me. I stepped backwards, took a swing then shoved her. She stumbled and tried to catch herself. She fell in. The fight was over. “Go ahead, kill me! I’m a flat cardboard cutout of a character, I deserve to die!” she said. But instead I reached out my hand and pulled her up. Suddenly her eyes were blue, bluer than the bluest of blue things. I could tell she wanted me. I pulled her close, closed my eyes and kissed her. But oddly her lips felt flat and dry. I opened my eyes and she was gone; I was kissing my manuscript. It smelled faintly of wine and hand sanitizer. That was weird. I threw the manuscript onto the slush pile, stepped into the fictional police cruiser and started the engine. It was now night and a light snow was falling. What a day it had been. So I drove off into the cold moist foggy night then looked up to ponder the infinite flat-black darkness of space that was punctuated by bright white pointy things and a big round white orb of some sort, then stopped to catch my breath from all the pointless exposition. I felt good. I shall live to write badly another day.


Awaken beneath I did. Beneath what? I said to myself. No word or picture could describe the feeling of that moment. Beneath was not a state of being but a state of mind. My body was under, but felt as though it was held on to by a thread. I knew I was no more, knocking on deaths door felt like home. Again like a warm summers night. When the smell of baking from inside clouds your mind. And all there is for that one moment is that smell of happiness and purity. As beneath as I was a thrust came from below. And my body felt tighter around what was now me. But what was now me? Where had I awoke. My being grew closer to my body. Not by sight, for all was dark. But then a burst of light as though the sky had split, or I had just behold an angel flying over head. I lay now on the ground. My back pressed on the cool sand in a way I had not felt since I was but a boy. My heart felt young. I felt as though I had reversed time itself as easily as one could rewind a song. My heart felt happy and young. But my heart was not whole. It felt as if I was grasping at my youth like the greedy reach for every last penny. He shall try but he shall never feel whole knowing there is always one more cent to find, one more stride to take in a race so futile. And the pain in that one instant seemed to drag me back into the sand I had risen from. But resist I did and stand I did, to behold a beach stretching onward. To where it went was beyond my mind. But not beyond my soul. For in my core I knew I was never to know where this place was or went on to be. The tide was out and the sand was wet and flat and stretched in all directions. For I could see no more than 100 yards through the Crystal white fog, and to my right, in the distance, the sea. I stood and walked toward the sound of slowly lapping waves. I knew the sea well from my hometown. It was like a bed to fall down on every night, or a friend who’s face was so long gone it was astonishing to see it was real, and not just a Dream so far and long gone. As I reached the water, I dipped in a finger. One finger so small and insignificant. I stood back and looked down. My feet were slipped into sandals made of leather, so tight and new. My chest was covered by a white shirt so soft and proper. As were my legs. After I had pondered the sea I looked to my flanks. My mind knew not what to do but my heart was like a light in the darkness. And with my right foot I began to walk. To where I was unsure but to walk was better than to stand. It was peaceful. I felt as though my legs were strong and could carry me on passed the fog and out into the beyond. But I knew there was no beyond. For I was on the edge of beyond. Beyond what? I said. And quickly I answered. “Passed all. Passed everything that is known. Passed all good and evil, passed all happiness and sadness, passed every hope and dream of every child.” But to be on the edge felt like the beginning. Like your earliest memory. Like the small space you could say you were truly happy. And each step stemmed to pull me away from who I was. My memories stayed but became like a spec of dust compared to the earth. So small and insignificant and unimportant. But like the finger I had dipped into the great sea of infinity it was all I had and all I could claim. And I realized to be at peace was to be acceptant that you were unimportant and small and that you made no difference. And that nothing you do will matter. And as quickly as the snap of a finger, I was beyond, i was passed all reality and everything I had ever believed to be true. And as I kept walking the seas started to rise but, I did not run. And slowly it took me out into the infinite sea. And before I went under but one though crossed my mind. The leap off the edge, was final and all, it made cowards, it made heroes, and it made good and evil. But to leap into the unknown is to become one. I had taken the leap, I had become One. Then the sea took me away in one quiet wave.


“Want some?” “I am fine, thanks. Chocolate makes me airsick.” “We are not flying anytime soon, believe me. 20min delay usually means two hours.” “Do you often fly to London?” “I used to. When I was doing my PhD there, my boyfriend used to lived here in Geneva - I traveled back and forth regularly. Never got there, or here, on time. Never.”

Her shining burgundy nails pushed a chocolate ball into her mouth and her masculine jaws crunched it down. From the half-moon tattooed on her wrist, a scent of spicy pomegranate emanated and tickled Elleree's nose. She cleared two chestnut strands off her face with calm assertiveness, as if unveiling a contemporary painting at a reputable auction house. Elleree stared without a blink - she had no idea how old this woman was, but someday she'd look just like her. “He was definitely not worth all that waiting time at the airport.” The woman laughed and hid her teeth with the back of her hand, displaying another wave of scent around - Elleree inhaled and watched her reach for another ball to chomp. “I’m Alicia, by the way. Ali for friends.”

“Elleree, you can call me Elle.” “Elle, hm, hm. French?”, she winked. “No, British.”

“Come on. Don't tell me you dropped your humour at check-in.”

Elleree smiled – she knew that journey would be special. And this woman was a great start. She couldn't take her eyes off her. Hopefully, she would meet people as interesting as her in the coming months. Alicia’s tongue mopped her upper teeth slowly as she looked at the passengers around, oblivious to Elleree's attention. Some were reading, some checking their phones, some sipping coffee and some dazing through the large window - at the lavender clouds that sprinkled the rosy sky of that autumnal evening. The rest of the passengers were harassing the obviously clueless staff. Ali chuckled and ate another chocolate. “What was your thesis about?”, Elleree asked screening her outfit “Didn’t finish it. Got depressed eight months through it and left.” Ali crossed her legs and tapped her upper foot onto an invisible pedal. “Dumped the Swiss guy and enrolled in a fine arts program. Opened an art gallery near Whitechapel. Ever been?” “No. I rarely go to London - I don't like it.” Ali frowned. “Are you flying there for work?” Elle shook her head and smiled internally - she had rehearsed this scene a hundred times over the past few weeks. In those rehearsals, her interlocutor had a blur figure. On that day, she had straight chestnut hair, deer mascaraed eyes and a sassy AllSaints dress. Elle rejoiced at the quality of her audience - from now on, she would only be surrounded with this type of people. “No, I resigned two days ago. I was working for a pharma company in marketing.” Ali's fluffy eyebrows raised. “Sounds like a big step - congrats. Are you planning anything exciting or just benchmarking airports?” Elle laughed. She now had the attention of that woman in leather jacket and designer boots.

“Actually, that’s a long story.” “Well, now is your moment – we have two hours.” Elle wrapped herself into her scarf – although this was October, the AC was on. Or, maybe, that was her being apprehensive. She cleared her throat.

“I don’t know how to describe this and you might think I’m crazy –“ “I like crazy. Crazy is good.”, Ali said with a smile that was supportive and no more witty. “You know, I think we sometimes meet people with whom we feel a deep connection. I am not sure how to define it – it could be that you see yourself in them, or see part of someone or something you wish you were in them. You feel like you have known them forever or that you would complement each other at some level. That there is something deep inside of them, like a treasure, that has a piece of you inside and that, similarly, there is some answer inside of you for them." "I know that feeling." "Right? And you know, I think of life as a quest for the self where one has to find the path that will lead them towards their self. And, I am convinced allies will show up along the way and it’s up to us to recognise them and buddy up with them. They may walk part of the distance with you, they may redirect you, they may have an answer or a piece of information for you – that does not really matter. What matters is that you recognize them and that you do not miss your chance with them. And so, -“ “Is it a he or a she?”

“A he. His name is Henry.” Ali leaned her head on her folded elbow. “And so?” “And so, I’ve met several of those people already and have always trusted my instinct in following them or making sure that we don’t part without having had a conversation. It has always brought wonders in my life and I would, by no means, really, by no means, be where I am today if it weren’t for those people I have met and trusted along the way. I have identified a pattern of them being usually females that I make eye contact with, usually at a conference or a place that provides for teaching. University, a class of whatever sorts. Something like that. Somehow, we start to talk, and things unfold after months. Usually, we stay in touch for a couple of years and drift away. Serenely. We know we will never be in touch again and that’s as if our paths had to continue and we would, if we were to stay in touch, only hinder the progression of each other. But with -” “But with Henry, it’s different." Ali smiled. "How is he different?” “He doesn’t fit into the pattern. In any way. And that makes it so intriguing. We met through a friend, so I wouldn't define it as a calling from the soul. It's more like an encounter, like a step in the life stairs that I have to climb. You know, if I were honest with myself, I'd say I am not even sure I can trust him. I don't think I've ever had." "But..." "But I felt he needed my support because he is from a broken family. Wealthy but somehow dysfunctional." "Did he tell you? Did he open up about it?" "Yes and no. I just noticed he creates an artificial distance with people. All the time, but not with me, maybe because he knows I'm observing from afar and that he can rely on me. But he does so, I suppose, to protect himself. Which is funny because he can seem friendly at first and keep that mask on throughout interactions. But if you look closer, you can see the cracks. Thin and delicate cracks." Elleree felt the tips of her fingers drawing the lines for the laces of a Venetian mask as if it were sewed into her skin. A quick chill ran down her spine - she wasn't aware this story was that intense and embodied in her. And she was sharing this in the empty terminal of the Geneva airport with this stylish woman she barely knew. Maybe it just did matter to her. It did. She gulped down saliva and her rubbed her right eye out of shyness, perhaps. But shyness was nothing compared to what she had to express, so she went on. "He creates this layering to distance himself from people. And that is something that he does willingly and consciously. I even thought for a while that it was something, he did to test how likely you are to stick around… potentially once you find out the truth about him?” “What truth?" “I am not sure yet, but I want to uncover – “ "I see. But do you really want to stick around someone who hides behind a fence? It's usually not a good sign." "I see it as a mystery calling for exploration." “Careful - mystery often means fast-track to disappointment.” “Yes. But no. I mean. Yes and no. I just know I have to do it." A slight frown weighed over Ali's eyebrows as she stared at Elle. "Do you think I'm crazy?" "Not at all. It's good you're trusting your gut - I like it. And I trust your judgement. But then, he isn't one of those people you mentioned, right? So -" "I know there is something deep inside and I am committed to finding out what that is." "I see." "Because he needs me.” “Bold of you.” Ali said with a mild smile. "But I get what you mean. It's nice to be in that situation although it hasn't happened to me in ages. And I find, on the other end, the other person doesn't always reciprocate. It's like they shut down, you know?' “I know and I guess that's why I can't fully trust him. But I think we all go with what we can share at a given time and I want to see what's hiding beneath the surface. I'm not sure I need more." “Are you moving to London for him?” “No, we are flying to Chile together from London Heathrow. Our flight is in 5 hours, I hope I won't miss the connection.” Elle grabbed her backpack from the seat behind her and dragged it forward, showing it to Ali. “That’s all I'll have for the trip. And you know what? It feels good. I have always longed for such an adventure and I’m excited to go with him. He studied curating at Goldsmiths and has worked for the Latin American section at the Tate Modern. He has an art project that he wants to develop there with one of the artists who exhibited at the museum a couple of years ago. The project is quite advanced, and I’ll be helping with the marketing.  This is all I have ever dreamed of.” A grey veil passed through Ali’s deer eyes. She tried to push the right corner of her mouth upwards to simulate a smile, but she couldn’t. "So you're leaving your life for this trip." She paused, for a moment. And as if to herself, she went on. "But well, those adventures are what keeps us alive, what makes us memorable. And isn't that what we all want?" Ali's dark pupils softened. "How old are you again?” “27. I’ll turn 28 in January. And you?” “41.” Ali unfolded her legs and turned towards the panoramic window that overlooked the runway. She stared at the parked planes as if trying to guess what countries they were from. She looked back at Elle, without facing her. “As time passes, I realize that, no matter what risks you take, you’ll always feel like you could and should have taken more. That settling, even for a single day, committing to a job, to a city or whatever, is wasted opportunity, believe me. I wish I had done more of those jumps when I was younger." “You still can. You can even join us. I’m sure we can find you something for a couple of months – you could find someone to cover for you in Whitechapel.”

Ali looked at her and kept silent. “I’ll think of it.”, she finally said. "Are you apprehensive?" "A bit but I guess that's what happens every time you make that type of decisions. And, you know, we have known each other for four years now, I know we will always be around for each other. That we will learn along the way and that, in this, will be our most significant metamorphosis. So, although he does not fit that pattern I mentioned, I am positive he belongs to the group of people I trust to change my life and me theirs." Ali nodded. "You remind me of a song - Gracias a la vida by Violeta Parra ." Ali reached for her phone and scrolled down a playlist. " She's from Chile, by the way. She was also a visual artist - I'm sure your friend would know about her. It's funny, she too did a lot for someone she loved. I think he was Swiss actually." She paused and looked up from her phone. "Maybe I should recontact my Swiss guy."

****** “What’s your seat number?” “5B I think, let me check -” “Mine is 23E. In case I don’t see you when we land, here is my card - maybe I can make you like London again.”, Ali said with a smile. “Thank you, I’ll definitely visit. And I’ll also tell Henry about you - I'm sure you two would get along great.” “You know, it's funny. When I saw you with your backpack and potato clothes, I would not have expected you to have such an inspiring story to tell.” Ali stared at her for a long moment. "Really nice meeting you."

****** Last call for passengers of British Airways, flight number 8755, destination Santiago de Chile “Haskell. H-A-S-K-E-L-L. Could you please check one last time?” “Henry Haskell, that’s right. I am afraid, Miss, there are no tickets under this name.” “But it can’t be... Are you sure – “ “I am sorry, Miss. We have to close the gates now. Are you onboarding or not?”


In 1535, the world lost a young scholar. And back then it was an important event, because scholars were few and far between. Agrippa was an Egyptian scientist of the Ptolemaic tradition who you probably don’t give a flying duck about. The reason I mention him is to get agripp on your fleeting attention for just a moment. Academics have famously argued that he actually wasn’t a scholar, nor was he Egyptian. There was barely any academic material for him to expand upon – remember, this was before the dawn of Christianity. One can only do science standing on the shoulders of giants, and Agrippa was quite short; by some estimates, 5’10’’ (which is 177.8 cm for you Americans). Despite this, his Principia Mathematica was a crowning achievement that in some ways laid the foundations for modern mathematics. Together with a contemporary, Albert Whitehead, they took seriously the problem of proving 1+1 = 2. This might seem trivial, but armed with nothing but the tools of logic, one needs to invent the number system from scratch and then prove properties about it; it is like trying to prepare a basic pasta dish, but with your hands tied behind your back and no other atoms in the universe but you and Albert. And it has to be good pasta, because Albert is Italian and has ties with the mob. Aside from this, Alfred was a cruel collaborator who would stoop to any number of lows to achieve his highs. He was also quite short, which meant he didn’t have to stoop that much but did so anyway. Up until the day when he was needed to. In a tragic twist of fate, Agrippa dropped his eyeglasses while driving and couldn’t pick them up. Although Alfred could see where they went, helping others was one of the few things beneath him. He knew he was vertically challenged and refused to be exploited by others. Over my dead body he was thought to have said, but this was not his most famous quote. In fact, it’s not clear what his most famous quote was. And so Agrippa lost his glasses forever. And through a different lens, the glasses lost Agrippa. Welcome to the Disorient Express. There are many things that this work is not. For starters, it is a piece where your expectations are set up, but then they are forgotten and left behind. If this is difficult to read, you can blame me for being a bad writer; and you can blame your mother for not teaching you enough patience. In general, people can blame whoever they want. I know a man who blamed the water for having too much plastic. And in a sense, he’s not wrong – the water has been around for way longer than we have. Imagine existing for billions of years, and then some humans show up and destroy you at your game. You think to yourself, maybe I don’t deserve to exist for billions of years. And maybe you’re right: maybe you don’t deserve to read this. There have been many people who come up to me and say, “You’re a writer, surely you understand what it’s like to –“ But I always interrupt them. I don’t want to let them down, and I don’t want to pretend to understand something that I don’t. For example, one guy walked up to me and asked me about the directions to the nearest Subway. I told him I don’t eat junk food, even if it’s marketed as healthy. I saw him mumbling something about a misunderstanding and that he has to get somewhere, but I had my earphones back on at that point and couldn’t be bothered to continue a conversation with a fucking lunatic. It was a long day, and it was about to get longer: my train home was late, and what’s worse is that the junk food kid had followed me all the way to the station. The irony? It was a subway.


(POSSIBLE TW) I pressed the gun up to my lips. I saw flashing lights through the tree branches. I put my finger on the trigger. Then, the clock struck six. I threw the gun to the ground. Tears began to trickle down my face. I fell to my knees and put my hands on my head. "How did I get here," I thought. I was a very well-behaved child. I never even told a lie. I couldn't bear the weight of my own actions. Guilt was an emotion that I never dealt well with. Overall, it was a normal life. As one might imagine, though, a life under such impossible standards was very tiring. Because of this, I spent a lot of time alone. The pressure to deal well with everyone was too much for me. One day, in high school, I met a girl. It was my first love. I eventually married her -- my high school sweetheart. It wasn't until then that I realized my life wasn't so "normal" and that sharing my life with another person wasn't going to be easy. I changed myself for her. I rid myself of every habit and tendency that was abnormal. My very normal life continued. I worked a nine-to-five job, my wife and I had a beautiful baby girl, and we lived a happy life. I dedicated my whole life to them. All but one hour. It wasn't intentional. It started five years ago. I was having trouble adjusting to my new life, and it was then, on my way home from the third interview of the week, that I noticed it. A secret place. It lay off the side of the road just around the corner of what would later be my place of work. I noticed it in the mirror as I drove past. I was having a rough day and thought I could use the fresh air. Truthfully, I needed some time to myself to gather my thoughts. I walked over to where the trees parted and followed the dirt path to a beautiful opening. There was a creek there. It was peaceful, so I sat down. Before I knew it, an hour had past. I wasn't even sure what had happened. I thought I was just tired, so I hurried home. I later took the job, and for whatever reason, I told my wife to expect me home at six. This was unusual for me. I don't lie. But I justified this one as it seemed completely harmless. It wasn't like I was doing anything wrong. At least, not at first. For the first year, nothing much happened, but as time went on, I began to notice a pattern. My memories of my time spent in what I now affectionately called "my little slice of paradise" became progressively more foggy. But I never cared much. What I did know was that I felt more like myself during that hour that I did for the other twenty-three hours of the day, and as far as I could tell, my "me time" made me a better man -- a better husband and a better father. By year three, I had no memory of the hour spent in my slice of paradise. It was then that things began to get weird. I started noticing unusual searches in my search history. Unusual turned into scary. I was ashamed of myself. I felt that these searches were out of character for me, but something inside me prevented me from ever coming clean. In the coming years, I amassed an unbearable amount of guilt. Guilt for things I had no recollection of doing. I can only describe it as a heavy weight on my shoulders. Still, no matter how hard I tried to remember -- nothing. I couldn't remember a thing. And so I kept living my life. Surely I wasn't really a bad person. I comfortably lived my life for five years, and then the day finally came. "POLICE! HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD, SIR! ON THE GROUND!" The officer tackled me to the ground. As I lay with my head against the dirt, I saw a body. Blood was on my hands. I began to wail. I heard my wife's voice. "TOM! HOW COULD YOU?" For the duration of the ride to the station, I had a headache. It was a pain unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The lights didn't help. The next day was overwhelming. I couldn't stop thinking about what I did and what might happen at five o'clock. I looked up at the clock and read "four forty-nine." I let out a sigh and got up from where I was seated. It was five thirty-one by the time I got back to my cell. My mind was unusually clear. Everything was clear. It was all coming back to me. Everything that I had done. Now, it must be five fifty. The feeling I have in my chest is so painful. My heart is beating so fast. I can't catch my breath. I grasp my hair in my hands and begin to pull. I lean to the wall and begin to tap my forehead against the brick. My thoughts are so loud. My hearing begins to buzz. My brain feels like it is pulsating. Thoughts of all of the terrible things I have done are spinning around my head. I pick up the pace. I repeatedly slam my head into the wall. My vision goes red. I'm screaming. I hear the guards coming. I'm being restrained. I begin to wonder where this pain is coming from and why I'm bleeding. I begin to yell. "I WANT TO GET BETTER I WANT TO GET BETTER I WANT TO GET BETTER I WANT TO GET BETTER I WANT..." Oh, it must be six.


This is all my fault. This is happening all because of me. A person is going to die because I ignored the facts that warned me to stop this from continuing any further; to stop this before it was too late. It all started with that stupid pink dress. Fashioned from the finest silk in the kingdom, and sporting the perfect combination of ruffles and simplicity, it made me come across as too elegant--as too refined--for a woman my age. Mother always taught me that every female with a crown on her head should be the perfect picture of elegance, but I’d picked the wrong day to do so. Not knowing the trap I was walking into, I gave a polite curtsy to my father’s esteemed guests. “This is my daughter, Eloise,” my father informed them as I straightened up. “Eloise, this is General Whitkin and his son, Sir Antony Whitkin. General Whitkin has been fighting some of the greatest battles for our kingdom since before you could walk.” “A legacy my Antony will no doubt carry on,” General Whitkin had said with a proud smile. “It would be my honour to fight for my crown and my country.” Like I haven’t heard that one before. But knowing that my actions as a princess always impacted my king, I flashed our guests a polite smile. “Any warrior that fights for the good of the kingdom is a friend of the crown, and thus a friend of mine. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, General Whitkin, Sir Whitkin.” The pleasure of their acquaintance was short lived. Maybe my father had mistaken my polite smiles and friendly conversation as consent, or maybe the crown on his head was so heavy a burden that it had addled his brain, but as soon as dinner was over, he’d decided to drop the bomb he’d apparently been planning for a while. “The union between our households will indeed be a strong one. Besides the royal family, the Whitkin name is an esteemed one. You’ve built quite a reputation and following amongst the people of this nation. Your son will make a fine king, indeed.” I nearly dropped my soup spoon. It took me a while to really absorb what he’d said, but my shock at the news of an arranged marriage was nothing compared to what I felt when I realised that all three of the males seated around the table seemed unsurprised. I was the only one who didn’t know. Me. The princess of the kingdom wasn’t informed of this while the knights of a lower status than me were. The only female involved in this matter had been purposefully kept in the dark. To this day, I can’t believe that I hadn’t been involved in deciding my own life partner. While my smile had only dipped slightly, my father must have gauged my mood, because he made a point of saying, “I know Eloise would agree. As the princess of our great nation, her decisions are always mindful of the best interests of the people. The people are willing to support Antony’s reign as their future king, so I know she’ll support this union, too.” If my mother were still alive, maybe I would’ve had an ally in going against my father. A queen is the only person able to reign in a king, after all. But help came in the form of a surprising source. “With all due respect, your majesty,” General Whitkin said, “it seems that the princess would rather marry for both love and for her people.” “Don’t you worry, father,” Sir Whitkin spoke up. “We’ll have lots of time to grow to love each other once the vows are read.” My father smiled. “You will make a fine king, indeed.” Without me saying a word, the matter was settled. The three of them carried on talking about other political matters with the broadest of smiles. I couldn’t find it in me to force any more smiles for the sake of the clearly power hungry Sir Whitkin--a man I still refuse to acknowledge as my future husband. I excused myself just as the ball slowly forming in my throat grew too painful to choke down. I calmly walked out of the room, but ran down the hallway as soon as I was sure that my footsteps were out of hearing distance. My ladies were hot on my heels until I snapped at them to stay where they were. I wanted some time to think. I needed some time alone. I picked up the skirt of that stupid pink dress and ran out into the garden. I ran past a few of the servants tending to the roses, and bumped into the back of one of them as they were turning around. I continued to run until I reached the entrance to my mother’s alcove at the other end of the castle grounds. I slammed the door, ripped the tiara off of my head and threw it somewhere into the darkness. The clang of the expensive metal against the floor was so satisfying. Being able to let the tears fall down where nobody could watch me was so refreshing. I stood there with my back against the door and let the floodgates open. I hadn’t been to my mother’s “secret” alcove in years, and I wasn’t quite ready to turn the lights on and have a look around the room, but I felt a lot closer to my mother in that moment--in that room--than I had anywhere else in the castle. Just as my sobs were starting to subside, a tentative knock sounded at the door. I jumped away from it. A thin stream of light seeped in through the tiny space between the bottom of the door and the floor. I could see the shadow of two feet positioned directly opposite me. The person gave another knock, this time slightly louder; more confident. And then a voice floated to me through the wooden door. “Princess? Your Highness, are you okay?” I didn’t answer him. From the genuine concern in his voice, I could tell that whoever he was, he meant no harm to me. But this was my sanctuary. My make up and hair were ruined. I looked nothing like the graceful, elegant princess everyone in the castle knows me to be. Regardless of how upset I was at my father, I wasn’t going to ruin the royal family image. A moment passed without a word from either end of the door. I kept my eyes on the shadow. I waited for it to leave. Instead, it grew larger and longer. I took another step back, but instead of opening the door, they slid something under the door. It slid across the dusty floor until it hit the edge of my dress. I picked it up just as the shadow disappeared. Through the light that their absence left behind, I crouched down, opened the envelope and read the words written on the single slip of paper hidden inside. The jewels that sparkle on your many crowns do not compare to the sparkle you emit as the ordinary woman I see you to be. I hope that one day you can embrace the fact that you are a person before you are a princess. When the crown feels too heavy on your head, I hope that you can comfortably take it off for a few hours and enjoy the kind of life your people want you to live. If you feel that it’s a luxury you can’t afford, then I hope you can enjoy this luxury in your mother’s room in secret, as you are now. If you decide to take my words to heart, let me know by keeping the envelope of this letter by the door. I promise to guard the entrance for you every time you come here to shed your burdens as a princess. I’ll come back later to see your answer. That’s where this whole mess started. With a stupid pink dress, an arranged marriage between a princess and a complete cad, and the letter that calmed the storm brewing within me. Because of my curiosity, because I opened that envelope, a person was wrongfully imprisoned. An innocent person is going to die tonight, and it’s all my fault. As soon as I finish reading the letter about his execution, I storm out of my bedroom with the envelope in hand and run into two heavily armed guards. They immediately spring into action and block my path. A laugh bubbles in my throat at the unfairness of it all, but I choke it down. “You’re still not letting me leave?” I ask. They don’t turn to look at me. I push against their chests, but they don’t move by a single inch. “I command you to get out of my way this instant!” “Deepest apologies, your Highness,” one of them says with a small incline of the head, “but I’m afraid we can’t do that.” “Do you know that I can have you killed for this gross display of insubordination?!” “With all due respect, your Highness,” the other guard pipes up, “our orders come directly from his Majesty. Disobeying the king’s orders will lead to our immediate deaths. Disobeying your current orders will gain us favour with the king.” “When I become queen, I’ll have you beheaded for treason!” I spit at them. “Come, now, Eloise. That’s no way for a princess to behave.” The guards parted and stood at attention on either side of my door. I instinctively took a step back at the sight of my father, and immediately chastised myself for doing so. I have to appear strong. I can’t crumble--not when he is about to be executed at any second. I take a deep breath and choke down the lump in my throat. As my father stands with an amused smile in the doorway, I stand before him and motion to the dress on my body. “I’m wearing it, like I promised.” His eyes glossed over my mother’s crown amidst the braided updo of my raven hair. They surveyed every inch of the white dress with its many ruffles on my skirt and the length, golden laced train that billows out on the floor behind me. My father’s eyes softened. “You make a beautiful bride, Eloise. You look just like your mother did on our wedding day. She always wanted to see the day our little girl becomes a queen.” I stifle the sob that threatens to break free. “Father, I’ve kept my end of the deal. It’s your turn now. Please let him go according to our original deal, not the one in the letter.” My father’s eyes harden. “I can’t believe that you have the audacity to mention that boy at a time like this.” “Eli has been stuck in the dungeon for days, father. You’ve tortured him enough. You’ve punished us both enough already. Please just let him go. He did nothing wrong, father.” “You clearly haven’t learnt your lesson,” my father says, his voice raising in volume. “You are a princess, Eloise. A princess. Your life is not your own. Rebelling against my wishes, against my orders, is an act of treason. I’ve tried separating you. I’ve warned you that if you spoke about that garden boy again, I would stop making decisions as your father and start ordering executions as your king.” “As the princess--” “You don’t possess any authority that surpasses mine, Eloise, so don’t even start bringing up your title. If I tell the guards to starve a servant in my castle, they will starve the child for weeks. If I tell them to keep you locked up in your room for the same amount of time, they will keep you hidden away until your wedding day without hesitation. If I declare that your wedding date will be moved up, or that a servant who dared to so much as look at an engaged princess should be executed, it will be done immediately. And there’s nothing that you can do about it. You may be the future of this kingdom, but as the current ruler, my word is law. Try and order any of our servants to go against me again, and I will make sure the boy is executed immediately instead of in a few hours. Do I make myself clear?” I look away from him as a tear escapes from the corner of my eye. I close my eyes as a tidal wave of pain surges through my core. Everything had been on the way to ruin for weeks, but now it’s all spiralling out of control. I have to save him. I need to save him. But I don’t know how the two of us can make it out of tonight alive; how we can make it past my father’s wrath unscathed. “Do I make myself--” “Yes,” I choke out. Without turning around, I whisper, “You’ve made yourself clear.” I hear him let out a sigh of relief. “Good girl. I’ll send a handmaiden to touch up your make up. The guards outside will escort you to the ballroom in ten minutes, where you’ll be wed to Sir Whitkins. If you’re even a minute late, I’ll send a servant to relay a message to the executioner.” As soon as he leaves, as soon as the doors lock me inside again, my knees give way. I collapse onto the ground as the pain of the past few days streams down my face. My handmaiden touches my shoulder. She tries to get me to calm down, but all I can see is Eli. Poor Eli, who was only ever guilty of watching me from afar and slowly falling for me. Sweet Eli, who was perfectly content with standing guard before I started visiting my mother’s alcove daily just to see him. Innocent Eli, who was only ever at fault for being the one person who sees me for who I truly am; who made me feel loved and human instead of as some princess to put on a pedestal. Through the tears, I remember that I have one chance left to save him. Even if it means we can’t be together. I allow Marie to fix my make up and hide my puffy eyes behind a veil. I follow the guards silently out of my room and towards the ballroom. Every step feels heavy. I feel like crying. I feel like screaming. But I can’t do any of that. I am a princess. I have to start living for my kingdom, as someone else’s wife, or else Eli will die. I curl my hands into fists at my sides as I see my father waiting outside the ballroom with his crown and kingly robes. He tells me to smile. I feel the corners of my mouth pull into a smile my heart isn’t involved in. The guards open the doors. The interior looks beautiful; fit for a princess. The roses lining the aisle remind me of Eli, who always brought me a rose during our secret meetings. The wedding march starts to play. My father intertwines our arms. The words of the letter ring in my head as I take my first steps onto the carpeted aisle. I bring urgent news from the dungeon. The eyes of the nobles and royals from other kingdoms follow my every step; my every smile. His Majesty has ordered for Eli’s execution when the bell tower strikes its twelfth chime tonight. I draw closer to my future husband. The crown on my head grows heavier with every step. My father slightly squeezes our interlinked arms--a reminder to keep smiling. We have orders from the king to inform you that the execution will commence if you fail to say “yes, I do” tonight. My father places my hand in Antony’s. We walk the short distance toward the priest. Objections are asked for. I wish someone would see the anguish in my eyes and object. But nobody does. If you do, however, manage to say said phrase, his Majesty will let the boy live. “Do you, Princess Eloise Renetta Stone, accept Sir Antony Wilkins as your loving husband, to have and to hold, until death do you part?” With clenched fists, I close my eyes. In the distance, I can hear the bell tower near its twelfth strike. With Eli’s face burned into the back of my eyelids, I open my mouth and say the words. “Yes. I do.”


Sam I was awoken from my daydream by the bell. School was way more boring than usual. The teacher seems like she doesn't want to be here, which I guess is understanble. Who'd rather be here than at home watching TV? As I pack my things, I hear my name being called. \- "Sam? Could you come here, please?" It was the teacher. I knew what she was going to say since my grades were so low. \- "I'd like you to join us at the extra class. Your grades are lower than they should be. Are you avilable?" \- "Sorry, I have to be home by that time."- I lied. \- "I understand, but please make an effort to be there." \- "Sure, I'll try. See you tomorrow, teach."- I said trying to get out of there as soon as possible. As I leave the school, I dread the walk home. I see other teenagers together planning their afternoon and kids playing at the park. Life can be fun sometimes, although it hasn't been fun for a few years. It's sunny with a nice breeze coming with it. Leaves colour the ground with various colours. I'm taking the longer way home in hopes I see Ethan and, for sure, I was right to do so. \- "Hey, Sam! How are you?"- said Ethan. His brown eye is wide open, and his slightly blon hair is covering the other one. He's the athletic type, so he catches up wit me quite quickly. \- "Hey, I'm fine. What about you? i heard you were sick."- I answered. \- "Oh, yeah, it was just the common cold, I'm fine. So, what's up? We haven't hung out in a while."- he asked. \- "Nothing much. Next thursday is my birthday, though. Do you want to hang out? We could go to the lake and, if you're okay with my dad being home, we could watch a movie at my place and eat lunch."- I proposed. \- "Sure, I'd love to. Why would I not be okay to go with your dad home?"- he asked, confused. \- "Oh, you've met him."- I said.- "You know how he is. He's cold and doesn't talk much. Just thought maybe it would make you uncomfortable." \- "Nah, it's not a problem."- he reassured me.- "Look, I've got to go, but I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?" \- "Sure, see you!" I continue my way home wondering if inviting Ethan to go to my house was a good idea. My father's not really the friendly kind. Since I can remember, he's always been distant. He doesn't talk much, he's always in his bedroom and never really showed any kind of affection. To be honest, sometimes I think he hates me. From what some members of my family have told me, my mother died when I was young, but neither them nor my father have told me how. Maybe that's why he's so grumpy all the time. Before I realize, I'm home. As soon as I open the door, the smell of burnt coffee hits me like a truck. I guess my father's home. \- "Hey, dad."- I greeted him. \- "Hi." And that was the most I was going to get. I went into my room to do my homework. No to my surprise, it was a mess. There were some clothes on the floor and my bed wasn't made. My desk was full of papers and notebooks lying around. I must clean this up or I won't be able to get anything done. Fifteen minutes later and although it is better, it's still a mess, but a manageable one. It's now fifteen past ten and I'm starting to get hungry. I'm still in the middle of my homework but I won't be able to concentrate if I'm hungry. I step out of my room trying to hear if my father's in the kitchen. A wave of relief spreads through my body when I realize he's not. Three-day old cold pasta with tuna is my dinner. My father doesn't cook often, so this ought to do it. After finishing eating my dinner, I remember I need a permisson signed for school. We're going on a field trip to the capital next month. I don't want to go, but it's pratically mandatory and to make it worse, this means I have to talk to my father. I knock on his door trying to understand what he's watching. \- "Dad? Could you come here, pleas?"- I asked. The door opens and my father comes out. He has bags under his eyes and he hasn't shaved his beard for a few days now. The smell of cigarettes and beer came out of the room as soon as he opened the door. He's not the best at taking care of himself. \- "I need you to sign this permission for school, please. We're going on a field trip next month."- I said. He sighs as he grabs the pen from my hand. \- "Also, we have to pay 5$ to the school so they can rent the bus."- I said, trying to ignore his annoyed face as he grabs his wallet. \- "Here."- he mumbled, giving me the money and then he closed the door as quickly as he could. That was basically how our conversations went. Never more than a few words and annoyed looks. He's never yelled at me nor got mad at me. He just seems bothered that he has to take care of me. I don't remember seeing him smile once, for as long as I've been alive. He always seems hurt or empty, especially when I catch him looking at my mother's photo that is on the living room. My family never talks about her, but always seems to want to. They always look at my father before saying anything and then change the subject. They've done that so many times, that I've given up on trying to know what happened, but the doubt never leaves and I, someday, would like to know. It's a new day now, and after first perid, I went looking for Ethan. As always, he's playing football with some friends. I don't want to interrupt so I stand beside the bench waiting for him to see me. He's a good player. In the five minutes I've been here, he's managed to run across the field avoiding the other players and has scored twice. He finally notices me and tells the others to continue to play without him. \- "Hi, Sam. What are you doing here?"- he asked. \- "Just wanted to give you more information about my birthday and see if you wanted to hang out."- I said. \- "Sure, let's go to the cafeteria, then. I'm starving."- he complained. \- "You always are."- I said, laughing. We entered the cafeteria, and the smell of baked goods and coffee started making me hungry as well. We ordered two sandwiches and juices and then sat outside. \- "So, you want to go to the lake, right?"- he said. \- "Yeah, it's peaceful so I thought we'd go there for a bit. Do you mind?"- I asked. \- "Not at all. It'll be fun."- he reassured me. \- "Then, we could go to my place. I have darts and we could play videogames." \- "Oh, cool! I have some at my place as well. If you want, I could bring them to yours."- he offered. \- "Sure, I'd love that. Thanks." \- "No problem." \-"So, i was thinking we'd meet up at the gate and then go to the lake. About 16:30h, what do you think?"- I said. \- "Sounds great, can't wait!"- he said, excitingly. We finished eating and then went to a walk around the school. We talked about school, what we were going to do once we were on vacation, and then talked about the most random things anyone could think of. The bell rang, and we each went into our classrooms. It's Thursday, now, my birthday. My father's been getting progressively more depressed as the week went by. He always got like that around that time of the year and as always, he hadn't wished me happy birthday. I pass by his room and knock on his door like I did every morning. It was my way of saying good morning to him. He never responded. I got ready for school and on my way to it, I ran into Ethan. He was excited for that day, more than I was but it was nice to see him like that. He said that he had forgotten my present at his house, so we had to go there before heading to the lake. I told him it wasn't necessary for him to get me a present and he just smiled at me and continued walking. It was 16:15h and I was starting to get anxious. With my father being the way he is, I was afraid Ethan would get bummed by him or say anything that would make my father mad. He had met him before, but it still made me anxious everytime they were together. As I was reaching the gate, I saw Ethan radiating joy. I didn't understand why he was so happy and it kind of made me feel like I should have been happier. \- "Hey, Sam! Happy birthday, pal!"- he said that so loudly that people around, that ididn't even know, started wishing me happy birthday as well. If I had somewhere to hide, I would have. \- "Thank you, Ethan."- said I, sarcastically because he knew I hated that.- "And thank you, everyone." \- "Don't be so embarassed, Sam. It's your day, you get to be the centre of attentions!"- ha said, trying to comfort me. \- "That's the problem. I don't like to be the centre of the attention."- I answered, trying not to seem ungrateful. \- "I know, I know. But some day you're going to have to come out of your shell. You can't live like that for the rest of your life."- he advised. \- "I know, but not now."- I said, smiling. \- "Okay, okay. So, let's get going then." We headed to Ethan's place, and he seemed extra happy when he was going to open the door. As I saw his family jumping and yelling "Surprise!" I understood why. \- "Oh, sweetie. Happy birthday, dear."- said Mrs. Stevens, Ethan's mother. \- "Thank you. Thank you so much."- I said. I looked around and saw a table full of all kinds of food and beverages. I can't believe Ethan had told them to do that, but at the same time, I was so glad he did. His family was really nice, and i liked them a lot, and from what they had said, they liked me too. \- "Here, buddy. From all of us."- Mr. Stevens gave me an envelope with 40$ in it with the warmest smile on his face. \- "I...I can't accept this. It's too much." \- "You can and you will, buddy. You're a great friend to Ethan and part of the family. We love you and hope you have a great year. Now, accept this, please."- he said. Tears filled my eyes as I heard this. It felt so good to have such amazing people care for me. Mr. and Mrs. Stevens noticed that I was tearing up and hugged me. Since they met me, six years ago, they knew about my mother and father. Maybe that was why they had a special care for me and always asked me if I was okay. I looked at Ethan and thanked him for preparing the party. \- "Thanks, man. I think I needed this." \- "I know you did, pal. Happy birthday." We ate, we laughed, and I heard the funniest stories about them. Some of them I already knew and others I just bursted out laughing. I finished eating around 8pm and then, I helped them clean the mess we had made. Ethan walked me home and I invited him in. My father was in the kitchen making some coffee. I was so happy that, for a moment, I forgot who I was talking to. \- "Hi, dad. I just had the best birthday ever! Ethan and his family prepared a surprise party for me. It was so cool! There were lots of food and drinks and we..."- I was interrupted halfway through. \- "Shut up. I don't care."- the hatred in my father's voice scared me to my bones. I looked at Ethan. He seemed as surprised and as scared as I was. That was the most reaction I had ever gotten out of him. \- "But, dad, you should've been there. You would've had so much fun, and you would've liked Ethan's parents as well." \- "Stop talking! You never stop. Don't you get it? I don't care about what happened. I don't care about what you're feeling, and I denfinitely don't care about your birthday party. Just shut up and pretend I'm not here. God knows I am." The silence that followed weighed on me like I was carrying two tons of bricks on my back. Why is he like this? And why now, with Ethan here? I sat down and as my father was leaving the kitchen, I got the courage to ask him something I had always wanted to know. \- "...Dad... do you hate me?" He stopped halfway through the door. He turned around and started almost running towards me. He grabbed my shirt and pushed me against the wall. My body froze when I looked at his eyes. Thos eyes full of hatred and anger... all directed at me. \- "Stop!"- Ethan yelled. My father ignored him. \- "Why do I hate you? How about because you were the one who killed my wife?! She would've been alive if it weren't for you!" My heart sunk.


"Is that your wish?" Asked the genie. "Yes, that's my wish." I said. With a booming voice the genie responds. "Your wish is my command! When you sleep tonight you will wake the next morning a five year old in 1989 with all the knowledge you currently possess." Later that night I fall asleep thinking of the steps I need to take when I wake tomorrow. I wake to the sound of my mom calling me for breakfast. The first thing I notice is how much bigger everything is. I can't do much now, after all she's only one year old, but I can get a jump start on a few things. During breakfast, I ask my mom if I can start learning a second language, specifically português. Five more years pass by. She's six years old now and I'm very fluent in português. I sit down at the desk in my room and pull out a notebook and a pen. I've been writing letters to different addresses and churches in Altamira trying to locate where she lives and yesterday I finally got a response from someone saying they are a friend of the family as well as an address. I decide to keep the letter simple. *Dear Sra. Araujo,* *You don't know but me but I know a little about you. You do a wonderful job raising your daughters to be good women. One day I will marry one of them. This probably sounds like the scribbling of a mad man but I am very much sane. If I may, I'd like to ask your permission to continue writing letters to your youngest daughter Francisca.* *With Love and Respect,* *LTM* Now to hope the letter reaches them and that my future letters don't end up being thrown away. Every January 24th I would write a letter wishing a happy birthday. I never said anything too specific so as to not cause any changes that might turn my love into someone else. As the years pass by I do what I can to improve my new future but every decision is made with the sole focus of marrying the most beautiful and wonderful woman in the world. As soon as I was able to, I applied for a travel visa to Brazil. When I turned twenty two I withdrew the money I had placed in a specific bank account I had nicknamed “Love at First Sight”. I used the money to buy tickets to Altamira for a few days as well as hotel reservations. I had plenty of money to upgrade to first class seats. After all, I did have about four years of working plus thirteen years of any change or allowance money I had earned as a child. The moment I was able to get my bags and leave the airport I went to Tolly Boutique. Unfortunately she wasn’t working today. I asked an employee if they know Francisca? They said they did and that she would be working tomorrow. I thanked them and left for my hotel. I was barely able to sleep that night. When I woke I took a shower, brushed my teeth, put on deodorant, and said a quick prayer. I rushed out of the hotel and to the clothing store. As I opened the door I saw her. It had been sixteen years and finally there she was standing before me like an angel from heaven. As hard as it was to not stare I did my best to act like a normal customer. I approached her and said I was visiting Brazil and taking in the sights but that my luggage was lost during the flight. I told her I wasn’t very good at buying clothes and asked if she would help me pick some things out. Of course, I lied about losing my bags but I didn’t bring any extra clothes with me because I had planned to buy what I needed once I arrived. I tried to be somewhat indecisive about what I wanted in order to buy myself more time with her but not so much that I would become an annoying customer. After a while I had the clothes I needed and she took me to the counter to total my purchase. After I paid she handed me the receipt and I asked for a pen. I wrote a few words, handed her back the receipt, and left the store. It read: ***A Promise*** *I promise to love you* *with all of me* *to care for you* *until my death* *to hold you* *when you cry* *to protect you* *to my last breath* *to wait for you* *in eternity* *Wait for me.* *LTM* The next day was the worst. I headed to the airport for my return flight. I stared out the window of the plane with tears in my eyes as the plane took off. It would be another three years before I would see her again. I continued to work and save my money. I needed to save as much as I could for what was coming next. By twenty two I had a doctorates in portugues literature. I had started the college courses before I had graduated high school and even took courses during the summer. I then applied for a student visa to Brazil in order to attend the Federal University of Para. Once I was twenty four it was time for the last step of my plans. I once again boarded a plane for Brazil and again I had tears in my eyes but this time they were tears of joy not sadness. I finally landed at the airport in Breves and it wasn’t long before I was at my apartment which I had arranged for ahead of time. Even though I had a PhD in portugues literature I had signed up for all the same courses that she should be taking. The next day I would start my first class. Luckily, I was an expert in the courses I was about to take so I could put all my focus on her. Again, I barely got any sleep from the anticipation of seeing her. The next day I woke up early enough to get ready and arrive at the first class early. I took my seat and saved a seat next to me. I didn’t know how but I’m going to have her sit next to me. The classroom slowly began to fill but she still wasn’t here. I began to think that maybe I wasn’t going to have this class with her until, finally, she walked through the door. At that moment, I had the strongest urge to give her a long hug and a warm kiss. She looked around the room with those beautiful brown eyes and she had her hair down. Oh how much I love seeing her with her hair down! There was one open seat left however I had poured some soda on it already. She began to walk towards the seat but I intervened telling her some idiot spilled soda on the seat but that the seat next to me was clean. Just like in the clothing store it was hard for me not to stare. I was only able to occasionally glance over at her. Once the class was over I asked her what other classes she was taking. After talking for a short while about our classes she asked me if I had ever been to Altamira to which I responded with a simple, “Yes.” “You probably don’t remember me but I worked in a clothing store in Altamira. I think we met there once before,” she said. “Of course I remember you. How could someone ever forget a face as beautiful as yours,” I said. She paused for a moment, glancing down at the floor. Then looked me in the eyes and said, “I waited for you.


It was the third time he noticed her, sitting in a back row of the theater, staying until the end of the last credit. He thought he was the only person who did that. She was not attractive, but she was pleasant looking, with mouse-brown hair and what looked like a decent figure. She always dressed in long skirts, with oversized cardigans covering up her top half. It was hard to see her face, lit only by the flickering movie screen. The last credit rolled, the screen blanked. The house lights came up, showing a magical illusion for what it was… tatty, old, sticky with spilled sodas, the screen curtains fraying, their threads waving lazily as the curtains lowered. It was the last showing of the day. His indecision tore at him. Should he get up and leave first? Wait until she left? Try to leave at the same time, so he could strike up a conversation? The thought of conversing with her left his tongue curled up tightly to the roof of his mouth. He didn’t know her — she was a stranger. Who knew what kind of person she was? It could be she would laugh at him, point at him, and ridicule him for the amusement of the cleaning crew. OK, he would leave first, not risk the humiliation of failure. The house lights clarified that her seat was empty. When had she left? Why had he not realized? He was too busy worrying to pay attention to the real world, that was always his problem. Resigned, but secretly relieved, he got up, carrying his tweed jacket folded over one arm. The pathway to the lobby seemed like a grand exit, as if to carry that movie magic one more minute. Then the lobby door opened, and all was noise and chaos. Usually, that was how it seemed. But being the last show, all the other patrons had left, and it was only the cleaning crew left. They glanced at him incuriously and returned to their work. The aroma of slightly burned popcorn drifted sourly in the air, overlaid with floor cleaning solution. He was careful to walk on the floor that hadn’t been mopped yet, not wanting to add to the cleaning crew’s work. He pushed open the main lobby door and walked out into the dark, humid night. He wouldn’t need his jacket. As he walked across the parking lot toward his car, he relived bits of the movie in his head. He particularly liked the poignant scene when…

“Why do you stay until the end? Are you following me?” The woman seemed to come from nowhere, slipping out from the darkness, until she stood in front of him, confronting him. It was the woman he had seen twice before tonight, of course. Thousands of words cascaded through his brain, desperately struggling to catch hold of a few and make some sense of them. He opened his mouth to talk, but only his throat clicked. He swallowed and tried again. “I’m not following you.” He ducked his head to avoid having to make eye contact with her. This close, he smelled a fragrance, something cloying and heavy, reminding him of an elderly aunt from his childhood. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to stop fidgeting. He cast a sideways glance at her. She was standing stolidly, arms folded, feet spread as if they were planted in the earth. Her frumpy gear was matched by an unpleasant scowl on her face. Desperate, he went on the offensive. “Why do you stay until the end?” She was taken aback. Maybe no one had ever asked her that before. Her scowl slowly dissolved into a wistful smile. It changed her whole appearance, made her appear welcoming and warm. “My father left us when I was young to find work in the movies. He never made it as an actor, so he worked off-screen, doing any job he could. He worked on a lot of movies over the years. I like to read the credits, and see his name scroll down the screen. It’s as close as I’ll ever be to him.” He was taken aback. Her blunt honesty astonished him — sharing such intimate details with a total stranger. He didn’t know what to say to her. At a loss, he stood, mute, hands hanging by his sides like lumps of meat. “What, does it sound strange to you?” Her voice sounded defensive. “It happens to mean a lot to me. It’s like, for a second, my dad is there with me, and I’m seeing what he’s done.” Now her tone was wistful. “I found out he died a long time ago. These are the only moments I’ll ever have with him.” Now that she had shared those details with him, he knew what was coming next. His insides squirmed, worms in the intestines, writhing in a tangled ball. He knew that wasn’t real, but that was exactly what it felt like. “Why do you stay until the end?” Her question dropped with a thud into the silence between them. His ears were ringing. He glanced at his car, but it was too far away for him to run for it. Cornered, he capitulated. “I, um, I like the illusion of magic.” “That’s it? That’s your only reason?” She would not let him off easily, not after the way she had spilled her heart and soul to him. How could he explain? Entering the theater on hushed carpeting, sitting in a plush seat, screening the previews, followed by the movie. Magic started, and he wasn’t a stammering loser. He was a muscular blond laughing carelessly, a dark, curly-haired man with a mustache charming a woman at a beachside table. He always had the right word, smoked expensive cigarettes, fought the bad guys, always stood up for what was right, for the little guy… and the women. They fell for him every time, closed their eyes and lifted their mouths to him. It was magic, and at the end, he was desperate for the magic to cling, for a little longer. He read every line of the credits, not wanting them to end. Only when the house lights went on, could he force himself to leave. Sad, empty, missing some essential part of himself. Back to being a beige man in a gray world, dull and dreary and empty. “Well, you see, in magic the illusion must be handled skillfully, such that the observer thinks it really is magic. You don’t want them to see the hands switching the cards. Magic is a combination of good dexterity for sleight-of-hand, and the heart of a showman, to create the successful distraction.” She looked at him, lips pursed as if she had bitten an unripe persimmon. “That is interesting, but it doesn’t explain why you stay through the credits. By that time, the magic is done.” He shook his head, buried under the weight of his unspoken words. “I, um, I, I, I…” He took a deep breath. “Idon’twantthemagictostop.” A cold sweat broke out on his brow, and his hands trembled. She thought about what he’d blurted out. A smile slow as the dawn broke over her face. “You’re like me. You want to be close to something you can’t have, but you can pretend for a while.” His eyes widened. No one had ever said so succinctly what he felt. He felt as if she had given him a key and unlocked his own thoughts for him. She smiled, a brief ray of sunshine. “See you at the movies.” With that, she turned and walked away, leaving him cradling this newfound knowledge like a delicate infant.


I’m half-way through my final year at McMaster University when the biology program chair announces Mr.Robertson, my plant pathology professor, will not finish teaching the semester. His replacement is Mr. Jenkins. I’m furious. Jenkins is known as a GPA killer amongst biology students. As a student who prides himself on having a 4.0 GPA this is terrible news. By priding myself on having a high GPA I mean no socializing, clubbing, snapping, or fratting. School is life, and I won’t let a heavy-handed marker ruin my prestigious GPA. Mr. Jenkins is a pasty man. Translucent. His thick brown hair with grey streaks is slicked back like a 50s greaser. His eyebrows are filled and paired with a five o’clock shadow. He wears golden yellow tweed jackets to every class, with fitted clean white dress shirts, matching his skin, charcoal pants, leather loafers, and no tie. His dark sunken eyes never heard of sleep. His velvet voice is suited for a viral ASMR video, not a 9AM lecture. Each class is clockwork. He opens with a monologue about relevant research he read during the week, breaks out his Powerpoint presentation he designed in 2003, and finishes with a brief question period. I hang on his every monotone word in lecture, and I study six hours a night for his course, double what I spend on other courses. I’m the only student to ace the final exam. Not shocking. What is shocking is the email I open from Jenkins inviting me to his house for dinner to discuss my paper on the rise of *hybrid fungi.* Dinner with a professor? If I have to schmooze my way to an “A,” I will. I arrive at Jenkins’ residence fifteen minutes before our scheduled 7pm dinner. His house is large and made of golden brick matching his tweed jackets. A burgundy interlock driveway leads to a double garage with firetruck red doors. Emerald hydrangeas edge the elevated cement veranda. He opens the white oak door, as if he’s been standing there since sunrise for my arrival. He wears a familiar outfit. *Does he own different clothes?* His molasses voice pours into my ear. I’m wearing the most formal navy blue hoody and khaki pants I could find paired with a set of brown sneakers I cleaned earlier with *Tide* and hot water. Jenkins rambles about his admiration for my paper and complements my succinct writing skills. I’m counting the rings around his eyes. In the dining room stands a thick gothic table. Plain white plates, burgundy napkins, and sharp silverware rest on top. “Are you a drinking man Stewart?” Jenkins inquires. “No sir, water will be fine.” Jenkins reaches into his wine rack and slips out a bottle. “I thought this Cabernet Sauvignon would pair well with our fillets this evening, it’s savoury with a bitter end,” Jenkins describes. “Sure, I’ll have a glass.” He grabs a corkscrew and stabs it through the cork, twisting. “You know Stewart, I haven’t come across students as bright as you. I know I hold the reputation around McMaster as being an unfair professor, but I simply expect the best, from everything.” The cork makes a squeaky thud as it escapes the bottle. Jenkins pours blood red wine into smooth glasses before handing me one. He raises his glass in cliche fashion. “To plants, and all they do for us.” We clink and drink. I fight the urge to frown. Jenkins slips on a white cloth apron to protect the one outfit he owns. He pulls fillets from the oven. Burnt rosemary and garlic fills the air. “Mr. Robertson was one of the brightest professors in our department, it’s a shame he left us so unceremoniously,” Jenkins states. “It’s true, he was a great professor,” I add, starring at the charred filets soaking in their oils. “You’ll have to excuse me Stewart, there’ll be no vegetable dish tonight. I’m practicing a carnivore diet. You should really try it, it’s invigorating,” Jenkins suggests. I look down at the sizzling fillet. First glance reminds me of the shoe leather steak my grandmother served me in her later years. Jenkins takes the head of the table, I sit on his right. “Please Stewart, dig in.” I grab the serrated knife and cut into the fillet. Jenkins tucks his napkin into the front of his dress shirt. I chew a small piece meat. A strong rosemary flavour punches me. “This is basic biology, I assume you know, through photosynthesis, plants harness energy from the sun and transform it into chemical energy,” Jenkins mentions as he tears into his fillet. “Of course,” I say. “Mr. Robertson had a brilliant paper on the environmental regulation of photosynthesis, it’s truly fantastic, you’d enjoy it. Again such a shame.” Jenkins frowns before hacking off more fillet. I take another bite. The meat is tough. The rosemary continues to overpower. Jenkins points his knife at my plate. “You know I have a theory of my own, much like photosynthesis,” Jenkins throws a larger hunk of meat past his teeth. “Would you like to hear it?” “Absolutely sir.” “We humans can consume intellectual energy, much like how plants consume the suns energy.” Jenkins smiles, the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. “How so?” I ask. “You’re doing it right now.” I look down at the deformed chunk of motionless meat staring at me. I can feel the blood filling my cheeks like a toilet after a flush. “What is this?” I ask, as I trap a sliver of meat between my teeth. “This is a dish I like to call…Mr. Robertson,” Jenkins declares. I rip the white napkin from the table and spew debris into it. “Stewart, we are consuming the intelligence of Mr. Robertson. That big beautiful mind and all its power is becoming ours,” Jenkins grins as pieces of Mr. Robertson fill the gaps of his crowded teeth. I push myself up from the table and race to the front door. Jenkins rises and shouts, “Do you think I invited you over here tonight to befriend you Stewart? To make your acquaintance? You’re on my next dish!” I glance over my shoulder and see Jenkins pursuing me with a serrated steak knife. I reach the door and notice the five gold locks trapping me. He grabs my hood and tosses me to the dark hardwood floor. His grey hairs hang forward as he drives his knee into my chest. A vacuum of empty space fills his eyes. “The sad part is Stewart, no one will miss you…no one will know you’re gone…no one will look for you…and your mind will be mine.” He raises the serrated blade and drives it through my shoulder. My scream echoes through his foyer. I feel the knife wiggle in my flesh. I grab hold of Jenkins’ knee and twist it off my chest, forcing him to the ground. I sit up with the knife lodged in me. I stumble to my feet and introduce Mr. Jenkins’ face to the sole of my right sneaker. His hooked nose bleeds onto a cheap welcome mat. I open the locks as Jenkins screams in agony. I scramble down the burgundy driveway towards my car. The next meal Jenkins consumes will be in prison.


Despite the rain methodically pounding its way through her oilskins, Sara slowed as she climbed the broad, deep steps of the Archives. Grand, fluted pillars, bases scarcely lit by the street's gaslamps, rose on either side, disappearing into fog and darkness. The bronze double doors at the top were covered in carvings, biblical and classical scenes intertwined with little rhyme or reason. She chuckled, just a little, at the image of Eve handing Adam an apple as decoration on a repository of knowledge. The tolling of the evening bell prompted Sara back into movement. The bronze doors refused to budge, and she drew a shaky breath, praying that her grandmother's journal was right. After a quick glance around to make sure she was still alone, Sara placed a hand on the sculpted apple and released a flare of forbidden magic. Silently, the left door swung inwards, and she slipped inside the moment the gap was wide enough. The door shut again with the slightest click the instant she was through. Gas chandeliers hung from the arched ceiling, lighting a long, cavernous vault. The pillars continued inside, leading the eye to the single desk at the end where a man sat writing, seemingly undaunted as he was dwarfed by the space around him. She scurried across the marble floor, wincing with every echoing, squeaking step. It seemed to take far too long to traverse the foyer, and she paused for breath before the desk. Without looking up, fountain pen still darting across a book, the man said, "The Archive is closed for the night." Sara shivered at the tone of utter dismissal, but said the words her grandmother had written. "I'm not here for collections fit for the light of day." At that, his pen paused. "Name?" "Sara." "Your *full* name." She licked her lips. "Sara Williamson." He looked at her at last, and she had to force herself to meet his gaze. She'd thought the stories of the Archivist were exaggerations, but standing before him, the weight of his centuries—millennia—bearing down upon her, she suddenly understood the tales. But then, the keepers of the supernatural were always *other*, and there were few places left as magical as the Archives. She found herself staring at the floor, wondering why she'd ever thought to lie, when he repeated, tonelessly. "Your name. Please." "Sara..." it was hard to force out after years of hiding. It was harder to ignore him. "Sara Leódrúne." She braced herself a reaction to the family title, declaring their status as witches. Instead, he only nodded. "And the reason for your visit?" Perhaps it mattered not at all to a creature who'd been around longer than the first of her kin. "To study the dark arts." Her magic began to roil, responding to her growing excitement. Surely, it couldn't be this easy? Surely, there was some trick? His nodded, and pulled out a small, leather-bound tome from a drawer, turning it towards her. He opened it to the first page, blank and whiter than any paper she'd ever seen, and handed her the pen. "Sign in, please." Sara gulped at the feel of the pen, skittering across her magic like shower of falling sand, light but omnipresent. It took far too much effort to finish her signature, and she swayed as the sensation redoubled. He took the book from her unresisting fingers and tucked it into a pocket. "Follow me," he said, and she scurried to catch up. Beyond the entryway, the Archives seemed like any other library, with rows upon rows of shelves. But as he led her deeper, all traces of organization began to steadily disappear. Soon, shelves were covered with texts on every topic imaginable, in no order that she could determine. Penny-dreadfuls in a foreign tongue next to Aristotle, cookbooks beside tattered scrolls, They moved on. Questions came to mind, but Sara could never find the courage to ask them. The silence felt sacred amid the empty aisles, and so she followed the Archivist without a word. He brought her a section of blank wall, identical to those on either side, and stepped through it. Sara saw the telltale signs of a illusion rippling around his form, and copied him. For a brief moment, she felt the wards of the Archive, ancient and terrible, twitch, paying just the slightest attention to her. But the flow of sand around her responded, whispering that she belonged. The wards settled, so quickly she almost believed she'd imagined the sense of impending doom, and Sara could breath again as an invisible weight vanished off of her. But all thought of ancient defenses was driven from her mind, and Sara gasped upon seeing the shelves beyond the illusory wall. *Thee Darck Artes: Maladys and Miserys* caught her attention first, but on the way to grab it, she spied *Mala Gesta*, which she noticed was beside an actual, unburned copy *Weal, Waye, and Witchery*. Frozen by the plenitude of choices, the Archivist had to shake her by the shoulder to get her attention again. "I'm glad to see you so enthusiastic about our collection, but your book must come first." "My book?" But then she was scrambling after him again to keep up. She stumbled the first time they passed someone, a man in robes generations out of style, reading *Exemplary Excruciation* as he stood among the shelves. She was unable to hold back the questions any longer when they passed a group of three witches, whispering passionately among themselves while gesturing towards yet more illegal books. "How many people are in here? How many practitioners of the dark arts are there?" The Archivist swept past them, and said, "Most of you find your way here, at some point in your lives. We're building quite the collection." "I'm surprised more people haven't noticed the witches and wizards coming and going." But it would be splendid to finally *talk* to others about the art, something Sara had dearly missed since her grandmother passed on. The Archivist ignored her, running a finger along the packed shelves, murmuring to himself in some tongue that sounded vaguely like ancient Egyptian. At last, he said, "Here. Here will do." He pulled the guest log out of his pocket and tucked it in between a pair of much larger volumes. The feeling of sand falling over her magic vanished, and its muffling daze was immediately replaced by dread. Sara's gaze darted to the small book, and she found herself frozen when she saw the title, pressed in gold leaf along the spine. *Sara Leódrúne*. She floundered for words as the Archivist began to walk away. "What- what is this?" She stammered, reaching for the book and discovering she was unable to touch it. He looked at her in confusion. "Your book, of course. You wished for access to the dark arts." Even as she tried and failed to pass the protections on the book, she felt chains wrapping around her magic. A light bond, scarcely there at the moment, but she could feel the strength waiting to constrict, to choke, if she tried to leave. "Welcome to the Archives, Miss Leódrúne," the Archivist said, and for the first time, she heard genuine emotion in his voice, the slightest hint of warmth that sent shivers down her spine. "We hope you'll be a fine addition to the collection.


I've been anxious for a while now. Three months to be exact. Three months ago, my mom was diagnosed with a terminal illness. The mood swings, the forgetfulness, the depression; it all made sense the moment the doctor walked out of those doors with a sunken face I'll never forget. After each treatment, mom gets better and then gets worse, and I struggle to hold onto what's left of her. I'm anxious about what awaits us when she ultimately passes. All the pain I've gone through will probably be nothing compared to what I'll feel when I have to travel an ocean away to cremate her. My sister and my dad rely on me as a pillar of support and the past few months, I've felt afraid to show weakness and confront my emotions. There are times when I wish I never had a mom, or that she wasn't important to me, just so I didn't have to live my life in fear of her demise every. Single. Day. Sure, I snap out of those fucked up thoughts, but thinking that made me realize, *I'm more afraid of the feelings I'll face when she's gone than the actual loss of mother.* The fact that I would have no idea how to deal with these emotions is crippling; I'd rather feel nothing than something I don't understand. School is starting to become a chore, so I decide to skip today and head to Central Park. As night begins to fall, the park employees begin to "shoo" everyone away as the park now closes at midnight. In the midst of the commotion of everyone leaving, I decide to take one last look at the pond in front of me, observing the ducks blissfully unaware of the upheaval going on right next to them. Suddenly, I feel a soft hand forcibly turn me around with an accompanying whisper. "Hey! You, son, you lookin' for something?" A large, heavy-set man, with caramel skin and curly hair flowing down his face that parted in the middle to make room for his eyes was talking to me. His large frame was somewhat covered by his oversized black T-Shirt and loose, ripped jeans, but I saw through it. His nose was a little crooked and his soft, pink lips spoke with a slight lisp. I observed him, along with some other dealers making their rounds tonight to sell their last batches of M, weed, and other substances. I thought it was funny he would seem to adjust his glasses every time he started a sentence, as if to add a sense of "professionalism" to his decidedly unprofessional line of work. Normally, I would engage but tonight I wasn't having it, so I ignored him. Or *tried to.* Once his eyes locked into mine, I found myself unable to look away, and, as I'm sure he was aware of this, he begins to speak to me, my attention undivided. "You don't look so good. What's up?" Ah, a salesman who actually cares about his customer, an endangered species. By telling him my feelings, I have nothing to lose; it's not like I'm seeing him again, so I decide to unload my situation onto him. "My mom is dying. I'm scared of that, don't get me wrong, but I'm even more scared of entering the depths of my emotions and being consumed by them. I've never been good with expressing them and... and-" He cuts me off. "Son, what if I told you I could help you with that? I don't sell traditional drugs, you see. I'm selling feelings. Trauma, in a pill. Can you believe that for me?" "Dude, what the hell? Why would I ever **pay** for trauma?" "Son, you look like you work out a bit. When you hit the punching bag, your fists bleed. When you hit that bench set, your muscles across your upper body tears. You take this pain because you know real life is even more painful and you need to be strong to confront it. You give yourself concentrated doses of pain in the gym that you know you'll overcome so that when the real fight comes, you're ready. Day after day at the gym, you tear your muscle fibers and bloody your arms, and you not only do it the next day, but you measure how good your workout was by the amount of pain and soreness you feel the next day. Trauma is like that. Once you go through enough of it and embrace it, it all becomes the same, and it builds you up. You become numb to it. You won't **have** to fear your feelings because you'll have none. How amazing does that sound?" "I.. I-" "Listen son, feelings are a game. You go through it enough and you'll be able to control them. Think about your friends, your family that rely on you to be emotionally stable and to understand your feelings so that you can help them understand theirs. Everyone is always so scared to get hurt, or to be seen as 'damaged goods'. But there's utility in trauma, you see? That's what nobody tells you. It's the fact that **everyone** feels the same feelings of inadequacy, loneliness, and self-loathing is what brings us together. Your experience with trauma is what will connect you to others, an emotional life-line to others, so to speak. But you can't wait until calamity strikes in order to face your feelings, that's *too real*. What I'm about to give you is a warm-up set, so that when you need to do the actual exercise, you know exactly what you're getting into." "What do I buy then? I don't even know the name of the product, or how to use it, or how much it costs..." "Like I said son, it's trauma in a pill, or so to speak. I can't just isolate trauma, since it takes an entire set of emotions to process that. Take the green pill first, that'll give you the feeling of having just gone through something traumatic, a paradigm shift if you will. After 20 minutes, take both the red pill and purple pill consecutively. Those pills'll give you feelings of self-pity and meaninglessness. Eventually you should start to feel numb and experience feelings of hatred directed both inwards and outwards, and by that time you should've cried so much that you just want to sleep. By the time you wake up, your brain chemicals should be re-balanced and you'll be back to normal. And dealing is a competitive field, so I'll just give this to you for free. I need a loyal customer anyways." I swiftly take the pills and head back to my apartment to try them out. I enter my bedroom, grab a small glass of tap water, and slowly tilt my head back as I ingest the pill and chase it down with water. Immediately, feelings of dread begin to overwhelm me. The shock of unpacking something from my past creeps in, followed by intense feelings of self-hatred and regret. What I'm unpacking and regretting, I do not know. Yet, these emotions, appearing from seemingly a vacuum, begin to coalesce as I struggle to wipe away tears. I'm grappling with feelings not only that I'm unfamiliar with, but that are also from an artificial source. I feel overwhelmed and begin to break down crying, throwing my face back and forth onto my pillow, hoping for the clutches of someone, something, to hold me. I stop to look at the the red and purple pill next to me. *Nothing could be worse than what I'm feeling right now. Why not?* My hands shake as I cup those two pills and swallow them. I almost cough it up since my mouth is so dry, probably from all the crying, but I force myself to swallow them. My feelings of utter anguish and despair begin to amplify, and I feel as if I'm mourning something I never had. It's the most empty, forlorn feeling in the world. Eventually, the emptiness fades to black. *2 weeks later* I'm woken up by a call from my sister. I can't understand her well between the tears and sniffles but I know what's happened: mom's dead. I'm shocked, but nothing comes afterwards. No tears, no breakdown, nothing. I know how this is goes, and any feelings that come next are simply part of the script. I take my time and drive to my sister's house where my mom *lived*. My sister and dad are there in tears. As soon as my dad sees me enter the house, he rushes to hug me and immediately goes into a separate room as he begins to break down. My sister wipes away tears and tells me how glad she is to see me. Hours go by of me just comforting my sister on our childhood couch, tears running down her face as I struggle not to say anything dispassionate. Finally, I let something slip. "Sis, when do you think you're gonna be able to go back to work? We can't let this eat our entire lives awa-" "Bhai (*Hindi for brother*), what the hell are you saying!? Do you not feel anything? Our MOM just **died**! How can you think about anything else in a time like this?" "This crying, this mourning, I mean it doesn't mean much. Let's just fast forward to the lesson learned after this. Ya know, life is precious, don't take things for granted, surround yourselves with loved ones blah blah blah." "W-What... bhai what are you saying? That Ma was just some object for you to learn from?" She begins weeping again, struggling to explain to me her point. "Sis, all this... trauma... I know exactly what you're going through. I've felt what you're going through. But it gets better, trust me. Everything, including trauma, happens for a reas-" "Don't. Finish. That. Sentence. Leave, just fucking leave. I can't believed you can be so detached. How can you say you've gone through this!? This is **our** mom, the first and only one we've lost! This is all new to me and it should be new to you too!" Clearly, I was no longer needed, so I left. I thought back to what the dealer said. The utility of trauma in our lives. Whether we can learn lessons and be stronger without going through trauma. What about the ones that don't make it out? My inability to face my feelings has left me unwanted and numb. Is it trauma that truly brings people together? Those are questions I pondered as I began the long drive home.  **End** Based upon a conversation I had with a close friend, as well as my own struggles. I'd **love** to hear feedback and constructive criticism for this piece! It's been a long time since I've written but I wanted to get some thoughts out there in the form of story.