As a child, I used to hate staying with my grandmother. There was never anything fun to do over at her place but, whenever my father had a business trip (which, given his line of work, was quite often), he would take me to stay with her. Reluctantly, I would pack my bag, he would load up the car with some necessary provisions and we would make the eight-hour drive from Sydney down to Melbourne, where she lived in an old house just outside Royal Park. How I would dread every single one of those hours, knowing that each passing mile was bringing me closer to another boring visit. “Don’t look so morose,” my father commanded during one such trip when I was twelve. “It’s only for the weekend. She’s always good to you, isn’t she?” I grumbled, sinking further into the passenger seat, clutching my bag to my chest as if it were a security blanket. Each one of my stays was as drab and uneventful as the last. This one would likely prove to be much the same. Just past noon, we arrived. The green two-story Victorian house on the edge of the park looked even more decrepit and foreboding than I remembered. Gran stepped out onto the porch and planted a pair of wet kisses on each of my cheeks. I wiped them away as she went to give my dad a hug. The entryway appeared to be a gaping maw, ready to consume me at the first opportunity. A few minutes later, I bid my father farewell, watching as his car rounded the corner and disappeared. “I imagine you must be hungry after your journey,” Gran said, beckoning me inside. “Come. I’ve made you some soup.” Rolling my eyes, I heaved my bag into the house and closed the door behind me. My grandfather had passed away years before when I was small. As such, I had only a vague recollection of him, appearing out of the dark recesses of my mind like fragments of a dream one forgets upon waking. Though Gran had pictures of him all over the house, from youth to old age, the man staring back at me was completely unfamiliar. I eyed them tentatively as I followed her into the kitchen. “Your room’s all made up,” she said as she poured hot soup from a pot into a bowl with a ladle. She was referring to the guest bedroom upstairs, which she always reserved for me. “I promise not to be in your hair much this weekend,” she added. “I’ve some gardening to do.” I felt a pang of guilt. She must have sensed my dissatisfaction. Never before had she addressed it, despite me having made it quite obvious during previous visits. Regardless, I mumbled my thanks and ate my soup in silence as she sauntered around the kitchen putting things away and washing the dishes. That night, as I lay in bed, my mind went back to that moment in the kitchen and recalled something else my father had said on the trip over: “You’d better cherish the time you have with her. She won’t be around forever.” A lump formed in my throat as I turned onto my side and shut my eyes, waiting for sleep that never came. The next morning, after breakfast, Gran announced that she would be in the garden until lunch and that, should I need her, to just shout. I nodded, watching as she rose from her chair and left through the front door. In tableau, I saw her disappear behind the rosebushes that lined the front of the house. It was a warm, sunny day and the laughing of a kookaburra came in through the open living room window and filled the place with sound. Not knowing what to do, I trudged upstairs with the intent of getting some reading done. But once atop the staircase, I heard a dull thud coming from the attic above me. Pulling the string, the rickety wooden steps folded out from the ceiling, and I ascended them, curious to find the source of the noise. Sunlight spilled in through cracks in the wall. Little swirling eddies of particles could be seen floating within the rays. It was clear that Gran had not been up there in many years. Cobwebs covered each corner and a thin layer of dust hung over everything like freshly fallen snow. Sure enough, right in the middle of the room, was a ceramic heart-shaped box that had fallen off a small antique cabinet nearby. How it had fallen, I could not guess. Luckily, it had not broken from the impact. Its contents, however, lay scattered all about. As I reached down to pick them up, the more curious I became. Several dried flowers, like those pressed into old books, littered the floor. In conjunction, an Australian military medal was concealed beneath several letters whose edges had been yellowed by time. Their envelopes had return addresses from several far-off places with postmarks from some sixty years prior. Most intriguing of all was the photo of a handsome young man in uniform who I did not recognize. I had grown up seeing pictures of my grandfather as a young man and this was not the same person. It was then that I noticed a folded letter that was partially opened at my feet. Maybe it was the hasty yet thoughtful hand that had penned it that piqued my curiosity. In any case, I gingerly picked it up and unfolded it, reading the words aloud to myself and intrigued to discover that it was addressed to Gran. “ Dearest Rebecca… ” They were daring to venture farther than they had ever been. It was just over three months since the ANZACs had landed at Gallipoli, a tiny dot on the map half a world away from home. In that time, they had slowly made their way to capture the Heights, which overlooked the surrounding peninsula. To capture the Heights meant seizing Gallipoli from the Turks and, therefore, allowing the Allies to push on towards Constantinople, thus driving the enemy out of the war. It was a bold move to be sure, one that was proving damn-near impossible due in large part to the rugged terrain, yet High Command kept urging the men forward. Now, they were due to take the Nek, a tiny strip of land between the Australian and Turkish lines in an attempt to support the New Zealanders who were keeping the enemy busy at nearby Chunuk Bair. Dusk had fallen with night well on its way. Lighting an oil lamp, Private Leslie Jones of Melbourne nestled into a makeshift cubbyhole within the trench. His back pressed against the cold earth, he produced a small tin from his breast pocket, from which he withdrew a pen and piece of paper. He felt it as good a time as any to write a letter to his sweetheart back home, given the advance on the Nek the following day. Despite wanting to divulge everything to her, he thought of choosing his words carefully at first. Of course, he was scared. He always was whenever the company had to advance, for one never knew whether it would be the last time they would be able to do so. As it was, C Company had already lost several men, including a few with whom he had grown particularly close. Attachments, however, were both pointless yet vital to the army, for you had to entrust your lives to each other, yet never knowing when yours or theirs would be cut short. Doing away with formalities, he decided to lay down exactly what was on his mind. “Who are you writing?" “Rebecca,” Leslie replied without even looking up. He instantly recognized the voice that had posed the question. It belonged to Sidney Greene, a fellow C Company private from Broken Hill in the Outback, who now took a seat opposite him atop a pile of sandbags. Sidney whistled and cooed in response, to which Leslie smiled and playfully kicked some dirt his way. “Say hi to the lady for me,” Sidney said with a grin, politely doffing his cap. “That ‘lady’ is my fiancé,” Leslie added. It was the first time he had said it aloud to anyone, surprising himself for revealing it so casually. “She just doesn’t know it yet.” “Going to propose to her, eh?” Sidney added, producing a flask from the right back pocket of his trousers. “I’ll drink to that!” He took a swig before passing it to Leslie, who accepted it with a smile. It was scotch and the familiar, pleasant burn warmed them from within. But the sudden realization of the advance on the Nek weighed heavy over the pair and a pensive silence fell upon them. For what seemed an eternity, the two of them were lost in their thoughts, each wondering whether they would make it out alive. “Hey,” Sidney interjected, holding his flask up as if making a toast. “We’ll be fine, mate.” Leslie smiled in response and returned to his letter, though from the silence that followed, it was clear that neither of them believed it. The men of C Company were awoken some time in the night, when they were told to mobilize to the front line. Just as the sun crested the horizon, they had arrived, in time to see A Company prepare for the advance across the Nek. As always before a skirmish, Leslie’s heart pounded in his chest. Readying his rifle, he searched the crowd for Sidney, who stood a few paces behind him. The two nodded at each other in acknowledgement. “You ready?” Sidney asked upon catching up to him. “Today’s the big day.” “When am I ever ready?” Leslie countered sardonically. The two shared a chuckle, though their expressions turned grave just seconds later. This time, neither of them could find the courage to say anything reassuring. They were now faced with the reality of the situation, and, as always, it terrified them. They watched as A Company braced themselves for the attack. With a blow of their lieutenant’s whistle, they emerged from the trench in an uproar, only to be shot down moments later by Turkish fire. Leslie, Sidney and the men of C Company watched in horror as several bodies flew back into the trench, their corpses riddled with bullets and stained with blood. It was clear that the enemy had the upper hand as far as terrain was concerned, with the resulting offensive slowly proving to be a bloodbath. “For fuck’s sake, mate,” Sidney said, peering through a hole in the sandbags. “It’s a bloody massacre!" Leslie didn’t say a word. A feeling of dread sank deep into the pit of his stomach. He knew, right then and there, that this would be the end. The Australians could only advance so far before being cut down by enemy fire. It was not so much an offensive as it was a death sentence. Reaching into his shirt, he produced the locket that Rebecca had given him upon his departure, which bore her picture within it, and he had worn around his neck ever since. Opening it, he gave it a kiss and mumbled a prayer. “STEADY, LADS!” the lieutenant for B Company shouted as his men made ready for the next wave. Leslie could see that he was pale, no doubt due to the fact that he knew he was leading his men to the slaughter. His shrill whistle filled the air and sent his troops over the lip of the trench. Seconds later, they, too, had all been shot. The pit in Leslie’s stomach turned into full-blown panic as his own commanding officer urged C Company forward. “This is it,” Sidney whispered behind him. “Best of luck, lads,” he shouted over the sound of rifle fire. “Good luck, mate,” he added to Leslie softly, his voice shaky. “Maybe, we’ll be the ones to break through.” All Leslie could do was stare at him blankly, his expression full of fear. Sidney mirrored it, but nodded once more, a gesture that Leslie countered. Finally, the lieutenant’s whistle sounded. Leslie, heart racing and with Sidney in tow, clambered over the edge of the trench. They watched as their comrades were picked off one by one. No sooner had they made it a few feet was Sidney clipped in the head, a spurt of red staining the earth behind him. “SIDNEY!” Leslie shouted, rushing to his mate’s side. But before he could even get there, a sharp, searing pain tore through his abdomen. He fell to the ground. As his vision began to blur, he saw a pool of his own blood rushing up to greet him. He no longer felt any pain. It was as if he had become weightless. The last thing he saw was the locket, which had come off in the tussle, with Rebecca’s monochrome face smiling up at him… “Ginny? What are you doing up here?” Gran stood framed in the entryway. I had been so captivated by the letter that I had not heard her ascend the rickety steps. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Gran,” I whimpered. “I just…” But her eyes widened when she saw the letter in my hand. Gliding across the room, she took it from me without a word. I watched as she read through it, likely for the first time in years. “Who was he, Gran?” I asked. When she finished, her eyes were full of tears. Turning to me, as if she had forgotten I was there, she gave me a warm smile and stroked my cheek. “Bring the box downstairs and I’ll explain,” she said. Once we were seated at the kitchen table, she told me everything. Leslie had been her sweetheart before he was shipped off to fight at Gallipoli during World War One. She had kept every letter and memento he had sent her, saving them in an old heart-shaped box her mother had passed down to her. When she received word from his family that he had been killed in action, she was devastated. After the war ended, Leslie’s parents had given her his medal, the Victoria Cross, which he had received posthumously for his heroism in a previous battle. It would be five years before she would even consider courtship again, when she met my grandfather. When she had finished telling me all this, I rushed to embrace her, the first time I had ever done so since I was little. “Thank you,” she whispered into my hair. “No,” I retorted. “Thank you ." My father shot me a confused/worried look when he picked me up the following day. He appeared even more confused when he saw me wave goodbye to Gran. “Did you have a nice time?” he asked, clearly concerned. I smiled and answered him honestly. “The best.”


No one likes climbing up an old rickety ladder. I try not to be a pussy, but it scares the shit out of me personally. Holding on anxiously, the grip of your hand tightening just to be safe. Exhaling deeply once your feet find the next raised platform and you near the top. Shit... I should set the scene better; small town vibes, but it’s technically a city, but... it’s not really. It's late, almost midnight. The night sky is striking, the moon's beams flying through the sky. Feeling the chills and breeze of the hour. Climbing up a ladder on top of some office building on the hill in the back of the town, that’s a little sketchy, but you kind of feel cool and dangerous for doing something so rebellious, while at the same time feeling a sense of identity from it. I realize that I'm an 18 year-old alone doing something so disastrously sad but try not to let it bother me. The highway speeds by, bustling life right behind me. I’m a little sheltered by trees and fences. In my own little bubble, my own environment and identity conversing. Behind me society still goes on. I wonder if any of them saw me up on this ladder, what would they think? Suicide? Maybe badass? “He’s not like the other boys” they’d think. I walked up the side steps of this old office space- It’s kind of in nowhere land a mile past downtown- to the second story which is on a raised platform that circles around the sides of the building. One time I was sadly dwelling in this area listening to some music that I like to consider indie and emo, because let’s face it, if there’s not skipping hi-hats and an 808 in the song, you can pretend you have taste. And saw that there was a ladder to the roof. I thought, i’m pretty sad and alone. Maybe if I climb this ladder and check out the view on this roof this experience will be a little more than that and maybe even be special. Also I think, going up there might even be… illegal. Wow! Now people probably know I'm distraught, ooh goody. I did end up going up there, obviously, and was it special? Ehh, who cares. Anyway, now it’s a little thing I do to be edgy. Chill on a roof overlooking town, jamming, enjoy the view’s, romanticize maybe bringing a girl or a group of friends one time with me and having a cool cinematic moment where we smoke, get high, and almost die or something. Now that’s a way to live as an 18 year old right? As the pictured scene above dies out in my head a minute after settling on the roof. Reality tugging on my shoulder incessantly reminding me that I don’t have friends and am rather sitting up on the roof with my tight-nit set of problems instead. There’s something so cruelly refreshing about the night. It’s like, yeah you’re alone... but also, yeah, you’re alone! Everything seems in reach but so hopelessly far away and the moment the big bright ball of reality rises back up, your short vacation of fantasy and idealism is gone and the dread of reality is back up, and now everyone can see you and look at you in all your glorious misery. The day time sucks dick. Another little tid-bit: I like to dress up when I go out alone at night. I’m very hopeless and romantic, but you must respect it. Aesthetic continuity is important, it's a real thing. If you saw Harry styles not in his cool celebrity clothes but instead in your dad's jeans, white air monarchs and a tucked in short sleeve plaid shirt. Fuck he still might look cool but, it’s just different. Whenever I'm actually laying down on the roof, looking up into the stars. Attempting to relax. Anxiety always grabs me by the dick and gives me a fist full. I try not to let it bother me. Why would they have a ladder drilled onto the side of the building as an access to the roof if it wasn’t safe. It had a paneled roof like a regular home would, but it looked dense and solid. I’d been thinking about death a lot, I really wanted to end my life. Anyway, you may be wondering, what’s my problem? Why am I this vampire? Well if I was so vulnerable, open and cheery I wouldn’t be here would I? And if i’m not here, then who am I? So silly of you to ask. If you see a lowlife like me, maybe someone your age, presumably under 30- because at that point I’d just call it- and think what do you do? I’ll give you a rundown. Psycho-analyze them… assume everything and make a game out of it. How many weirdo’s can you guess correctly? I’ve never tested it, but it sounds fun. See how I’m good at making serious things funny and humorous, that’s a sign. I do that a lot. If I were to approach me, well- first off be hot, it’s a disgusting truth but it helps a lot. To be truthful just, be honest. Portray a genuine image of yourself and I think the other will- through the forces of who the fuck know’s- feel that energy and do the same back. We are all so fake- by the way I’m no longer on the roof. I’m now biking down the empty streets to my old middle school. It’s a blissful experience. To be free in your pain. Just the act of riding down a street alone at night, it’s a shedding of some of that pain. It gives me control. I worry about people seeing me out, why should I worry at all? It’s my truth, it’s how I feel. They can go fuck themselves if they judge. LIVE YOUR LIFE. Dishonesty really is a disease, it causes physical pain, mental pain, it ruins lives. It's self inflicted pain too. I never thought I was important enough to be truthful to people just because my life wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. So I was fake to everyone, so no one ever knew me, and I stayed alone. I enjoy biking down the halls of my old middle school listening to radio head, but it’s a process of healing, sometimes it feels like self-condemnation. It’s not really a choice either. I’ll be up late distraught and unfulfilled, seemingly locked inside the box of my house, desperate for any way to release my displeasure. I’ll usually look for drug’s- I never have any- then I’ll decide I need to get the fuck out of this house. Exploring the old campus, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen any of these room’s. I used to go here… I used to be here 5 times a week. I was a lot shorter back then. I have to wonder how my old teachers are doing. Living the teacher's life most likely. Whatever that is. Teacher’s actually have it pretty good, yell at kids, joke around with a bunch of dumbasses. You could also just be overtly cruel and that’s totally cool too. The spectrum of teacher’s is quite a spectrum: you have the god’s, the ones who are precious and amazing, and also those that seem more fictional and cruel than Michael Scott as CEO of dunder mifflin. I had a favorite teacher in High School, she was great. She had a daughter that was a freshman in my senior year which was a weird twist. When your weird short sort of nerdy english teacher’s daughter is a self described influencer on instagram and is almost the epitome of the white girl tik tok influencer culture it’s just a weird thing. No shame or anything, I just grew close with that teacher, she helped me a lot. Near the parking lot of the school the flagpole kept making a loud bang. It was scaring the shit out of me. The harness for the flag, a great assistant to patriotism everywhere wouldn’t shut the fuck up and was being blown by the wind towards the pole and smacking it. I don’t know how American that is. Anyhow, with any flash of light I’m scared it’s a person, It’s around 1am at a middle school so I usually presume it’s merely my manly anxieties behind the thought. Until I saw some girl walking up a hall. Now normally you see a girl, you run, right? Well I've put the practice into strategy before but my hope was that she wasn’t normal, because she was here. I’ve never really identified with normal, I’ve so wanted to but normal is scary. I don’t know how to communicate with it. She was walking up the hall in black stone washed jeans, her legs dragging slightly. A green beanie on, and an oversized flannel. I gave it a second of thought and quickly decided to not talk to the random girl. Who the fuck walks around a middle school campus alone past midnight. Jesus christ women. See atleast im riding a bike, it’s a more explainable activity. I did pass by her though. Anyone else get the dilemma of whether to look at someone's face when you're walking by them? I’ll be honest, I'm not the perfect picture, I'm no mona lisa. As far as I can tell I’m in the mid-tier of fuckable, which is a weird tier to be in. It’s like is it a yes or no? Why is it a niche thing, where if there’s alcohol and someone feels pitiful towards me it’s a yes, but if it’s a more normal encounter it’s a no. I decided to look at this girl in the face. I'll admit she wasn’t cute at all. I need to complain about that because if this is my coming of age film why the fuck is random weirdo girl coincidentally walking the halls at the same time as me this late at night not fucking hot. It’s bullshit, I’ve said it many times but once again I've found proof that there is no god. I did get a whiff of weed as I passed her though. I’ve had a few interactions with the substance, don’t mean to come off as a total badass, but I’ve been in the vicinity before, I’ve taken a few hit’s. And the idea struck me to go approach her and ask if I could hit her usb port or whatever the fuck. Of course The Smith’s was playing in my ear’s which is literally the soundtrack to being alone and desperate at night. Which convinced me that weed is what I need. So I turned back around and peddled towards her. “Hello” I whispered… (anxiety) She pulled out her earbuds which reminded me to do the same. “Uhh.. hi?” I stuck my hand out, and about 5 seconds after I realized I had my hand out. I then asked myself why I had my hand out… I couldn’t give myself an answer and pulled my hand back in then put it into my pocket, as smooth and cool as I could. “Any chance I could smoke whatever it is you're smoking?” “Wow, ok, sure. What are you doing out here.” “Ohh you know” “I really don’t” “Ok well what the fuck are you doing out here?” “I live like a couple blocks away. I just can’t smoke in my house” “Well, that makes a lot of sense. So you have friends and stuff? Your life isn’t in shambles i'm assuming. Right?. Right?” “Um, yeah.” “Wow. Ok, that's good I suppose”.... “So can I get the pen or whatever your smoking” She nodded and handed it over to me. “Just don’t run it dry, only a hit or two” “Don’t worry about that I’m biking home and I’m a bitch boy- I have no tolerance at all.” Quick mental confession: not that I keep this a secret, but my mouth doesn’t work that well. Atleast that’s one reason I give to why I haven’t made out or smoked a lot. I think she could tell because the look she gave me while I was hitting her pen was… distinct? Smoking is supposed to have a cool aesthetic to it. You breathe out the smoke into the air and hold it all french and shit. In her head she was thinking that I was holding her pen like I was about to rub one out of it into my mouth. I sucked that shit in and exhaled it like a dragon. Which if you smoke, then you know is poor technique. So I started coughing loud as shit. My chest was feeling it too, i’m still of course playing it cool and sly, because that’s what I am, of course. “FUCK YOU SATAN” I yelled- it fit with the coughing “JESUS” “Sorry for that, I'm a bit of a zealot. Jesus too I guess.” … “Well thanks for that I’ll be on my way. Busy day, busy life.” I walked away “Peace” she said. What is this world, who raised these kids? I didn’t even get her name, better yet who wrote this ‘story’? I never have that good a time when I’m high. Maybe I'm semi allergic because my chest always has a meltdown. My noggin will be feeling pretty nice and all but my chest will be squeezing itself to shit. So it only took me ten minutes to be feeling that little symptom. It got me thinking about shit and how I often want to lose my shit. I’m not referencing a hard fought battle with constipation against the belligerent bile. I mean lash out, do something crazy- now I want a drink too. I’m not saying that it's crazy, I just want one. The crazy part would be posting on instagram writing something vaguely suicidal, maybe extremely edgy. There’s one thing I find that I have in common with hitler, I want to die by blowing my own brain’s out with a gun. It’s not funny though, it’s a very lame joke. The only problem with lashing out, such as writing some possessed semi-platonic message to some girl referencing all the shit I deal with then regretting for months, is that I’ll still be alive most likely. Then I’m just embarrassed and alive, which isn’t positive. Fuck it. I’ll do it right now. I'm calling this girl that I’ve been talking to. To preface, I’m neither straight nor horny. Take that what thou wilt. As Shakespeare famously wrote. This girl's name is… well I don’t want to expose her so I’ll give her a fake name. Her name is going to be Sam. She’s beautiful, she’s an artist, she’s radiant, and I don’t think she’s normal, which is great. She has an amazing eye for aesthetic, she’s so fucking cool, I want to talk to her every fucking second and drive around listening to music all night with her. I think she’d understand me, I think she’d get me. Probability reason’s the opposite, so are my anxieties. What to do. Stay alone in my void or try to do something. Times are always ticking. It won't be next month, but next year if I’m still alive something will’ve changed dramatically in my life. I’m the most nihilistic fucker I know so the former is more believable. I’m starting to get angry. “Fuck.” I mumble Louder! Then again louder. I can’t do this. I can’t drop my baggage on this girl. What am I going to tell her, the truth? It doesn’t change it. My weight is my weight, It feels attached to me. Clay brick’s surgically inserted into me. All indicators point to say nothing. I can’t do it, I just can’t. She won’t get it. She won’t get my sickness or my depression or my torment or my misery. This world needs to be lonely, it needs to feel fickle and futile. It borders even family, it border’s everyone but me. There’s a permanent port of exit and entry. They keep everyone out there and wont let me step a toe outside those lines. It’s only a matter of time before I end it all, because I don’t think anyone will understand, and I don’t think it’ll make a difference. The only energy to motivate me otherwise is that of desperation, and it gets me right to that check point, before nihilism and dread and anxiety gush me over with the perfect amount of poison to keep me trapped for another day.


At first it seemed like a huge 'magical' coincidence when, in a small town of twenty thousand people, Julie began a conversation with another woman at a juice bar who with no provocation, said that she had been hacked and harassed by the same small town Weinsteinian millionaire and town boss who Julie found out had sent messages FROM her own email account, posing as her earlier that year (to her then employer, causing her to lose her job)... but less than a week later, Julie met another woman in a bakery who had been harassed by the same man, and THEN she met another woman with the same experience, finally deducing from the odds that hundreds in that town must have had the same experience. Sandy, the woman at the bakery, said that the odds of two people in LA having a conversation about how they had both been mugged is neither magical nor coincidence. The woman at the grocery store, had received an email two years prior from a good friend that brought her to tears, and from that message she made a serious life choice in a matter that she said she "could not discuss because it was both sensitive and traumatic" (She said that it was traumatic so she had to talk about it, but sensitive so she couldn't, whatever that meant). After making her "undiscussable life choice", whatever it was, she said that the entire universe seemed colorless and unreal for two years, until a strange day two years after the fact, when her lawyer confessed that the message had been sent by The Rainmaker (he meant by the Rainmaker's hackers). The Rainmaker was a small town millionaire, a businessman who owned all of the lawyers in that town and thereby owned the courts (although he also claimed to have the police in his pocket it was much more likely that he only manipulated their perceptions by playing probabilities). So let's talk about probabilities. Suppose someone sent a message from your account causing the person on the other end to react in a way that made no sense to you at the time. You would not know what happened since the person who received the message would likely cut you off. The reality on the other end would be entirely different. They know that the message is from you, even if it's not, and the forged message from the intruder would change the meaning of anything you can say in the future (Because of eavesdropping, it would not be safe for you to try to clear up the matter with the person electronically, but if you ask the person to "meet you in a dark parking garage to speak about something", your request would take on a different meaning because of the previous forged message that was likely threatening). So you would never ever find out what happened and there is no way you could find out what happened. The odds would be one in a thousand that someone on the inside would tell you the specifics of what happened, so the odds of knowing are way less than the odds that it happened. The odds of two people who know then meeting each other would be astronomical, and then for them to bring the conversation to the point that they both realize they are talking about the same thing would be unlikely......UNLESS it happened all the time. Sandy was right, the odds of two people in Los Angeles realizing that they had both been mugged is neither magical nor coincidence. It is a reflection of what goes on all the time. And so it was in this town. So it was that the evil presence was hidden not by secrecy but by the sheer ugliness of it's presence, and by the need of the vulnerable people who lived there to push it from their minds, and to proceed with the choices that had been made for them, AS IF they had chosen those roads themselves.


Albert had driven a cab for 15 years. It suited him well. Everyone argued over shifts, but Albert loved the graveyard shift. No need to fight anyone for that, he was the only one that liked to work at night. To him there was something special about the night air and the dark streets. It felt relaxing, but also slightly threatening. Thousands of fares a year for 15 years. That’s alot of people. Good people, bad people. People talk sometimes, sometimes not. Some want silence, others want a good listener. Albert could provide both. One night Albert picked up a fare on the outskirts of town. He looked old and weary. He handed Albert $300 and asked if that was enough to get a ride for the next few hours. Albert told him yes then asked where he wanted to go. It was about 11pm. “I want to go to where the people are”, the man said. Albert began to drive downtown. There was a club. “Stop here”, the man said. Albert parked the cab, the man got out and walked in. About 15 minutes later the man came back. “Let’s go”, he said. Albert thought the man looked more energized that before, less weary maybe. Probably just Albert’s imagination. What did the man do inside? He wasn’t the typical club goer. On they drove. The next stop was outside the bus station. “I’ll be back”, was all the man said. About a half hour later he opened the rear door and sat down in the seat. He was quiet now. It was about 1am now, they drove back to the edge of town. “Stop here”, the man said. He got out. He walked up to Albert’s window. He said “have a good evening”. Albert looked at him, maybe it was his imagination but the man now looked 20 years younger. The man saw the look on Albert’s face and flashed a quick smile before walking away off into the field until he was out of sight. “That was a strange fare”, Albert mused to himself. Albert had a few more fares that night before his shift ended. When he finally made it home he made himself a sandwich and sat down to watch the news. There was a breaking story. There had been 3 deaths the previous evening. There were 2 men found dead behind the bus station, and one found dead behind the club that Albert had taken the man to. There was no additional info released by the police at that time. Albert went and reported all of this to the police. He showed them where he took the man, where he had dropped him off. Albert saw the news several days later. The police released the cause of death of the men. Police found no evidence of foul play. They advised for people to be on the lookout for wolves, and to be careful. It seems the men had been victims of the same animal or animals. There were teeth marks on the remnants of their rib cages. Their hearts and livers had been eaten...


Found lurking in the depths of every crowded bar and concert hall is the notorious Red Cap. His appearance has changed over the centuries to fit with the current generations. Thus what once appeared as an aristocrat now showed his face under the brim of a snapback. The gentle rhythm of bass lures him into darkened rooms where drinks and cares are loose. The one mainstay of the Red Cap that has traveled through the years with him is that if he grabs hold of your hand and you don't instantly escape, you're doomed. His grip is the single invite to the dance of death. The concertgoers and bar dwellers always shout at first, but they're grateful to have dodged the invite themselves. The risk of public libations doesn't deal with the bridge trolls or taxi goblins, no, the real threat of a night out with friends is that the Red Cap might catch you and make you dance until you die. Which then he'll take your bloody, battered feet and dye his Red Cap once more with the blood of the unfortunate and foolish. Escapes from his grasp have been dramatic and rare. Many people have taken to wearing loose clothing they can slip out of just in case. The fashion of harem pants and silk tops tripled Chinese exports in one summer alone. An unprecedented double attempt occurred to the initially unfortunate and then warily smart, Arthur Tomkins. Arthur was an arborist by trade and came to Finnegans Hall for a weekend drink. The night had already fallen when the distinct clue of the Red Cap's company was clear. Red flickered to his side and a long peal of laughter that cut through the music in the hall before Arthur felt a cold grip on his hand. He looked to find the wide grin split into the dark corner of the room, crowned by a red hat. Without thinking Arthur's other hand shot to his hip and drew his hatchet, it cleaved the Red Cap's grip before he saw the consequences. The Red Cap snarled backing away. Even he played by the rules; it otherwise meant incurring the wrath of Mab. Arthur bested the Red Cap, but at a handy price. He stuck clear of taverns and dance halls for many moons until they had seen him grow accustomed to his prosthetic hand. It was more appropriate for the public than his work claw, which he argued gave him steadier purchase in the trees. The bar brought chills to Arthur's spine as he fingered the handle of his hatchet. Stiff drinks and fast music made the fear fade from his mind. Surely no man had been tapped twice by fate for the same task. Arthur froze at the sight of Red as it slipped his eyes. He was peeking in at the corners before a hearty tug found the Red Cap clamped down on his right hand. Fear should have frozen it, but what's dead can never die. Arthur returned the Red Cap's laugh that he safeguarded as sweet revenge for years, as he stepped away from both the Red Cap and his prosthetic hand. Twice bested- by bravery and wit, a third victory would elevate Arthur above the station of mortal men and into fable. But all Arthur longed for were tall trees and calm breezes. He knew without prophecy, that if he ever set foot in a bar, tavern, or dance hall again, the Red Cap would descend upon him like a rabid dog. So he never did. His life was his own, as he doomed the Red Cap to a life of fear, that he might reappear in those dark halls to best him one last time.


The windowpane is freezing against my forehead as I look out at the first snow of the season. I can hear commotion from my roommates through my bedroom door. It’s been going on since Maia came gamboling into the apartment, screeching Snow! It’s snowing outside! One by one, I hear my other roommates getting home from the studio, bounding through the apartment like puppies, high off the snowfall, the weekend, the done-with-rehearsal feelings. It’s Friday night and I can tell by the sounds that they’re all getting ready for their evenings. I’m in sweatpants (my nighttime sweatpants, as I changed out of my daytime sweatpants promptly at 5pm) and haven’t been out of my bedroom in at least six hours. I wasn’t at the studio today; I haven’t been in weeks. I’m taking a hiatus , I told my boss. I blamed it on an old knee injury. The real injury is the crippling anxiety that sits like a rock in my stomach. The snow is a welcome, if flimsy, distraction. I’ve been sitting on my bed, watching it come down for hours now, looking idyllic against the backdrop of the streetlamps and freshly-strung holiday lights. I try to count the voices outside my door but it proves impossible. It sounds like a lot. Is it possible that all of us are home? There are seven of us crammed into this apartment, and I can’t remember the last time we were all home at once. As if on cue, Maia pokes her head in my door without knocking. “Hello, darling,” she says. Despite the inexplicable dread sitting on my chest like a weight, I can’t help but smile at her. She still has her dress rehearsal makeup on, glitter piled on her lids and hot pink blush packed up to her temples. She’ll go out to the bar like that and be the most beautiful girl there. I think for a second she’s going to invite me out, despite my extremely visible intentions of staying home for the night. Instead she says, in an impressively innocent tone, “Someone handsome and salt-and-peppery is here for you.” As soon as she sees my face drop, all pretenses of teasing drop. “Are you okay?” she asks, stepping fully into my bedroom and shutting the door. “Do you want me to tell him to leave?” I shake my head, standing off my bed and willing my hands to stop shaking even as my anxiety rages at me, This is it. This is what I’ve been warning you about. I told you something bad was going to happen and here it is— “No, Maia,” I say, pleased to hear my voice come out steady at least. I don’t know why I’m so certain of who’s at the door, but there’s only one handsome, salt-and-peppery man I know that would make the drive into the city on a snowy Friday night just to see me. I grab a sweatshirt from my closet and shove my arms through it. “It’s fine,” I tell her, even as my heart pounds. She follows me out of my bedroom and down the narrow hall. The apartment is warm as hell, the windows steamed from all the bodies here, coats and boots and hats strewn across the radiators to dry. A pot of something fragrant simmers on the stove, and I know it's Rosie’s cooking without having to look. My stomach growls and I remember I haven’t eaten yet today. I was right, and it is Tommy standing in the foyer—quite rich of a word to describe the tiny square of space in front of the door next to the coat and shoe racks— not looking abashed at all at having arrived unannounced at nearly nine at night. “Hello, Uncle,” I say, attempting a combination of warmth and polite confusion. His expression tells me I’m a poor actress. As I suspected, Tommy chose to arrive during the tiny sliver of time when all the planets align and each of my six roommates are home. Interestingly enough, they’ve all gathered on the mismatched couches and grin at him like hyenas. Maia tries shooing them out, looking at me apologetically when no one moves. Tommy winks at my roommates, still a shameless flirt despite being well into his forties and enjoying a blissful marriage to Catherine. Then he turns to me and tilts his head toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk, Isabel.” I’m sixteen and in trouble again, hands shaking as I shove my feet into boots that are more like slippers and a coat from the rack that I belatedly realize is not mine. He leads me out the door and I grit my teeth as I have to slam it three times before I hear the latch click. “It sticks,” I mutter. I groan inwardly as I pull on the coat and the arms barely touch my wrists, the absurdity thrown into sharper contrast next to Tommy’s coiffured appearance. If he notices he doesn’t let on, apparently more interested in the crumbling apartment hall than my haphazard appearance. “This seems unsafe,” he notes mildly, referring to a patch of ceiling that is just barely hanging on. I pretend I don’t hear him. When he stops to inspect the broken lock on the front door, I keep walking. “I should call the fire department out here,” he says irritably. “Slumlord of a—“ “Do we have a destination?” I interrupt. I’m standing in the fresh snow, glad it’s not slush yet, and wondering how long until the powder melts and soaks my slippers. “Or did you come here strictly to criticize?” He does his slow blink, the Tommy blink, the one accompanied by the deep breath where I can practically see him shove the irritation into one of the many boxes in his brain. “I did not come here to criticize,” he says firmly. “Come on.” The restaurant he leads me to is one of my favorites to order takeout from. I wonder if he remembers this from a previous visit, or if it’s just the only restaurant within walking distance that will let his sweatpants-clad, wet-slipper-wearing, too-small-coat-having niece through the door. My heart twists when he asks if I want my usual and I realize it’s the former. I nod wordlessly and pick the table I want, sitting on the bench seat that faces the window. I foresee a lot of eye-contact-avoiding in my near future and watching the snow fall will be a pleasant and welcome distraction. I’m viciously picking at the skin around my cuticles when I feel him sit across from me. I don’t look up. “Bel,” he says. I can tell from his tone that, if I look up, his face will break my heart. “Tell me what’s going on.” I’m silent. I’ve reopened a scab on my cuticle and it's bleeding. He passes me a napkin. I was hoping he’d choose to be angry instead of understanding. To rage at the unanswered phone calls and voicemails, the bland text message updates I send without rhyme or reason that don’t provide any substantive information. To demand answers, and when I refuse, to leave and swear that he’s done trying, for good this time. But of course he doesn’t. I can feel the beginnings of panic start to dig in, claws latching deep enough where I won’t be able to talk myself down. My heart is pounding in my ears again, and when I finally look up at Tommy it feels like he’s miles away. Tommy knows everything about me, and instead of that being a comfort, it makes me feel cripplingly exposed. The knowledge that he, at his leisure, can remember all of the times I was emotionally flayed open by my mother, physically knocks the wind out of me. He can remember my feigned grief when she died and my thinly-veiled relief that verged on joy that I was finally free. Free from her obsession, from her violent and erratic episodes, from her unpredictability, from the mysterious but persistent illness that cropped up when I stopped being an adorable toddler in a tutu and magically disappeared when she died. He can remember the abject devastation I tried to hide when my dad, his brother, rejected me. When he, in his grief at my mother’s death, shoved me out and never let me back in.

And, perhaps most horribly because they were the choices I made myself and can’t be blamed on anyone else, he can remember the drugs I did, the alcohol I drank, the disgustingly inappropriate men I dated. He can remember the stubborn way he and Catherine took me in and tried to heal me. To repay Tommy and Catherine for their unconditional love and generosity? I hide from them. I ignore them. I avoid them. I convince myself they acted purely out of obligation. And while it makes me hate myself, it feels better than revisiting the agonizing first sixteen years of my life.

I don’t say any of this, just stare blankly over his shoulder until the food comes. Neither of us pick up silverware, but the warmth from the noddles drifting up into my face is calming. I’ll bring them home if I don’t eat any. Julia loves these noodles. I’ll bring them home and split them with her and we’ll watch trash TV. She’ll fall asleep mid-sentence like she always does. I almost smile. I start to breathe again. “Do you need money?” Tommy asks. The question surprises me. “No.” I’ve firmly refused money from Tommy since I moved out. Depending on them feels a lot like burdening them. “Why?” “We saw that you pulled out of The Nutcracker this year.” His eyes are filled with questions, but his voice is kind. I don’t ask how he knows or where he saw this. I don’t tell him about the knee injury. He’ll know it’s a lie. He’ll know the real injury is the mind kind. “I don’t need money.” “What do you need?” I don’t answer. “We miss you,” he says. I might be imagining it, but it sounds like his voice breaks when he says it. He sighs, does his slow blink again, breathes, composes himself. “There’s an Isabel-shaped hole in our house,” he tries again, half-smiling. How do I tell him I’d rather die than ever feel the way I did three years ago? I’d rather die than even risk feeling that way? How do I tell him that, as much as I miss them too, as selfish as it is, this is the only way? He seems to realize he is getting nowhere by being vulnerable and changes tactics. “I’ve never been up to your apartment until now. Do you live with all those girls?” I nod, twisting noodles around my fork but not lifting it. “So there’s—seven of you in there?” I nod again. He's floored. “How many bedrooms are in there?” he asks, half amused, half aghast. “Why?” I ask. “Are you going to call the fire department?” His shoulders tense and he looks up. When he sees the small smile on my face and he relaxes. He switches to a safer subject. “Are they all dancers?” “Mostly.” I finally take a bite. It’s significantly cooled but is as delicious as always. “Kat and Tig are new. I don’t know if they’ll last, but I hope they do.” I twist more onto my fork. The hunger has surpassed the anxiety. “Maia is the one that answered the door, I think.” “Ah. The one that tried to save me from the horde.” “Yes,” I say. “The same.” “You’re closest with her,” he guesses. It’s an educated guess, and its accuracy is both startling and touching. “Yes,” I say. “She’s my closest friend here.” I’ve never had a friendship like the one I have with Maia. I didn’t know they existed until she started barging into my room without knocking, unapologetically nosing into my business, perching on the bathroom sink to complain about her day while I’m in the shower. Instead of shoving her away, I find myself inviting her further and further into my life. I continue without mentioning any of this. “Then there’s Rosie and Julia. They’re both in the corps.” I count on my fingers who I’ve already mentioned. “Last is Gabby. She’s not a dancer, she works in real estate.” “How’d she end up with you lot?” I shrug. “Alcohol, I assume.” He huffs a laugh like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You like them?” he asks. “Yes,” I answer, realizing he knows me as the girl with no friends. I realize my roommates don’t know that girl. “I like them a lot. All of them.” He smiles at me in a way that makes me feel exposed again and I return my attention to the plate. I want to scream and rage against whatever inner workings of my brain make me feel like I’m underwater and Tommy is above the surface. I desperately wish I could give him a glimpse inside of the knotted wires and make him understand. It has nothing to do with you . I know I love you. My brain just won’t let me feel it. There’s silence for several minutes. I keep hoping Tommy will break it but I know he won’t. He’s a master of silence; he says so himself. “I—“ I stutter, stop, try again. “I wish I could make you understand.” I close my eyes. Breathe. I will not cry , I think. “I’ll feel like I’m getting better. I’ll feel like I can breathe. Like I—care again.” I wince, knowing those words will hurt him. “But it always comes back. It’s always worse than before.” “Bel,” he says calmly. Gently. “If you don’t take anything else away from this conversation, take away this: I do understand.” I blink. “Okay.” “No one is mad at you.” “Okay.” He takes a deep breath like he’s scared of what he’s about to say. “You’re not trying,” he says. He doesn’t say it unkindly. He says it like he knows it’s a hard truth. “You’re hiding.” He waits for me to argue. I don’t. “The longer you let yourself do this…” He sighs. “The path back is going to get harder and harder.” He’s looking at me like it hurts him to think of the hurt I’ll have to go through. What he doesn’t know is that I never plan on going through it. I will slog through this purgatory forever before I willingly return to those dark places.

We sit quietly for a few for minutes until I say, “I think I want to go home now.” I see the devastation in his eyes, but his expression remains neutral. “Let’s go, then.” I shrug on the too-small coat that’s not mine and forget to ask for a box for the food. The snow is thicker on the ground now, but less is falling from the sky. Tommy’s beside me for the short walk back to my apartment, through the broken front doors and all the way to my door with the pretty, sparkly Christmas wreath. I don’t ask him where he parked. I realize I didn’t ask him anything all night. “Come see us for Christmas,” he says. I don’t look at him. “Or any time. We’re not going anywhere, Isabel.” Half threat, half promise. I thank him for dinner. Tell him I’ll think about it. Close the door without looking back. The apartment is silent. I can’t bear the thought of being in my bedroom for another second. I take off my sopping slippers and place them on the radiator before laying down on the couch and turning the TV on. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know Maia has scooched in beside me and my head is resting on her thigh. I can hear Gabby and Julia drunk and cooking in the tiny kitchen behind us. Rosie is trying and failing to manage them in between fits of laughter. I can just tell from what I’m hearing that they’re making a mess. I don’t mind. The despair that I felt earlier is starting to ease as I listen to the familiar sounds. Maia looks down and sees I’m awake. She doesn’t seem as drunk as the others. “Hi, sleepyhead.” She’s flipping through channels. She can never pick one. It drives me crazy. “What did you and your hot uncle do?” “We went to Up Thai.” “Leftovers?” Julia calls hopefully from the kitchen, even as she’s cooking. “Sorry, Jules.” She huffs, then decides, “We’ll go tomorrow.” I agree. Maia is eyeing me suspiciously. “He drove all the way into the city to bring you out for counter service?” “He wants me to visit for Christmas. Or sometime soon. Whenever I have free time.” I am grateful when she doesn’t mention that I have nothing but free time lately. Instead, she gushes, “Oh, I love the country. I want to come when you go.”

Tommy and Catherine’s trendy, upscale neighborhood could hardly be considered country. Tommy would probably be incensed by the comparison. I don’t correct her and stay quiet, hoping she’ll drop it. Of course she doesn’t. “Can I really come?” I can’t tell if she’s doing this on purpose, if she’s picked up on how I’m feeling and thinks she’s helping. I feel like she is making plans for a happy life I’ll go through the motions of but never feel, but I don’t say that. When I first moved in, I felt like I’d be the outsider watching my roommates enjoy their lives, but here I am with my head in one of their laps. I suppose it’s not outside the realm of possibility that maybe there could be a day I’ll be ready to take the painful path Tommy talked about. So instead I say, “That would be fun. I’ll think about it.”


The night chill woke me seconds before my cell phone rang— "Crane here," I answered, half-asleep. It was well past 2:00 a.m. Friday night. Sitting up in bed, I tried to breathe my way to wakefulness, taking in the crickets and the pattering rain outside, reflecting on just how different the world was *out there*. "Sorry about the late hour, Chief." It was Stinson, my deputy, out of breath. "But we've got a situation and I think you oughta be in on it." "Ongoing?" "Suppose that depends on your beliefs." "About what?" I asked. "The devil." I put Stinson on speaker and got dressed as he filled me in on the particulars: the address (over on Highland Crescent); the fact the house was sealed off "just in case"; and that "two of 'em are dead already—and how. It puts the fear of God in me just to remember the bodies." I slid on my boots. "And the others?" "Alive and in the house. One banging on the window to get out. What should we do with them?" "Nothing, but don't let anyone leave. The killer—" "—could still be inside." I exited by the front door and got in the car. Coaxing the engine to life, then pulling out the driveway, "OK, now tell me who called the police and everything you know so far," I said. "Caller was a small fellow called Uriah. Nervous, from what I seen. As to what happened, like I told you before, we got two bodies, one of 'em with his head off, a bloody table and six people who don't want to talk about it much except to say it's the devil did it. Pale as ghosts, all of 'em." I turned onto the highway. "Oh, and there's a bunch of, how you call it, Satanic paraphernalia all over the place." When I arrived, the scene was relatively quiet. Two police cruisers, lights off; a few officers loitering outside; neighbours starting to gossip on their front lawns; and a face in the window, banging on the glass. "That there's Samara," said Stinson. "Let's go in." Although I said it, for perhaps the first time in my police career I didn't feel it. I didn't *want* to go in. I didn't feel my usual sense of duty. There was something off about the place—about the whole situation. There also arose other thoughts in my head: *Walk away. Retire. Forget about it.* I put those ones aside. Stinson followed me in. "Jesus," I said, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected heat. "Quite the first impression, eh?" Stinson closed the door. Wiping droplets of sweat from my forehead, "Crane, Chief of Police," I announced to whoever was inside. No response. We passed from the hallway to the living— Corpse. *Charred*. I— "Sorry," said Stinson. "Forgot to warn you about that one. Son of a bitch got me too." I looked it over. Burnt to a charcoal crisp. "Got an ID on it?" "Nothing conclusive. The others all claim it's a guy called Lenny, but no one recalls his last name." We walked a little further. "This next one I did warn you about," said Stinson. "Again, no actual ID, but everyone agrees he was one Tikhon Mayakovsky. That includes his supposed sister. Mr Mayakovsky happens to be the owner of this property. You'll find his head in the corner over there." *Happened*, I thought. As promised: a man's bloody, clothed body sitting, almost casually, against the wall—headless; neck sliced clean off; and the head smiling, upside down, from across the room. "Jesus." Just then a dry chill passed through me in the otherwise humid room. "Feel that?" I asked. "Sure. Maybe A/C acting up?" "Maybe." I kept wondering why no one was coming out to talk to us. "The last time we had a killing in town was—" "Bakerfield, 2003." I was surprised it was that long ago. "Winter murder. Crime of passion. Open and shut," I said. "No burning. No decapitation. No—" He bent down to pick up a metal pentagram covered in wax, and a few spent matches. "—Devilry." Next, Stinson showed me to what, perhaps with a touch of the unsubtle, he referred to as *the murder room*: small and windowless, containing a heavy, round oak table covered in stains (wax, blood, who knows what else) encircled by eight chairs, one of which had been knocked over. The stale air smelled of death, incense and sulphur. "And now," he said, "the suspects." I paused before entering the room in which they waited, noting only that the door had been padlocked. I could hear banging from inside. "Was the lock necessary?" Stinson shrugged. "I had to improvise, and one of them was intent on leaving. Didn't want her disturbing the crime scene." "Six are inside?" I asked, pulling out my notebook and pen. "Correct. Samara, that'd be the one claiming to be Tikhon's sister, Milton, Naomi, Pearl, Raymundo, and the small fellow who called it in, Uriah." I finished writing the names. "Any impressions?" "Either they all did it, or they're all mad. Or both," said Stinton. He unlocked the door and we entered. Six people indeed. "Good evening. Name's Crane. I'm the Chief—" Anger! "What's the idea, keeping us locked in here like this, like kept animals, with the portal open and it loosed and awaiting its due. Let us be! Let us all be, then get out. Leave! Leave here and never come back!" "I—" I said. Stinson took out his gun. "Calm down, Samara," said one of the five people seated. "They won't believe you anyway. They think one of us is the killer." Samara waved her hand dismissively before returning to her window. "Why would I do it? Why would I kill my own brother," she said with her back turned. "More than that—we've a spiritual obligation," one of the women said. "To see it through." "No chance of that now that *he's* ruined us all," Samara sneered. At the back of the room, a small man, presumably Uriah, chewed his fingernail. I approached the man who'd spoken ("Crane. Chief of police.") and held out my hand. He shook it, saying, "Raymundo." "What I want are the facts," I said. "Facts," Samara said with audible distaste. "Always with your *facts*, your *reason*. That's precisely what's wrong with you people. That's what Tikhon was learning how to overcome." "Just tell me what happened in the order it happened," I said. "Promise to hear us out?" Raymundo asked. "Yes." He patted down the front of his shirt for a pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind?" After I shook my head, he carefully took one cigarette out of the pack, held it between two fingers, lifted it into the air, made a guttural sound in no language I'd ever heard—and the tip of the cigarette ignited, just like that. "Do you see?" Behind me, Stinson gripped his gun. "Is that a trick?" I asked. "No," he said, stubbing out the cigarette. "It's a demonstration of the properties of a portal." "You think you can persuade him, explain it to him step-by-step, when he lacks the one thing he must have to understand: faith," said Samara. I asked, "A portal to where?" "Hell." "Told you they're mad, the lot of 'em," said Stinson. "Everything rests on faith," Samara was saying. "Tikhon knew that better than anyone." "Tell me from the beginning," I said. One of the other women in the room piped up: "It was a séance. We were having a séance." "And you are?" "Naomi." "For God's sake, it wasn't a séance!" Samara walked decisively away from the window. "A séance is a communication with the dead. We weren't communicating with the dead. We were communicating with the never-living." I looked at Samara, then at Naomi, who was looking down, and finally at Raymundo, who said, "Samara's right. This wasn't a séance." "Sorry," mumbled Naomi. "It was my first time." "Sometimes we spoke with the dead," said the third woman, who I deduced was Pearl. "Or rather they spoke to us." "That wasn't the point," said Samara. "It happened," said Pearl. "Were you speaking with the dead *tonight*?" I asked. Stinson scoffed. "No," said Raymundo. "We were gathered tonight to commune with, as Samara called them, the never-living, to open a portal to their world. The demon world. The dead did not interfere." "How did you open that portal. Did it involve—" Samara: "We didn't kill anybody!" "Opening a portal requires eight humans performing a ritual. There is no death involved. The details of the ritual are arcane and rather unimportant. What's important is that we opened it." "What happened then?" I felt another dry chill come over me. Samara laughed, and Uriah, at the back of the room, shook with terrible fright. "You felt that, didn't you?" Samara said to me. "What is it?" "The never-living passing through the world of the living." "So this portal is still open?" Laughing furiously, "Of course it's still open. That's the entire point. That's the problem we should be solving," said Samara. "I'm here to solve two murders," I said. "You shouldn't be here at all. If *he* hadn't felt the cowardice, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't be here, and we'd be dealing with the true problem." "That's not fair," said Uriah in a thin voice. "It was already happening. Tikhon lost—" "Shut your mouth!" "Let him speak," I said. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. And he's not even a neophyte—" Samara's eyes passed briefly over Naomi with a certain disregard. "—so he has no excuse. He's a dilettante, and he's always been nothing but a dilettante." Uriah muttered something under his breath. "What happened after you opened the portal?" I asked Raymundo. "Tikhon made contact with a demon." Suddenly, the only person in the room not to have said anything, Milton, stood up. He was older than the rest, white-bearded. "It's coming back," he said. "It said half, and it's coming back." Stumbling forward, he tripped and fell, and I realised he was blind. Uriah helped him back to his seat. "What's coming back?" "The demon," Raymundo said. "We wanted to summon a minor demon, something we could control, but the demon we summoned wasn't minor at all," said Pearl. "Once it got into Tikhon—I've never seen such a possession." Milton was rhythmically tapping his feet against the floor, repeating: "Two more. Two more. Two more." Outside, the rain had picked up, drumming on the roof, gargling down the eavestroughs. "Two more what?" I asked. "Two more victims." "The demon demanded payment," said Naomi without looking up. "Payment for using the portal. Payment in blood. It said we'd been using the portal without paying the toll." Milton, singing: "*Fifty for the farmer, fifty for the red hen*." "How did the demon say this?" "Through Tikhon," said Pearl. "It said that the blood price is half the quorum, and the quorum is eight." "So you're admitting Tikhon threatened you!" Stinson burst out. "It wasn't Tikhon. It was the demon speaking *through* Tikhon," Raymundo calmly explained. "Tikhon was no longer present." Samara sighed. "This is all pointless." "What happened after the demon, speaking through Tikhon, threatened you?" "It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of price. Does a shopkeeper threaten you at the register when you're purchasing from his store?" Samara asked. I corrected myself. "What happened after the demon made its statement?" "Wait—" Naomi rose, looking at Samara, then around the room. "—you knew about this? You knew there would be a price, a half to pay the red hen?" "We'd done it before without a price," said Uriah quietly. "We knew," said Samara. "What happened next?" I asked. Naomi: "You used me!" "Oh, don't be so naive. Everything has a price. You wanted knowledge, you assumed the risk. Every single one of us assumed the risk." I repeated my question—louder. "He killed Lenny," said Uriah, his voice shaking. A tree branch smacked against the window. "He set him on hellfire." I looked to Raymundo for confirmation. "I'm afraid that's true. After stating his price, the demon began collecting it. The price was four of eight and Lenny was the first of the four." "What did you do while Lenny was burning?" "We continued the ritual," said Samara. "That was what we had agreed to." "Some of us," said Naomi. Pearl said, "He didn't burn long. Hellfire is within us all. The demon merely freed what was already within Leonard. Some sin or secret. It took him quickly. He didn't even make it to the front door." "Then Tikhon started talking in some other language, and he put his hands on either side of his own head, grabbing his ears and started turning—" "The demon," said Samara. "Not Tikhon." "...turning and turning…" Milton: "Put the bird upon the stone, sharpen your axe and bring it down. Cleave the body from the head, and watch it run until it's dead." "—until it came off, and then he grabbed it by the hair and held it up like a lantern, the mouth still wet and alive and talking, and it said: 'Either you or Samara are selected, or both,'" said Naomi. Samara raised an eyebrow. Uriah was speaking: "The blood was pouring out his neck, just pouring and pouring, all over the table and the candles, and the flames had turned red as the blood, and I couldn't take it anymore. I just couldn't." "Coward." "What did you do?" "I blew them out, the candles. Then I got up—" "He interrupted the ritual," said Samara. "One must never interrupt the ritual. The ritual must always be seen through to the end." "He was going to take another." "He will take another regardless, you fool. He must get his due. All you've done in your stupidity and weakness is put innocents in danger!" "And what did you do after getting up?" I asked. "I watched… Tikhon, stumble—collapse in on himself, like a punctured balloon," said Uriah, "and stagger toward the door. He got through, then slumped down against the wall, rolled his head across the room and died. And as it rolled, the head spoke, telling me that if Ray was given to the red hen, so would I be." "Soon the police came," said Raymundo. "And here we are." Stinson tapped me on the shoulder. "Does it sound like a murder-suicide to you? Because it sure sounds like one to me." *A man burned alive but no other signs of fire. A man with his head separated from his body, but no sign of the blade it was done with. The witness who called it in: in agreement with the other five witnesses that it was a demon who killed both.* "The longer we wait, the more angry he becomes," said Pearl. "He always gets his due," said Samara. "Why did you do it?" I asked. "We didn't. The demon did it. That's what we've been trying to tell you from the very beginning. He took two, and he's owed two more." "Not the killing," I said. "The ritual, the opening of the portal. Why do *that*?" "Why split the atom?" Samara answered, as the wind threw rain drops against the glass. "Why suffer to discover the source of the Nile? Why methodically map the human genome? To understand the world. To know existence." "I think it's going to be me," Uriah said, biting his fingernail again. "I feel dead already." "But the ritual was broken—doesn't that mean it's all over?" "The ritual is broken, but the portal remains unsealed. The demonic debt remains outstanding. The never-living flow through and among us." "Can you close the portal?" I asked. "I can't believe you're humoring these loons," Stinson barked, but I could hardly hear him. "We can't," said Samara. "That's the problem." It was unbearably hot. Raymundo said, "Although Samara is correct, it isn't true that the portal cannot be closed. Simply that we can't close it. It can still be closed from the other side, the demon side, if the demons so choose." "Which is why we must pay the red hen what is owed," said Samara. I looked over my notes. "The quorum was eight, the price was half, and two have already died. So two more must die to satisfy the debt?" "I say we do the world a favour and kill all of 'em," said Stinson, keeping a firm grip on his gun. "Not any two," said Raymundo. "Only the chosen two," said Samara. "That is the conundrum." I glanced at my notes again. "Does anyone remember anything else said by the demon?" Although part of me felt ridiculous for taking these occultists at their word, another part—the part that had felt the coldness passing through my warm, living flesh—knew there were darker recesses of human experience yet unplumbed. Milton began tracing lines in the air in front of him. "Not something heard, but something seen." As he traced, he spoke, and as he spoke I wrote: "If I am indeed to go to Hell, I shall in fair company be, for into flames I shall damnate Pearl and Tikhon alongside me." "That's what the demon showed you?" "I reckon," said Milton. "There's also what Lenny said right before he caught fire," added Pearl. "His eyes—they opened wide as saucers—and he asked with this great misunderstanding, 'What's it mean that I'm a quarter unless Pearl is?' A moment later he was ignited." "I remember that too," said Naomi. "Anything else?" *Silence.* Not just among the eight of us in the room, but total and complete silence: no rain, no wind, no tapping branches, no breathing. "What in God's name—" Stinson didn't get a chance to finish his question, because just then the door to the room was ripped out, and Tikhon entered, headless, from the black, infinitely dense, infinitely deep, void on the other side of the doorway, where the rest of the house used to be. Stinson shot! Once!—Twice!—And a third ti— But Tikhon, or the demon possessing him, absorbed the bullets, stepped toward Stinson, screaming, terrified, placed one hand on each of Stinson's shoulders *and tore him in two*, just like that. The two halves of Stinson fell to the floor. I could not shriek. Or cry. "I," said the demon in a voice which sounded like a thousand ancient beasts slaughtered on a thousand stone altars, emanating from everywhere at once, a voice I felt through all my senses, "always—" I saw: Samara crying tears of joy; Uriah peeing his pants; Raymundo overawed; Naomi trying to pull her lips over her face; Milton's eyes rolling and rolling in their sockets; Pearl laughing hysterically. "—get my due." Then the demon strode toward the nearest wall, bent forward so that the bloody stump of Tikhon's neck was pressed against it, and wrote the following on the wallpaper: 4 - 2 = 2 When he was finished, he turned back toward where Stinson's halves were lying, and consumed them: the way a snake consumes a rat: by distending its own elastic body with the fullness of its prey. When both halves were in him, he said, "That one was for my pleasure. I am temporarily satiated. Deliver unto me precisely the sacrifice you owe and the portal shall be shut. Deliver unto me what I am not owed, and I shall devour this town and all within it, depriving it of existence and purging it from memory. Such is my power, for I am the God of Annihilation." Then the world returned: First the rain, followed by the house beyond the door—now open on its hinges—and all of us in it: all seven, for Stinson was no more. Only his gun remained, discarded on the floor, touched by no one. Time passed and we did not speak. On the wallpaper, the bloody numbers slowly trickled into incomprehensibility. "There is one more thing," Samara said finally. "Words Tikhon whispered to me when we first began our experiments. 'If the Devil takes you, he will not take me too.'" Then, staring at me, she asked: "Do you believe us now?" "My duty is to protect. I must not let the city or its citizens come to harm," I said. "Have faith.


“Jesus chris’ Chrice, jus’ do it already, why don’cha?” “I dunno man, I don’t think I’m ready.” “What d’you mean you don’t think yer ready? What d’ya think is gonna happin’?” “Well, it’s kinda a lot of pressure and I just...I don’t think I can do it yet.” “An’ why the heck not?” “Well it kinda looks hard.” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, it’s s’posed to be hard. But s’not so difficult once you get the hang of it y’know?” “Maybe not to you it’s not! But I never done this before.” “We all, one point or ‘nother, never done this before. Only way you learn is jus’ go fer it an’ hope it works out ok.” “But what is ‘it’ that I’m goin’ for?” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, how many times I gotta tell you? S’not so complicated.” “But what if I do it wrong?” “Naw, you can’t do it wrong. You jus’ stick it in, and twist it ‘round a lil.” “You sure though?” “Course I’m sure!” “But what if I twist it too hard?” “Then you might break it! Don’ do that. You gotta be gentle, but firm.” “But what if it hurts?” “Whatchu means ‘what if it hurt?’ S’not gonna hurt.” “How d’ya know?” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, ‘cause I done it before! Don’ you trus’ me?” “Of course I trust you! I just….well I’m scared I’mma muss it all up.” “Stop worryin’. Don’ overthink it so much. Jus’ stick it in, an’ twist it. You can go slows you like.” “What if I go too slow?” “Yer can’t go too slow. Goin’ slow jus’ means yer makin’ sure it fits in nice.” “Can you show me?” “I already done shown you!” “I know, I’m sorry. I jus’ don’t wanna muss up and look stupid. Show me jus’ one more time? Fer me, please.” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, ok. One more time, but that’s it ok?” “Ok. Gosh bless you.” “So, yer gonna take it in your hands like so. You follow?” “Mhm yesssir.” “Good. Now, you wanna take the round end in your hand like this. Got it?” “Got it.” “An’ you wanna stick this end in an’ up, like this. See now?” “I see.” “It should line up just right with the hole there.” “Uhu.” “An’ ya slide it right in.” “Oh wow, would ya look at that!” “Go slow though, right.” “Right. Why slow?” “Cause f’you go too quick and it don’t fit proper, it won’t twist none.” “Ah, o’course not.” “Right, then you twist it gently, like so, till you feel it click.” “Click? Why click though?” “Cause if you don’ feel it click, then tha’s how you knows it don’t work proper.” “Right, and it’s a waste e’erybodies time if it don’t work proper?” “Xactly!” “Wow, an’ where’d you learn how to do it?” “My brother o’course!” “Really now? I wish I had a brother to teach me useful stuff like this. An’ where he learn it from?” “Our cousin.” “You don’t say? And where’d he…” “C’mon now Chrice, quit askin’ so many damned questions and jus’ do it, now won’tchu?” “Right right, sorry! So I take it like this and… which hand should I hold it in?” “Either really. But most find it easier to do, more stable, ya see? holdin’ it with their dominant hand. Which hand you write with?” “My left.” “Right. So take it in yer left hand then. Careful now, don’ drop it!” “I got it. An’ I go like this?” “Mhhm, aim careful now. You want it to align so it goes in the hole smoothly now. Don’t force it.” “Awe damn. It won’t fit. I think it’s maybe too big.” “Now that’s a common misconception there. I know plen’y folks who think their’s

is too big to fit, but you go slow now, an’ see how it fits perfectly fine. Jus’ go slow and aim it nice an’ careful now. “Now see, it won’t fit! It’s too big.” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, I just done it and it worked. Weren’t yeh watchin’? I can’t just whip it out an’ show you every time yer confused. You gotta get it on yer own eventually now. Try again now, but go slower. Be patient. There ain’t a rush to finish quick. Unless you gettin’ paid to go quick o’course. But yer not, so take your time.” “Ok, ok. Here, like this?” “There ya go. See there now, the tip aligns right with the hold. There ya go. Slow now, don’t shove. It don’t work better if you try an’ force it. ‘member? Might break it an’ yer don’ want that. My cousin accidentally did that an’ had to get a whole new one.” “No kiddin’? It broke so bad he had to get a new one? Now that’s jus’ crazy bad luck there” “No such thing as luck. Good or bad. Jus’ was too impatient, but he was also gettin’ paid by his neighbors, so maybe he felt he had to do it quick.” “Can’t get paid to go slow for a better job?” “Sure you can, but usually only for bigger ones.” “An’ why’s that?” “Cause smaller ones are usually quicker to finish.” “Really? Now why’s that?” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, cause i’s smaller. Bigger ones is bigger, heavier. Takes more time to align it accurately an’ all.” “Right right. That was a silly question.” “Sure was.” “But what happened to yer cousin?” “Well I guess he done a good enough job that satisfied his neighbors well enough ‘cause they asked him to come again.” “No kiddin’? Even with a broken one?” “Well he got a new one o’course! They’d never let him bring a broken one into their bedroom. Can’t finish nothin’ proper with a broken one hanin’ ya know?” “No, course not.” “Now get back to yers. How’s it goin’?” “Oh right! Like this?” “Right, now a little to the right. Careful now. Slow it down, no need to rush. A little further. There!” “Here?” “Yes, slide it in, slowly now.” “Like this?” “Yes, yes! Now twist it gently.” “How much?” “You’ll know. Jus’ take it slow. There you go. Keep goin’. A little more. Don’ stop, don’ stop! Almost there. Do you feel anything?” “No, it jus’ keeps twisting.” “Well it looks right. Just keep twis…” “AH! Was that it??” “Did ya feel it? How was it?” “Satisfying!” “I told you it would be! That’s why you gotta keep tryin’ till you finish!” “I wanna do it again! “Now don’ be so hasty. Go on over by the wall.” “Why’s that?” “Gotta make sure ya dd it right?” “But it fit and it clicked.” “So there should be nuffin’ to worry ‘bout. Go on now, go turn it on.” “Look, It works!” “And tha’s how to fix a light bulb!!”


"Hey," Simon says softly to the boy who approaches him and kisses him on the mouth. "Hey," Alan replies after hugging him a little shyly. They hadn’t seen each other in a few days and Alan knows it wasn’t an accident. Their whole story had been mapped out from the beginning, and he used to think he was just imagining it, but now he’s sure of it. They grew up together, or rather they had known each other since they were aware of their existence. In that little alley, almost protected from the outside world, the two of them had known since then that they were lucky. There were more kids there, but the two of them were always a tandem, no matter what happened. As they grew it only became more visible. Sometimes people exchanged them for brothers even though they were physically quite different. Alan was two years older and was always protective of Simon. Especially lately since they finally realized why they are so attached to each other. Only, their relationship here will never be accepted and they knew it from the beginning. Tonight he will try to put it all aside. Simon is only 17 years old and he knows that this trip, no matter how short, will be condemned by his parents. However, he insisted that they reach a small lake near the neighboring town and live with each other for at least 24 hours. One night and the day before Alan went to the big city. He was reluctant to leave him because he knew Simon's parents would surely go crazy and punish him. Especially when they find out they were together, and they’ll find out for sure. Simon just shook his head at that. He didn't care. This is their time, and even so short. Simon was the first to admit to Alan that he liked him. He was always more open and honest. The younger boy was always the one leading and Alan, among other things, really liked it. He seemed to want to be like him sometimes, but he didn’t really mind, they were perfect together. It doesn't matter tonight. These few hours of theirs are so precious that they will try to forget everything around them. They walk and talk. Alan listens to Simon’s stories with such interest as if trying to soak up all of this for some bad days that are sure to come. They brought some sandwiches and juices because this is something like a trip. They wandered almost all night in the deserted city and when they got tired they sat by the water and waited for the sun to rise. The dawn is beautiful, even though it's a little cold in the morning, they don't mind either. Simon leaned his head on Alan's shoulder and just watched in silence. One day there may be justice for them too. One day when they both come of age and hope to be ready to go anywhere. That will only matter while they are together. Because they both know that there will never be anyone else, for neither. When the day dawned, Alan left Simon with a heavy heart, his eyes full of tears, but so they agreed. Scrape off quickly like a band-aid, and simply wait for the day when somehow everything will work out in their favor. Simon wanders around the city for a while, then sits down by the lake again on a bench where they sat together until recently. Tears stream down his cheeks and something heavy, dark around his heart grips him. He remembers the promises he made to the older boy, he will endure whatever he has to, so he straightens up and just looks at the water. Trying to fight all that sadness, he just falls asleep. Luckily there are no people around and when he finally wakes up it’s already night. He knows he should have gone home, but he can't. It can't be forced, at least for a while longer. That’s where they were last together, right on this bench. Maybe everyone thinks that he is too young for such great feelings and decisions, but Simon knew for a long time. And he also knows that he will never regret it, nor will any of it ever change. Simon really went through everything and anything. His family was anything but normal. Some would say that his affection for Alan was just an attempt to escape, but even that was not true. He remembers almost every day they grew up. Their going to school and every time Alan defended him. He remembers so many times when Alan helped him when he ran away from home and fed or clothed him. Alan was not only his friend, he was like family to him, from a young age. As they grew older he only felt his affection for the older boy grow and he had no choice but to admit it. Why hide the truth from the most important person in his life. Alan felt the same way, but he tried as a senior to suggest to Simon to wait. Explain to him what the consequences might be. In fact, he knew he would always be able to rely on each other, so he relented. They met secretly and kissed like all young lovers. Clumsy, passionate and full of heart. They took each other's innocence, if it can be called that, because they were very happy to give it to each other. Simon thinks about all this as he watches the moon looming in the small lake. Everything here is so perfect, in this quiet, hidden place. Almost everything, because he is still alone. Only, this is temporary. He won't be stopped by the beatings he'll get when he gets back. Nor the hatred of the whole world if he has to fight. One day the light of this month will lead him to what is his. He smiled for the first time after Alan left and headed home. Just a little more…


The open auditorium was filled with a fully seated audience captivated by the sound flowing from the raised platform. It was from a melody being produced from the melancholy dance of the bow and string held by a pair of skilled diligent hands. Once the performance was over, a pause hung in the air, waiting for the last note to float and dissolve, where a loud rumble of clap and cheers followed. While her deeply immersed shut eyes opened, Marie smiled at the cheering crowd and wiped the bead of sweat on her neck, waving her hands in a fanning motion to cool off from the summer heat. As she left the platform, a wave of loneliness that visited after every performance filled her. Being a wallflower, the cello was the instrument of her stirring emotions and this was the only time she could showcase it. She made her way to the lockers when she saw a group of seniors mainly boys surrounding a girl. A girl with a petite frame and heart-shaped face, in which her almond eyes and straight nose perfectly fit. A reverse mirror to Marie. The girl caught her eyes and smirked, to which the group she was talking to turned to look at her. “Hey, Marie! Great Performance,” shouted Ben, one of the senior boys that had his arm around the petite girl’s shoulder. A hot flush stole across her cheeks as she stuttered, “Th-Thanks Benny,” “Th-th-thanks Be-nn-y” the girl mockingly replied. Few of them laughed while a hot flush stole across Marie’s cheeks. Come on Jenna, she’s your sweet baby sister” Ben exclaimed. “A baby she sure is,” Jenna smirked. “Oh, I forget you’re sisters. She looks like nothing like you, or your mom Jenna. Are you sure she’s not adopted?” the girl beside Jenna snickered. Marie stood tongue-tied, she never knew how to react to that, how many times it came up. “Maybe.” Jenna shrugged looking at Marie head to toe. Marie clenched her fists as she passed by them, stomping her feet. “I’m just teasing!” called out Jenna laughing in distance. As she got to her locker, she rolled her eyes at the charity campaigns led by Jenna stuck all over the bulletin boards. She was amused by the new project Jenna has put her nose to, which she was sure was just another social activity for the self-seeking sister. As the day was done, Marie made her way back to the bus stop and slumped against the sidewall. The soft breeze played with her loose ponytail as she basked in the summer sun today. Oddly after every performance, she missed home. Both she and Jenna had initially grown up in a rural village and had moved to this small town together to pursue a life in music. Jenna’s clarinet playing was lacking, so their mother still had to pay for the lessons but Marie had received a scholarship straight away. As she raised her head up to the cloudy blue sky, she wondered when was it that they started hating each other. Was it when they came here or from before? It should have ranged from misunderstandings to vicious fights piling as the sisters grew older. But Marie could only remember yearning for Jenna’s attention. She remembered a memory when they were younger girls. Marie had presented all her savings in an empty chips box and one of her favorite dolls as a gift for her sister's birthday. Jenna had poked and prodded the gifts, tore the masking tape off the box, and kept the loose change into her pocket leaving the box and doll to the side and walked off. Now that she was much older, her heart sank at how secretly devastated her younger self was, more than anger she felt sad. Believing maybe she did something wrong then. The bus came to the stop and she got in and sat by the last seat, opening up the bus window partly. Now Marie equally ignored her, because she felt peace, although it was temporary. The bus halted at the next stop where she saw woodpeckers pecking at a tall, disheveled pine tree that shook stronger with each peck. She wondered how long would it take for the tree to break down. The bus lighted ahead and she reminded herself to check her mailbox in the hope to hear from her dream school in the city soon. This would be the gateway. An escape from this close-minded town where people like her shallow sister reigned and she didn't feel uncomfortable anymore. Her reflection on the window stared back at her solemnly and she told herself it doesn’t matter what she looked like. As long as she had her bow and talent, she could actually have a shot. As Marie got back to her dorm, she checked her mailbox to check to see if there was an acceptance letter. Nothing but few phone bills that included Jenna’s. Walking up to the stairs, she passed by her sister’s dorm wondering if she should drop it by. The matron was spotted from the opposite corridor, the girls hurling out of her way left and right and she wanted to avoid her as well, knowing the matron would give her some tasks. So she opened the door and sprung in hoping no one was in. As she looked around, it was clear. Her heart thumped as she walked towards the bedside and her head kept looking at the door. The matron was near her door telling off the room opposite hers. She kept the phone bill at Jenna’s desk and turned to leave but the array of makeup brushes and hair rolls caught her eye. Sweat beads forming on her temple, Knowing she should leave already. Uncomfortable by the mess of books and makeup mixed up on the table and she muttered and blew her bangs off her face, annoyed that Jenna can’t even care for her things. One more look at the door and she decides to tidy up and have a look at the final year history textbooks. As she flips through the book, a bunch of letters falls to the floor to which she picks it up to see it’s a college essay and application letter jotted by Jenna. Curious, she read the essay but only to gasp and read it again. Ruffling through the remaining papers, she finds a letter in her own handwriting, from where Jenna’s essay is copied. Her own essay and application are tattered and then she realizes her sister never mailed her application and by now the deadline was over. In shock she runs out of the room, pacing as fast she can, the tears uncontrollably falling over her cheeks, her hair. She closed her room and laid back on the door, finding her fingers trembling in anger, she punches her pillows around recklessly. Wiping her tears, she hoped it wasn't too late. After a few calls to the school, she sank into her bed in despair but rose, just as the heaviness in her chest that was used to being dismissed, now returned stronger than ever. With that, she flung open the door and stormed to the cafeteria where she guessed Jenna could be. Her guess was right as Jenna was hanging with her posse laughing and sipping on juice refreshments. Jenna spotted Marie outside the café and walked her way towards Marie who found herself glaring down at the bracelet Jenna wore, something which belonged to her. She felt her entire body squirm along with the heat that hung lower than usual today. “Marie, give me 30 dollars.” “Why?” Marie pronounced. “Why? Because I need it. Tsk come on Marie, Hurry I need to go back in.” Jenna scoffed while looking at her watch. “But why should I give you my money.” Marie puckered. “Because..we’re family?” “Why am I your family only when you need something?” Jenna felt the closed café door being slid open completely. “We’re sisters Marie. Remember what mom says. Sisters share everything!” She laughed menacingly while looking around. “Oh, so we’re sharing this too?” She held up her tattered application letter. Jenna plunged forward to grab it. “Where did you get that? Did you go into my room?” She grabbed Marie’s shoulders bringing her away from the cafeteria. “You sabotaged my application by reaching out to the school, canceling it, and plagiarizing mine?” Marie shook Jenna’s hands off her. She feels a shadow of heads piling behind the glass door. “You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m going back in.” She innocently exclaimed turning to return to the café. “Why did you do it?” Marie stepped forward. Pausing, Jenna turned back slowly, her face now showing no remorse. "You're really never satisfied are you?" Marie was confused. "What?" “Face it, you will do fine performing for shows here in this town. But that school in the city, I should be going there. Someone like me” She pointed to herself from head to toe. “Someone like you?” “Yes, you think you’ll really survive in the city with your looks and your greasy personality." She stepped forward, her head closer to Marie's. “Look at you. You’ve become so arrogant. A little bit of attention and now you want to move to the city. And if I can’t get in so can’t you.” At her words, something switched inside Marie, and then it hit her. “So this is about staying in my league?.” Jenna scoffed as she clasped her hands, “I know my place. Now give me 30 dollars as I asked you.” Marie dint speak for a minute. She simply turned and started walking away. Jenna “Where are you going? Give me the mon—” Marie turned back swiftly “You know I thought if you grew up a bit more, you would change." She drew her breath in. “Every year, when I would feel horrible because of you and how you treated me, I thought if I just gave you sometime, you would change. I really wanted to wait for you to be the sister who would stand up for me." Jenna folded her arms as Marie continued. “But I was wrong. And I could ruin this for you,” she held up the application. “But it’s not worth it. You’re not worth it. Good luck big sis.” She threw the application back to Jenna and walked ahead, not looking back. Her heart thumping in her ribcage, she felt her back heavy with perspiration either from the heat outside or inside her. If there would come a day that she would forgive Jenna, she didn't know but Marie knew it won't be easy anymore. And she knew she was done. With Jenna, with the tiptoeing and with the self-destruction. It was now up to her completely. As she walked back, drops of rain hit her cheek and she stopped in surprise. A pent-up rainfall finding a loophole to break even in the haughty summer.