Bill works in sales. He's a long time user of prostitutes and a regular customer of the agency I work for, so he fancies himself as a savvy consumer. I mention that he works in sales because it's the most significant thing about him. In fact everything with Bill is a negotiation, everything is a battle of wills. The management came very close to dropping Bill as a client on several occasions (for various reasons). The main reason they didn't, is because while Bill himself isn't particularly wealthy, he has referred a number of wealthy clients. However despite that he's always threading that line that if he crossed would end up with the agency cutting him off. The biggest thing with Bill is that girls finish a booking with him, regretting that they agreed to do certain things. While someone might agree to do something with Bill at the time, later reflection can often bring a combination of WTF, regret, and anger. So there's only a few girls that the agency will now send for outcalls with Bill and I'm one of them. I do them largely because I get to pick when I go, rather than sitting around in one of the agency apartments waiting for a booking. He's regular work in otherwords. Bill gets on well with the drivers. Which is unusual for a client.Clients often try to befriend the drivers but usually they're met with stony indifference. Some clients like to try and show off in front of the drivers. By having us strip off in front of them, while they're getting the driver the money. Which the drivers usually hate (they've seen us naked enough times already) However Bill always has the money ready which immediately puts the driver at ease then chats casually with them for a few minutes, before they head off. This is a calculated tactic of Bill's because he knows that if anything goes wrong, it'll be the driver kicking the door in. Anyway lets talk about one appointment I had with Bill. I'd stopped offering Bill anal sex. Strictly speaking I wasn't allowed to do that, Anal sex was something we were supposed to offer to all our clients after a second booking with them (it was one of the reasons a few girls didn't go for regulars). However after an instance a few weeks earlier with Bill and another girl that I'd heard about, I'd simply told him no anal.That was largely an opportunistic act on my part, I didn't want to do anal if I didn't have to. Normally the agency would have been all over me if I'd said no to another client, but because it was Bill it was okay. Bill had never really had that much interest in anal. I think he found it too difficult. Most clients with long bookings will always want to do anal at least once. There were ways I'd try and discourage them or persuade them not to, but all in all on any give night I'd expect to have anal sex at least once. So after 5 months I considered myself relatively experienced at this. I'd found from my own experience it was always better to initiate sex rather than wait for the client to do it. That allowed an added element of control. Bill had a thing that he thought was unique to him, where he'd like to get a blowjob standing up in the middle of his lounge. I never told him that it wasn't really unusual and that I had other clients that liked the same thing. Blowjobs are always easier if you let the client put at least one hand on your head and guide you. By keeping your hands on the base of his cock you could always control what he was doing. It gave them the illusion of control and they always came quicker. Bill came in my mouth without warning (though that wasn't a surprise). He knew he wasn't meant to, but I was prepared for it and there wasn't too much of a scene. However after I made a bit of a scene and spit it out, I felt I had to challenge him on it. Normally Bill would say it was an accident and act all apologetic, which would be a lie. This time however he didn't even pretend, which was worrying. Bill had booked me for 4 hours, and we were only 20 minutes into it. So we did what was the usual routine I put a t-shirt on and we sat on the couch to watch TV, while Bill was getting ready to go again. This was actually a common routine with men on longer bookings in between having sex, sometime they'd watch porn while fingering me, or in Bill's case he put Newsnight on. It wasn't even the first time that I'd watched Jeremy Paxman grill someone, while sitting in a guys lap while he fingered me. Anyway after a while I felt his erection come back. At first I thought I'd get away with another blowjob but no he wanted sex. So fine and I lay back on the couch but then he said he wanted anal. I said no immediately, like I had when he'd asked on previous bookings. However this time he was up for an argument and I suspect he'd been planning. If it was any other client he'd have been in a strong position. He could have phoned the agency and complained and I'd have got an earful. However Bill like I said was lucky to still be able to place bookings, and the management wasn't really interested in hearing from him. So I told him no and if he had any problems he could phone the agency. He didn't want to phone the agency but instead told me he wanted to leave. Which was a surprise, but to be honest I didn't argue the point. What did I care as he'd already paid. There was never any point in arguing in situations like this. In fact the first reaction I got was that I could maybe squeeze in a second booking that night. So I phoned the driver who was only a few minutes away and headed off to the bathroom to get a shower and get dressed. Now lets talk about the driver again. He was a fairly reliable guy, well built and seemingly no nonsense, but he hadn't been with the agency that long. He'd gotten the job because he was friends with another driver. The drivers like the girls and the management had a pecking order and he was towards the bottom of it. I always made a huge effort to get on with the drivers (occasionally that meant various things, but usually they considered it a job and weren't after sex) this driver however I think had mistook my being nice to him, as my deferring to him as the decision maker. After i showered I got dressed into my scruffs, which was jeans and a shirt rather that the dress I came in. When I headed out, I discovered that Bill had been chatting to the driver in the lounge. I just wanted to get your side of the story, the driver told me. Bill manipulating prick that he was (perhaps it was the fact that he worked in sales and marketing) had somehow picked up that the driver was a weak spot in this whole commercial transaction. I actually laughed at him which pissed him off. it wasn't his place to decide on which story to believe. Bill had obviously been charming him, which I saw as a pointless exercise as there was nothing he could do. Still the driver continued, why didn't you do anal he asked pompously. As if he was my HR manager. At this stage I told him to go fuck himself and it was none of his business what I offered clients. Being new he was aware of the constant friction between the agency and the girls about what services we offered. However the agency had never chosen to involve the drivers in that process, for good reason. The driver also I think knew that I was in often in the managements dirty books, and that I was unpopular with some of the other girls (though not with the other drivers) and I think he thought he might have been able to look good by intervening. In the end he told me that he was considering giving Bill his money back. I was absolutely gobsmacked, refunds occasionally happened but just because he had the money on him didn't mean it was his decision. I just kept laughing. I should have phoned the agency but I decided to let him carry on. Even Bill seemed surprised and a little bemused, he'd just been testing boundaries in his usual way, he didn't expect this. I even saw a little amusement in his eyes. The driver however thought that Bill was his friend, and that they were standing tall together against the money grubbing whore. Bill made an approach to me before he left, saying we could work this out if I would just be more 'reasonable'. There was always something sinister with Bill, it was one of the reasons he didn't get the more pliable girls anymore. He obviously had some very specific ways in his mind, that I could 'sort' all this out. Six months earlier I might have considered it, put up with whatever fucking weirdness he wanted, to avoid yet another argument with the agency. At this point however, I was in a more secure position financially, and I also understood the mechanics of how the agency worked better. So I just told him to go fuck himself. So Bill got his money back and we left, the driver started to have second thoughts on the drive back, and kept a constant stream of words coming at me, flicking between justifications, accusations and conciliation. On the drive back I think he realised just what a lot of money £700 was. Anyway when we got back to the apartment the agency was using for incalls, there was just the secretary and another driver there. They were both gobsmacked when the driver told them what had happened. I just shrugged, I'd sorted another booking in the car so I grabbed another driver and headed off. I never saw the driver again. Some of the other girls didn't like me, likewise I had a difficult relationship with the manager, however the idea that one of the drivers could do what he did appalled everyone. The next night I worked the money I was owed for my time with Bill was paid by the agency. Bill never paid it so I suppose either the driver or the agency paid. I actually earned above the odds for the night. A few weeks later I was on another outcall with Bill. Still no anal but he'd accepted that. At this stage I was the only girl who was taking his bookings. When I told him what had happened to the driver he laughed.


‘Hello there! Glad I caught you. My name’s Sandra and I’m calling from Great Crater Solicitors. Accident claim specialists.’ ‘...’ ‘Oh, no, don’t worry. We’ve already bought ten minutes of your time for the call. I’m sure that delicious dinner will still be as tasty as ever by the time we’re done.’ ‘...’ ‘Exactly. Let’s get to it. Were you in a warp accident that wasn’t your fault?’ ‘...’ ‘Uh-huh. Yes, of course. I understand your concerns. We were given the details by our trusted partner StarSense. Have you heard of them?’ ‘...’ ‘Not to worry. They own the emergency response team that picked you up, the route taken by said response team, and the receptionist at the hypocenter where you were dropped off. With that data we were able to do you the huge favor of starting a claim for you, without you having to lift a finger. How great is that?’ ‘...’ ‘No, this is a highly sought after service. We get people calling us every day saying they wished Great Crater had got the ball rolling for them. Saves a lot of time considering how long a warp accident can put someone out of action for. I have the details of your accident here, and they don’t make happy reading, eh? Let me just run through it with you now.’ ‘...’ ‘Ah, it’s fine! We do it for everyone. It’s just a formality, well, a legal requirement, but we prefer formality. Your accident to—-’ ‘...’ ‘Yes, we have a customer service team for any legal concerns our customers have. I’ll be happy to give you their contact details once this call is done. Their costs are very reasonable.’ ‘...’ ‘Of course! We can’t just give away prize-winning customer service! Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Oops, sorry, how insensitive. Back to the details. It says here you were travelling on a crawler between Meergate Station and the Silesian meteorite field. Correct?’ ‘...’ ‘Excellent. Now I’m told this was on a mineral assignment from Kraken Ore. Oh, whadda you know? They’re owned by StarSense too! Missed that earlier. Small system, eh? Anyway, sorry, I know your time is precious. So. Mineral assignment. My system says you were three hours in, four hours from the field. Yes?’ ‘...’ ‘I know. What a coincidence. But those are the right details I assume?’ ‘...’ ‘Greeeeat. Now, looks like here’s where we hit trouble. According to the ship’s data logs kindly provided to us, you were piloting with a mining crew of 47. At this point of the journey, three hours in, four hours to go, the ship’s warning system alerted you to an anomaly. Within a few seconds of this, the ship entered a warp hailstorm. Right so far?’ ‘...’ ‘So cute, isn’t it? These tiny little warps being chucked around. Itsy-bitsy things compared to the big momma and pappa versions, eh? Don’t want to see one of them now, do you? Phew, no, siree.’ ‘...’ ‘Oh, it’s fine. If we go over we can just stick some money in the meter. We’re having a great time aren’t we? Anyway, ship hits the hailstorm and starts taking serious damage. Now, this ship should have had an effective warpshield, but this failed, correct?’ ‘...’ ‘Awful. How awful. And so now radiation is flying through your ship messing up circuits and what not.’ ‘...’ ‘Oh, of course. I can’t imagine the pain, not one bit. Horrible. So, warpshield has failed. You call this into Kraken Ore and send out an open SOS. You get a response from a couple of nearby ships who then head your way. Kraken Ore let StarSense know, and then they told you to hold tight. Anything amiss? ‘...’ ‘Yes, company policy for all StarSense subsidiaries is to notify their StarSense customer service manager of any problems as their first act. It’s to keep you, me, and everyone safe. Next I see the ship fails and life support is struggling. According to scans by a nearby StarSense satellite, 30 of the crew in the hold, where radiation shielding was weaker, had died by this point. Cause of death: severe radiation poisoning. How nasty. At least you were holding up at the front though!’ ‘...’ ‘I’m afraid so. You and two others were the only survivors. I spoke to them just now actually. Lovely people. Could barely say a bad word about you. Now, a few minutes later the ship has failed and scans show you were severely injured and soon lost consciousness. Correct?’ ‘...’ ‘Ah, don’t worry, nothing to worry about. So unconscious, yes?’ ‘...’ ‘Great. From there I see one of the rescue ships arrived, fired over a tow cable, and pulled you out of the storm. Within 30 minutes the emergency response term arrived, boarded the ship, and collected yourself and your crew. You were delivered to the hypostation on Silesia, where medical professionals saved your life by removing your right arm, and 66% of your legs.’ ‘...’ ‘That just about brings us up to speed. I can see your life signs are looking pretty good, and there’s been little change in the two hours since you arrived. What great work those emergency workers do, eh? Up and about all over the place making sure we survive that rough and tumble world out there. Do you have any more details to add in relation to your case?’ ‘...’ ‘Sorry, that isn’t relevant. Anything else?’ ‘...’ ‘Thank you. I’ll make sure that gets added. Now we’ll just put all this through the system and see what happens with your claim. How exciting!’ ‘...’ ‘Mmm, yes. I see. Well, I don’t know abou—-oh! Here it is! Ah, bad news I’m afraid. StarSense have ruled against your claim. What a shame. I’m so sorry. In fact, they’ve taken everything on board and it’s been decided you were responsible for this horrible incident.’ ‘...’ ‘According to this, in the 2.3 seconds between your ship’s warning alarm and the warp hailstorm manifesting, there was a 6.3% chance of you avoiding it by veering 82 degrees starboard as soon as the alarm sounded. Such a shame. Anything under 5% and your claim would have succeeded.’ ‘...’ ‘Sorry to interrupt. I only deal with in-process claims. I need to put you through to a colleague now. Wonderful to speak to you today.’ '...' ‘Good afternoon, this is Jeff at StarSense.


Out of Print He was an unobtrusive character, one you wouldn’t look at twice if you passed him in the street. Drab and mousy, outfitted in neutral tones, he was just a wisp of a fellow. You might describe him as shadowy, furtive, ephemeral.

His tweed overcoat, an odd blend of tan and grey, lent him the illusion of bulk. Where its collar — turned up at the back of his neck against the wind — met the back of his moleskin cap, there was a suggestion of almost colorless hair. Though young, he had an appearance at once world-weary and otherworldly. He walked with shoulders hunched, as though defending himself from his fate. Never such a bland visage have you seen; never such unexceptional features. His skin was paper thin, his complexion pasty. You might have supposed him to be an apparition. He made entry into a venerable publishing establishment, slipping in amongst his cohorts.

He should have been recognized as an intruder — but there was such a frenzy of activity, an urgency of progress about the place, that his presence went almost unnoticed. One subordinate might have nudged another and whispered, “That fellow over there – never noticed him before.” The other, with a cursory glance, perhaps replied, “Doesn’t seem to get much done.” The newcomer was unremarkable and went unremarked. Due to a lack of communication amongst the executives, he remained as one of the company. And there! There was the paradox; the whole of the mission was to further communication. To lend meaning to everything . Dord was never called upon to explain himself. His position held no real meaning. Others were so busy at their assignments that, had they noticed him at all, they would have assumed that he belonged there. After all, who would choose to hang about the place without purpose? Incredibly, Dord was able to secure a place for himself. Cloaked in anonymity, he blended in amongst his fellows and lurked in the background. He had the appearance of belonging. He looked enough like some of the others that his presence was not questioned. Not immediately. Someone supposed that he belonged in the science department, particularly in physics and chemistry. He was assigned to the study of density, but that was not to be his ultimate destiny. He was a steady fellow during his — dare we call it “tenure”? He neither performed harm nor good, but he was always present. Some eight years after his arrival, he was discovered by one of the higher-ups. “Who is this Dord? How did he get in here? What’s he up to?” The chiefs ran an extensive background check, and found no records whatsoever. No family, no place of origin. Nothing bad, nothing good. Just… nothing. Those in charge of the work realized that Dord didn’t belong there, and recommended his removal.

“If you will just go away quietly,” they suggested, “we won’t press charges for intrusion. We'll forget you were ever here.” He wasn’t to be rooted out so easily. He demanded compensation for his wasted years. Something akin to Bartleby the Scrivener, he preferred “not to make any change”. He was an invalid — indeed, a useless member of the assemblage. Not only that, he had become an embarrassment. A clear indication of careless oversight. It took a further seven years before he was banished from the premises. In reality, Dord was an accidental creation. A ghost word. The error came about in 1931, when the Merriam-Webster Company was creating the New International Dictionary, second edition. The chemistry editor submitted an index card intending to add “density” to a list of words that can be abbreviated by the letter “D”. He wrote it as “D or d, cont./density.” The original card being lost, a new one was given to the printer. Someone had awarded dord a part of speech (noun), and had thoughtfully included a pronunciation. Dord was not questioned or corrected by proofreaders, who might have thought the word so specialized that it was beyond their scope of work. They accepted it as submitted. Their failing was in overlooking Dord’s lack of etymology. When the dictionary was published in 1934, there sat: dord (dôrd), n. Physics & Chem. Abbreviation for density. He was nestled between a small kangaroo (dorcopsis) and a golden color (doré). And there he stayed for several years. Even when he was dismissed, Dord occasionally appeared in a new printing. He would not be entirely excised until 1947– sixteen years after his original manifestation. The space left by Dord was an awkward one. He shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but he had been. And the fact that he had , meant that his removal left a gap. The positions around him had to be adjusted and expanded to compensate for the absence of Dord. Some of them grumbled at the extra work, and wished for the strange fellow to return. Poor Dord – who had never really been of any use – would be missed. In retirement, Dord has become a curiosity. He has received more notice than he ever did during his career. He has become a minor celebrity in some circles. He has been mentioned in books and articles, featured on websites, and listed along with certain others of similar questionable ancestry. Years on, the loss of Dord was lamented by one of the chiefs of his field, in fact the editor-in-chief, who stated that it was “probably too bad” that Dord’s position had been eliminated — because, why shouldn’t Dord stand for “density”? There ought to be a memorial to the unfortunate non-word, complete with a suitably somber dirge played upon an ancient Irish horn. The instrument makes a deep bass humming sound known as dord. *Epitaph for a Lost Companion* Do be careful when you edit, And be sure that you have read it With a consummate degree of vigilance— Lest you fail to undertake

As you look for a mistake The amendment of a shoddy circumstance. Requiescat in Pace Dord 1931 - 1947


"Where the fuck am I?" The thought ran through his mind over and over. He couldn't see anything. He felt something over his face, a blindfold. His wrists hurt, he tried moving but the restraints were solid. Fear washed over him as he slowly realized his situation, he knew why he was here. He needed to get out of there if he wanted to live. The man tried to keep a level head but panic was setting in fast. The chair seemed light, as though he could walk while strapped to it. He leaned forward and screamed in agony as his feet buckled beneath him, crashing onto his side. The rush of adrenaline disguised the pain of his severed Achilles tendons. "Jesus Christ, you fucker!" Glancing at the clock he patiently sat and sipped his coffee. "Should be any time now," he thought, shifting in his seat. Getting up to go pour himself another cup he heard it. The sound almost startled him, but it was music to his ears. He half-smirked as sound of the chair smashing into the concrete echoed through the house. Driven by sorrow and hatred, his rage was near-impossible to contain. An incoherent, painful scream graced his ears. Another smirk; that’s what he wanted to hear. A door creaked open, the bound man jolted. Anxiety and pain clouded his mind but he needed to confirm his fears, he knew there was no getting out now. He scraped the blindfold against the grimy concrete to get a glimpse of what he knew to be the inevitable truth. The light from the stairwell stung his eyes, and he made out the shadow of a tall, slender man sipping on a mug of coffee. "What're you doing on the floor, David?" "Let me go, you sick bastard!" The captor chuckled, "Doesn't seem to me that you’re in much of a position to make any demands. Need a hand up? That looks uncomfortable." He grasped his captives hair and jerked, putting the chair back on its feet. David held his scream to a mild grunt while grinding his teeth. "What the hell do you want?! I'll give you anything, just let me go!" "I just told you, you don't get to make any demands!" The mug broke against David's head, blood and hot coffee running down his face. "She didn't get any demands, so why should you?" "God dammi…" "Shut up! You don't get to complain, it's your fault you're here! You think I wanna be here? I'd rather be at home with my wife!" He choked back the tears, "I want to be at home with her… but I guess I can't, now can I?" David's breathing grew faster, the pain was too much. "So what? You're just gonna kill me here? You'll never get away with it, no fuckin' way man." He hoped to scare the man, maybe to snap him back to a sense of reality. This guy wasn't a killer, just some normal Joe. Not the kind to spend time in prison or get in trouble with the law. David thought he just might convince him. "You really don't get it, do you? Think about it for a second David. The woman you've spent over a decade with suddenly dies, and not by accident, but at the hand some bottom-feeding scum of the earth like you. She was my love, the one good thing in my life and you took her away from me. But you probably don't know what that's like, do you? And since she was that one good thing in my life, you honestly think there’s anything left for me?" He paused for a second, collecting himself and catching his breath. "There’s only two more things left for me to do." He picked up a small hatchet resting on a dusty table, "I'm leaving this world tonight. But you’re going first.


Rat #26! Lying on his stomach, J was watching over the vast hills from the tower in which he was positioned. Everything was grey, black, or broken; a scene that screamed war. From his bird’s eye view, blast craters divided what used to be a blanket of lush green hills which now resembled a dirty, torn up cloth. His rifle had been cold since he left the regiment to take a position at the top of the tower. "You are the arrow tip, J," his officer had told him before leaving. The rifle’s buttstock was pressed against his sweaty cheek when he decided to clean the scope. He rubbed the lenses for the fifth time that morning and sparked up a cigarette. Before long, his mind wandered back home. Reminiscing about better days before the start of the war, he made himself a cup of tea and indulged in his memories. As he picked up the biscuit box his daughter had given him before leaving for the frontlines ten months back, he thought, “Or maybe eight months,” he whispered to himself, exhaled, then murmured, “I lost count.” He dusted the box off and replaced it in his backpack. Unsure, he thought that he may have heard a ricochet shot, yet, when he looked down through the scope, he couldn’t see a single soul out there. His tea was as cold as river water by the time he took the second sip. The sun was rolling over the hills, extending shade over nothingness. J held his breath for a second and tightened his grip around the rifle. He saw movement…. at the dead center of the scope, the same scope he had used to eliminate two dozen invaders. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood and continued looking, but to no avail. Then he exhaled abruptly, "A sneaky rabbit!" He drank his second cup of tea warm that chilly noon. Beneath his vacant eyes dirt, fatigue, and the droplets of steam left from hovering over his hot drink all began to run together. One thing J had learned about the war was if you're not shooting, you're in a lucid dream. His daughter was showing him a headband she had made. While hidden under the cover of those sweet memories, two invaders were sneaking between the bomb craters. They exchanged serious eyes and sign language. When the invaders were mere yards away from the tower, J was heating his last can of salted tuna. He pulled it from the heat and peeled back the lid of the can. J pulled a pocket-knife from his coat and pushed it into the soft, steaming, shredded fish meat. Blowing on a hot bite of tuna, he suddenly thought he heard two mice moving. "Maybe two rats! Not mice." J whispered to himself while chewing up his salty snack. Just as he began to disregard the sound, he noticed a more familiar, more noticeable sound. The sound of boots stomping over loose gravel. There was no mistake about it. He quickly, yet quietly, laid his last can of fish down and sprang into action. The sound of the steps was getting closer when J took his first shot. And missed. The piercing tone of the gunshot echoing throughout the hills caused the trespasser to perk his head up, giving away his location. The invader quickly pulled his rifle from his shoulder and before he could locate the scope to see where the shot had come from, J pulled the trigger for a second time. “Twenty-five.” He mumbled as he lay back. He gazed up at the burnt wooden ceiling. He stared at it for a few seconds before slowly closing his eyes. “Twenty-five souls.” He whispered. The first mistake the other rat made was to hide at the base of the tower. And the second mistake was creeping up the stairs thinking that he would make it to the top unheard. The now lone rat realized how wrong he was when he saw a lemon-shaped grenade strolling down the tower steps towards him. The invader's ears buzzed, and agony came washing over his body moments after he opened his eyes. Then he felt the rope around his hands. As he was pulled up to the top, he drew two shameful eyes towards the sniper sharing the tower top with him. "Almost twenty-six!" the invader heard the sniper hysterically giggle. J gave the supine invader a breathless moment to accept the inevitable. Then J's daughter appeared again to say, "Daddy, I think he's hungry." So, he offered him two spoonfuls of the last tuna he had cooked up minutes before. Despite the fact that the hostile expression on the invader's face indicated that he had no appetite left after the lemon shower, it was a grounding moment for both of them when J helped the injured invader to sit down and to drink some water, then followed by cleaning his wounds. J looked into the invader's eyes and announced, "Interrogation starts tomorrow." He stifled a chuckle while tying a bandage and added, "I hope you understand what that means." J's nights were either a series of restless nightmares or dreamless, coma-like blackouts. Overall, he got used to the adrenaline rush the instant he opened his eyes, realizing that he was on the verge of being alive. He had little to no trust in everything and anything. His provisions and bullets were running low, but his hope was starting to run lower after each passing day. J didn't imagine reaching that level would ever give him strength. Every struggle he had been through was helping him climb over an imaginary ladder, away from his pitiless reality to a place where he started thinking himself the hero of a lousy movie that he felt no connection to. When he was most conscious, J remembered that he would give everything he had to see his daughter again. But, recently, those episodes never lasted for long. The invader freed his own hands and crept on a dozing J with a rusted blade; J calmly watched the man, slowly drifting off as if he was in a lucid dream. Then he pushed the weak rat by force of being the movie hero he was, followed by a bleeding punch on his nose. J sat over his sleeping bag and lit a midnight cigarette after he had tied the bleeding invader to a half-burnt, wooden beam. He then rolled two bowling eyes at him, saying, "maybe staying alive is too much for you!" As he ashed his cigarette. At midnight, J realized that the small space at the top of the tower wasn't enough for both of them when the invader started screaming. J responded by stuffing cloth in the invader's mouth after he had butt-stroked him twice with his rifle. While taking long gazes at the tied man, J drank his morning tea deliberately slowly. His daughter didn't appear again. Ahead of the interrogation, J was calmer than the other day. Until his patience cracked when he opened his backpack and found that the invader had pissed all over it. J approached the invader, smiling too sweetly, and while untying his hands, swiftly said: “Let’s go for a walk together, you and I, huh?” The invader was looking at the ground when J pushed him from the tower top. He pulled up his rifle and fired, looking through the open sights under his scope. The bullet pierced the head of the bound rat before his lifeless body met the gravely ground down below. After the pinging echo ceased, a voice was heard from the top of the tower. "Twenty-six.


(This was removed from r/nosleep for being "No Horror", so I try here) Apologies if my writing is not the best. I am 90 now. I speak Polish and German since childhood, but English only since I am 16, when the soldiers of the liberators taught it to me. And I studied it at home. But it is not my mother tongue. And I will die soon, and as you will see below, I am also in fear that I can not even show you my life story. But I hope this goes through. It might be the last time I communicate with anyone. But my death is not what should concern you, as you will see. My time just has come, and I have prepared to not be afraid. I will just go over the most important details. I am not even sure I can send this, but it is my last hope. You must know. Or rather my son must know. The issue is, I can't contact him now, and I don't know his Americanized name. His first name was Jerzy (named after me), but he changed it (and his last name) when he moved to the United States. For me he is Jerzy. And I can't get into my e-mail account, so I can't tell you his e-mail address or his Americanized name which I think was used in his address. I saw it once then saved it as "Jerzy" and always had it filled automatically without looking at it. But now I can't access my account there. To make this easier to read for him, I put my life in three (arbitrary) phases. He always wanted to know about my childhood, but I never told him. It hurt too much. **My early years - a lost childhood** I was not as lucky as many of you to have been born in a peaceful country. Although, when I was born, it was peaceful. 1929 in a small Polish town. You know those jokes about Polish people being thieves. Well, we had to deal with thieves, but they were not Polish. They stole our country, and then our lives. It happened when I was 10. See, I was born in January 1929, we celebrated in January 1939, but eight months later there was nothing left to celebrate. My first experience with the winged man was when I was a child. Or at least my mother told me so. My father worked on cultivation of potatoes, tomatoes, all those vegetables you find in Middle Europe. Radish, Celery, you name it. As a big farmer, he literally fed our family while also making some money - not much but enough to comfortably live in our farmhouse. My mother stayed at home, and watched little Jerzy. Yes, that is Polish for "farmer", not very creative but pointing towards their plan to eventually give the entire farm to me and the small business of selling vegetables and milk. So I told her that the winged man watches over me. But I don't remember. It must have been true, as she told me and it fits with what happened later. The nazis invaded, as I said, and they saw that my father was jewish but I was not, but as he was we were deported. I don't want to talk about most of what happened where we were sent to. I don't want to talk about the endless days waiting for my father to return from slavery work, the daily fear of being killed. I lost my faith. But then it happened. On one of those nights, not very late into the imprisonment - it was the first winter, so somewhere around December 1939 or January 1940 probably (we had no calendars there, and each day was just like the last and the next, so I can only guess by the snow we had). I saw that winged man. At night he came to me and talked to me. And he said I will survive, I will be safe. And he told me other things that are not meant to be shared. I did survive. But it changed me. As I learnt later, some of us were put into ghettos, but we were not so lucky, as I said. Seeing that we were among the richer people, the nazis wanted everything and took it. Now there were stories that they raped, and they killed. I don't know if that is true. They just deported us. They enslaved us. They forced me to work eventually, when they stopped enjoying the stories I told them. They called me the "Erzähler", the storyteller. My mother and I were treated better. Not good in any way, but they did not hit us as hard, they did not hit us when we were on the ground. They kept us alive, that is all. We didn't get much food, but we always got food. But that was because we kept them entertained. We told them stories. We spoke German, I learnt it for the business. My German was not perfect, but good enough so they could understand. So my mother told stories and I translated for them. And I survived. And she survived. We were beaten, but never to death. It changed when we ran out of stories. When we repeated stories. After a few days, they demanded something new. But we could not make up something. So they beat us hard. And then they told me, I must work. I must build for them. My mother must serve them. They did not hurt her. They did not force themselves on her. But she had to serve them by cleaning their shoes, their tables, their dishes. And she was beaten if she did not do it right. But they did not beat her as hard as others. They kept us alive, as I said. So that winged man appeared again when I had to work. And he told me the war will be over eventually. They will lose. But I did not believe it. Every day we heard their "Endsieg", their final victory, was just so close. We heard that Japan had overrun China. Japan was about to defeat the United States. Germany had invaded many countries. They were about to defeat Russia and Britain. That is what we heard. And I prayed. And the winged man replied. But I did not believe. It went on, day after day, the horrors, the starvation, sometimes I collapsed. But they kept me alive. They liked me enough to not kill me, but they would beat me. It was a very bad time. Eventually there were soldiers. After so many days. They came in. And we thought, they will kill everyone. They came in with their guns. And I saw the guns of the nazis often. But those guns were different. There were people with guns that would fire much faster. Much more. And we heard them outside. And then they came in. And we all cried. But then they came to us. And we begged. And they led us out. And then they brought us to some nursery. Mobile hospitals. They fed us. They made sure we did not get too much food. They told us that starving people die if they eat too much at once. And some did die, some stole food and then ate too much and died. But I was thankful to get anything. Eventually we understood that we were free. That this flag with the stars was not our killers but our liberators. And they helped us rebuild. Those were hard years. Poland was free. We were free. But many died. I have heard horrible things that supposedly happened in that war. I did not see them. But I saw my share of horror. I believe that those other stories are true. I never visited the other places, but I saw what they did. I don't want to talk about it. Not even now. Not even 75 years later. But as I said, we were freed, and after a while, when we were well enough to survive on our own, we returned home. **Rebuilding a stable life** I was 17 now. It was 1946. We had survived. My father was not so lucky. He did not come back from work one day, shorrly before they told me I must work. We had gone to what was left of our farm. The unused land, the burnt down small shop, the destroyed farmhouse. We rebuilt. It was difficult. Everything was difficult. The winged man was there again. He told me I would live long. He told me I am chosen by him have a son who will do his work. But I never wanted to marry. I thought I will never have a son. I did not believe him. I was just 17, but I saw what humans can do. I did not trust anyone anymore, except my own mother. I did not even trust our liberators. I was glad to be back. You might think that being free feels good. But there were nightmares, there was fear. Only when I was back at the farm, destroyed as it was, I really felt like it all was over. And then I somehow told myself it never happened. I started to believe it was all just a bad dream, all those years never happened. I was 10 one day and 17 the next. And the memories are somewhere. But I can't access them. I only can remember a few. The worst. The outstanding ones. And the winged man. I want to believe it was all a dream, but it wasn't. I just made myself believe it for many years. But I digress. In any case, we rebuilt the farm. We fought a hard battle against the now barren ground to get our harvest, but it worked. I survived. We lived for a few more years there. But in the middle of the 1950s, to be exact in 1957, my mother got ill. And eventually she died. It was the cancer. But we didn't know. And we had no cure. Only the doctor later would tell us it was cancer. But I never asked for details on what cancer does. Not then. But after a year or so. When I was able to. My world had died again, but the daily farming life kept me busy until one day I exploded in tears. And eventually, after hours of crying, I felt like the burden was gone. And a few weeks later, I asked the doctor about it. I learnt about cancer. I learnt that there is no cure. And that became important later. I eventually had enough money to expand, all from my hard work. I hired someone and bought farmland. And in 1962, I opened my second farm. I did not want to marry. I did not trust anyone. But eventually there Lechsinska came. I was almost 40 when we married. 1968. The world was in turmoil, but I remembered the winged man. He visited me every now and then, telling me how to make the best of my farm. And eventually we expanded. I had three farms when my son was born. 1971. And the winged man came again. He told me that this will be my legacy. That my son will do his great work, and my contribution is finished. But I will live until the fruits of the work exist. But not until they will blossom. He told me I will live to be 90. And as the years went by, I grew accustomed to my incoming death. I prepared inside. The years went on. We had three farms, we had a few people hired to run the farms, but money was tight for our family. We could not expand further. My son learnt of his grandmother, and he decided to spend his life fighting cancer. He became a doctor. And he went to starland, as I called it because of the flag I saw back then. The United States. He sent us money for a private phone. We had one in our shop, and he would call there, but now we could talk more easily at home, without having to be in the shop. Sure, the shop was attached to our home, and we had two phones there now, but it was nice. We could be in the living room, and we had a television, and a phone, and it was a good time but hard. **The great work of my son** But life was always hard. Not only then. And our son made us proud. He became a doctor, as I said, before going to the United States. He then eventually switched to the other fields, not the practical use but the development in science labs. He wrote letters and got a green card, he got a job there in a lab. That is why he left us. They fought cancer there, and not in Poland. Or at least not anywhere where he would be able to work. And there was a cure now for some. I don't know what it is, it sounds all strange. They would shoot radiation at the cells and give some medicine, and people would lose their hair and their cells die but also the cancer cells would die from that. Or something like that. I never really understood what he said about that. But it could be cured, but only for some. And they tried to cure everyone. So he went to the United States to cure everyone. He visited every year except the first. Usually shortly before Christmas. He brought us some presents, but he left early as he did not want to get into the Christmas holiday travelers with even more crowded airports and so on. He did not come in 2001. He only called then. You know why. But he promised to schedule a flight when it was safe, and he came again around Easter 2002. And then on Christmas that year. That was the only year where he actually was there on Christmas, and not just prior, like the years afterwards again. In fact, the last time I ever saw him was just a few months ago, in December 2018. We enjoyed the company each year. But he always had to leave again for work. We kept in contact on the phone. And eventually he gifted me a computer so we could remain in contact on e-mail. I first wondered how that should work, but then I learnt it is short for "electronic mail". Not what I thought it was. That would not have worked (but it would have made good kitchen equipment). Anyway, we kept in contact often. But for important things we would call each other. He would only check his private mails rarely, with all the work he had. But my mails were checked daily. He set up some forwarding, whatever that is, to have my mail in a special folder. I don't understand what that means. But apparently he would see mails from my e-mail address there and work mails somewhere else and other private mails somewhere else where he would accumulate them and only check on his weekly day off. Ask him what that means, not me. The winged man appeared again eventually, around Christmas. He told me that everything is on a good way. And the winged man was in the living room. But my wife did not see him, even though she watched the television and the winged man was in front of it. He talked to me, he told me my son would do the great work next year (i.e. in 2019). He kept on appearing through the years, and always he told me he was proud of me and my son. We were chosen. My son would do the great work on cancer. But that day was when he told me that the great work was almost done. But let us not get too far ahead. I have grandchildren. My son married and gifted us a grandson and two granddaughters. They have grown into beautiful young people. They were born when he was still young, at the end of the past century. He married at 26, and his wife immediately was pregnant with the son and then afterwards with the twin daughters. And my grandson wants to study medicine, just like his dad. His son and his daughters sometimes came with him, and they want to be stewardesses. Crazy. I mean, you fly in the air all the time. The winged man appeared some more times. And every time he told me about the future. Usually it was just tips on how to run the farm. But in 2002, after Easter, he told me that my grandchildren might die young, in 2020, as cancer would mutate to become airborne. That was why my son had to do the great work. That was why he was chosen. Because many people would die. The last time the winged man appeared was a week ago. He told me I had two more weeks to live. My wife knows nothing about it. I don't want her to know. I never told her I will die at 90. And her health also declines. She also is over 80 now. We shared good times and bad times. And she brought me most of my good times. I wished I could die happy. But what I found out today... but I digress again. Let me try to put it in chronological order. That last time, the winged man told me I should not tell anyone about the future. He told me that my son is about to finish the great work. He told me that back in those days he protected me and my mother so we would survive. He told me that he protected us from the hearts of the nazis so they would not kill us in their hate and anger. He manipulated their hearts to not kill us. He told me how my son was the only one to do that work, and that he had finally made the breakthrough that would be so important. And that now all the protection he did back then was worth the effort. He told me that he put much energy in it, and he was thankful to me for raising my son, and that I should be glad that my son has finished the great work. Finally I brought up my courage and asked for his name. But he told me I will know it before I die. I called my son. I wanted to congratulate him. The phone rang three times, then I heard his voice. But it turned out to be only the answering machine. Today I received his call. He told me they were experimenting with cancer cells, they tried to defeat them by putting other viruses on them. They want to see how they interact, if other viruses kill the cells. After all, some other harmful virus might be the less dangerous alternative. It all happens in a high-security lab, so there is no danger for the population. I told him about the winged man. I told him what he told me. I told him that his work was extremely important. But he told me they had not yet a cure. I told him that he already had made the breakthrough. I told him that the winged man told me that. I told him everything. We talked for two hours. My son sounded a bit depressed. And then he told me that apparently a dose was missing from that lab. He told me that it was their latest experiment. If that was the breakthrough, which would coincide with the time the winged man appeared, they had to get that dose back. But the strange thing was that the video tapes they have did not show anyone entering the lab. Last night it was still there and this morning it was gone. Nobody entered the lab. Nobody had access to the stolen sample. I did not tell him that I was about to die. I have experienced so much. I am not afraid. For me it will be salvation. Or it would be. But there is one more thing, and that shattered that thought about salvation. As you can see, my son has gifted me a computer, and I can access those online shops. That is crazy. You just click on something and they send it to you and they take the money from your bank. So I ordered some books about death, and they arrived yesterday. In my last years I turned to the jewish religion, with my death coming closer. I regained the faith lost in my youth, but I don't believe in it exactly, but in some of its mythology. So I looked through some of the books. And then, in a book about jewish mythology, about the struggles of Israel in the days of the Thora, I found a depiction of the winged man. He was depicted with Moses. I immediately knew it was him even though his face was - of course - much different. He looked just like a human. But I knew it was him because he had only one wing. The picture was in a jewish book about death which included various stories from the jewish mythology, and the struggles of the people of Israel as a whole, and how the jewish God always protected the people even from certain death. The title of the picture was "Abazethibou hardens the heart of the Pharaoh". I read a few lines on this chapter, a box that tells about Abazethibou, and what I found scares me. He is a fallen angel who followed Beelzebub. He battled against Moses. He tried to destroy the jews in Egypt. And then he eventually was sealed into the Red Sea. It is not a long text that is there, only a full page. But one passage tells that Beelzebub said, Abazethibou will return when he is ready. And then he will triumph. I tried to call my son again. But for some reason, now my phone is dead. My e-mail account does not work. I can't reach my son. But I must tell him. He does not do the work of God, but of the devil. Maybe it is too late already. The internet still works, even though the phone does not work anymore. If the phone line is dead, internet should not work. It is at the same line. But it does work and so I can send this message. Or at least I hope so. Maybe when I click on "post" it will tell me that the connection has timed out. That is what it says when internet does not work. But I have prayed more in the past half hour than in the rest of my life that somehow I can "post" this, i.e. that I can publish my life story to you. Just in case this goes through: Please. You are my only hope! Can somebody tell my son that he must find the stolen virus? It might mutate to spread cancer airborne...


'Was this a giant mistake ?' She wondered out loud. He was so handsome. Had graduated with honours from the most prestigious Harvard University. Earned a decent livelihood from his teaching job. No known addictive habits. Seemed like a perfect match for her. But, something was amiss. And she couldn't pinpoint what it was. She was a simple girl with simple dreams. Having graduated from the municipal college, she had taken up a job at the local preschool. Working with children helped her revive a childhood she never really had. Having lost her parents when she was only 5, she had quickly learnt to adapt to the ever-changing life of a girl bounced from one foster home to another. She refrained from making friends lest she loses them. Now the time had come to finally make an acquaintance for life, if not for herself, at least for the sake of those loud-mouthed colleagues and neighbours. So a friend had suggested using a dating app, which ended up matching her with this charming young lad. Shawn was his name. Decked in a blue chiffon dress and high heels, she gracefully entered the 'Resto' cafe at the agreed time. He sat by a corner table, patiently waiting for her. Her little heart fluttered like a caged bird as she neared him. This was new, exciting and scary all at once. The app had only given her a brief description of him so that she could identify him. " Blue eyes, lovely smile, and a gentleman in blue" was all it said. His light blue shirt hugged his muscular frame. As she neared him, he gentle stood up smiling. " Miss Rose I presume?" "Yes. Mr Shawn?" "Yes, mam. Nice to meet you. Please sit down. You smell lovely." No one had ever said that to her. Was this normal. Felt creepy. Why wouldn't he comment about her dress, or how she looked? ' You smell lovely!' Outrageous. Uncertain, she took a seat. "So, let me introduce myself. I am Shawn Michaels. I teach English at Harvard, my alma mater. I graduated with honours and decided to pursue my career there. I don't drink or smoke. I am a vegan. I do yoga. I love the opera. I play the violin. Single, never married. My parents live in West Virginia with my two brothers. So, tell me something about yourself." A pause. Who talks so much about themselves on a first date. That too a blind date. Risky isn't it? "Err...I'm Rosaline Shepard and I'm a preschool teacher." A chiselled face, good manners, lovely smile, bright blue eyes. But those eyes; they seemed lost. He had never once really looked at her. Was he shy? Unlikely. Was this some sort of a routine for him? A twisted fantasy? That no woman was worth looking at? " Shall we order something? Coffee?" He signalled to the waiter. He waited for me to order. "A double shot espresso, please." "A double shot espresso for the lady and a latte for me please". As the waiter hurried off with our order he continued to muse. "It's a bright sunny day today. The grass is warm, and the wind carries the aroma of bright blooming flowers. A fine day to meet someone special. Even the songbird broke into a joyful melody as I sat waiting for you. So what do you love to do? Any interests apart from caring for and playing with children?" Was he mocking me? How dare he? So much for the poetic phrases. "I read. Books have always provided me solace in tough times." "That is excellent! Books are indeed our best friends! They transport us to a world full of dreams and possibilities. Be it The Bard or J K Rowling, stories inspire us. So, what are you currently reading?" "Romeo and Juliet" "Ah! One of Shakespeare's best works! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name Would smell as sweet" he finished, quoting Shakespeare. Romantic or crazy? He seemed to have something to say for her every single response. And never once did their eyes meet. She felt like she was talking to a beautiful talking wall. Even the double shot espresso couldn't help her. Why wasn't he looking at her? Was it because he was too proud to look at a poor girl? Or did it not matter to him. His latte sat untouched on the table. Why simply order if you didn't want it? Feeling more and more unsettled, she left the cafe with a petty excuse of feeling sick. It had been his best date ever. Women never really looked at him with love. It was more often pity than longing in their eyes. He could feel their sympathetic glances burn holes on his back. He knew the moment she entered the cafe as the air rich with the smell of coffee, suddenly had a hint of lavender in it. The aroma tingled his senses. Her light steps and the whirl of her chiffon dress about her told him she was dainty and gentle. A preschool teacher. Someone good with kids can't have a bad heart. Few words, an elegant silence. A woman who knew her words' worth. Well read, and knew what she wanted. The order was only for a coffee, but she hadn't hesitated a moment. He had only heard and read about love. The bard had gone to great lengths describing it. His poor heart had started racing like a horse the moment that lavender aroma had hit his nose. He was excited and happy. Unsure how to stop his hands from trembling in joyous excitement he had decided to leave his latte untouched. They said love, at first sight, was possible. Well in his case, it was mostly, love at first meet. Unfortunately, she had fallen sick and had to leave. But before he could reach for his cane, and walk her home, she was gone. It was her first blind date. For him, every date had been the same, blind.


I once watched a man break a woman’s knee caps. It was as horrifying as one would think. Sometimes people say terrible things aren’t so terrible as they’re made out to be. Like the first time you have to get a cavity filled or resetting a broken bone. “It’s over before you know it.” they say. That’s not what it’s like watching a man permanently disable another human being. It happens forever. The screams are so loud that you forget what silence sounds like. The gurgly, banshee-cries pierce your ear drums at first. But then it’s just white noise. And your heart doesn’t jump to your throat the first time he swings the crow bar. It kind of rises up like a large bowling ball and presses against your adams apple with gradual pressure until you feel like your head is going to erupt from your shoulders. You wonder if it will ever stop. But it doesn’t. Like the screaming it just goes on and on until you can’t remember things being any different. The crow bar makes a thudding sound the first couple times. Then crunching, then squishing. I don’t remember how many times he hit her. I just remember the sounds. -- Before that day I used to think of myself as a good person. I saw bad things happening ‘out there’. Evil men took advantage of other men and women and children. Crazy people hurt other people. Not people like me. I was a good person. I went to work, said hi to the receptionist, made small talk with a few co-workers. I bought coffee for everyone once a week. Sometimes I paid for the person behind me in the drive-thru. Bad guys didn’t make small talk. The day I watched a man break a woman’s knee caps started like any other day. I kissed my girlfriend goodbye while she lay half-awake in bed. It was always like that: we both started work at the same time but she was a barista across the street and I had a forty-five minute commute. Sometimes that would really annoy me. Most days I would be genuinely affectionate and kiss her softly on the cheek and she’d roll over to kiss me back and I’d have to pry myself off of her so I wouldn’t be late for work. But sometimes I woke up angry and left the house without touching her and fumed about how lazy she was for most of the day. But I always forgot about it by the time I got back home. It wasn’t like the way I felt about my boss. I never really liked him. All the women in the office found him a little uncomfortable. He never touched anyone or said anything out of bounds or inappropriate or anything like that. But he was always…around. And he didn’t make good company. Some people try way too hard to be your friend even though you feel like you’ve made it clear through the existing social norms that you don’t want to be friends. It’s not like they’re bad people or there’s anything wrong with them. They just come on real strong and can’t seem to take a hint. It’s like they just don’t quite know how to be around other people. My boss was that kind of person. He spent most of the day trying to make small talk. Mostly with the women in the office. Everyone always talked about filing a complaint, but it was a small company and it was privately owned—by him. Filing a complaint basically meant you were asking to be let go. And the pay was good. And it really didn’t seem like a big sacrifice to make uncomfortable small talk with a socially awkward person periodically to work a decent job. It was Monday, and I was extra tired because my girlfriend and I had been up late the night before. I didn’t think much of the receptionist not being at the front desk. I didn’t think it was weird that the doors were closed to all the other offices even though I was ten minutes late. I just counted it as good luck that I could have some peace and quiet in the morning. It wouldn’t be the first time most people showed up late to work on a Monday. I had just sat down at my desk when I heard a loud thud. I don’t really know where it came from, except that it wasn’t outside. I don’t know how I knew that. I just did. I knocked on the door of the office next to mine. No one answered so I jiggled the handle. That’s when I noticed the door jamb was broken. It was splintered; like someone had forced it open. I didn’t go in. My first thought was that we’d had a break-in over the weekend. My heart started racing and I felt cold and sweaty at the same time. I started walking to my boss’s office. I didn’t think about how a break-in would only make sense if the front door or one of the windows was also broken(they weren’t). I just didn’t think it could be anything worse. Break-ins were bad enough. I was a good person: I didn’t think about what could be worse than a break-in. I could hear voices coming from my boss’s office as I got closer. The first voice was Jacob(my boss). ‘Good,’ I thought, ‘The robbers must not have gotten to his office.’ Robbers. It didn’t occur to me that this was the kind of word children used to describe bad guys. The door to Jacob’s office was halfway open. I was about to burst in and make my announcement. I would be the good guy that had discovered the robbers. I was going to be a hero. There’s a mirror in Jacob’s office. I don’t know why he has it. It’s not like a small mirror he keeps in a drawer to check his face before a meeting. It’s a full body mirror. Like one you’d find in a department store dressing room. Sometimes if his door was open and we walked by we could see him standing in front of it. He wouldn’t be smiling—Just standing with his hands in his pockets and staring. The mirror sits in such a way that you can see the opposite wall when the door is open. I had my hand outstretched to push the door the rest of the way open. I was that close. I happened to glance toward the mirror and saw that Jacob had his back turned to the door. He was standing up with his right side facing the mirror. He was covered in blood. I didn’t think it was blood at first. I thought it might just be paint for a moment. Then I thought maybe he had caught the robbers and stopped them himself. Then I heard the whimpering. “Please don’t hurt me” said a whisper. It was Gail—the receptionist. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her shaking through the sound of her irregular breathing: “I won’t tell anyone, I promise” “I wouldn’t mind if you did,” said Jacob abruptly. He sounded much different than I was used to; like my father after a bad day at work: “I’ve been doing this for years and no one’s ever found out. At first it was thrilling: committing the ultimate crime and never getting caught. But now it’s just boring! I’d rather people found out so something new would happen. The routine is getting to me. Have you ever been brushing your teeth and found yourself thinking, ‘I fucking hate this’. So you stop brushing your teeth for a few days in protest. And new things happen! Your breath stinks and people complain and your gums start to bleed whenever you chew things…that’s me, today. Have you ever woken up angry and had no idea why? It’s like that. I spent all morning looking forward to finally changing things up, and WOW are things ever going to be different today! I even set a new record for myself. Did you know? I’ve killed nine people today. You’re about to be the tenth.” That’s when she started screaming. I stood with my hand still outstretched while I watched the crowbar go up and down dozens of times. Spots and splatters of blood decorated the mirror and the surrounding wall. I imagined Gail—just out of range of the mirror—being beaten to a fleshy mass of nothing. I wondered if I was next. Finally it occurred to me that I should probably fucking do something. Gail was somehow still screaming and Jacob was still swinging. The sound was like someone walking through fresh mud in rubber boots. I opened the door. I was reaching for a paper weight on Jacob’s desk when Gail saw me, pointed, and shouted, “Help me, please!” I think Jacob hit me then. All I remember is an explosive pressure in my head and a ringing in my ears that mercifully drowned out Gail’s cries. I felt the same explosive pressure in my legs in a few different spots. I thought Jacob might be hitting me with the crowbar, now. When the ringing in my ears turned back into the white noise of Gail’s scream my vision cleared. Jacob wasn’t holding the crow bar. He was holding the edge of his desk and jumping up and down on my legs. “You fucking bitch!” He shouted it over and over and over again. After my hearing and vision came back I started to register pain. I had known my legs were broken when I saw him jumping on them. Now I really knew. I had to stop Jacob, but I couldn’t move my legs and there was nothing within reach. Something was knocking me in the head. I barely had the presence of mind to find out what. I craned my neck to find that Gail was holding the crow bar. She was extending it out to me. With a strength I never knew I had, I took hold of the crow bar and in one fluid motion slammed it into the airborne ankle of Jacob. Lord knows what I would have done had that shot missed. The impact threw Jacob’s balance off mid-air. He let go of the desk to clutch his ankle and subsequently landed on his side next to me on the floor. Without thinking I drove the sharp end of the crow bar through his eye. I don’t know if I hit the floor or the back of his skull, but he went limp immediately. Had I stopped there, I would have perhaps still thought of myself as a good person. But I kept going. Gail kept screaming, and I kept stabbing and smashing. My legs were useless, so I propped myself up on one elbow and used the other arm to pummel Jacob’s body into ground meat. I only stopped because the crow bar became slippery with blood and flew out of reach. We couldn’t reach the telephone and both of our cell phones were destroyed by Jacob’s beating. The police say we laid there all day—It wasn’t until my girlfriend noticed I was late coming home that she thought something was up. The doctors say I was likely unconscious most of the time. Gail died of blood loss before anyone found us. I was the last one in to work that day. Everyone had already been killed except Gail and Jacob. Each person in their own office. I’m a good person, I think. But the police find it suspicious that I’m the only one without injury consistent with all the other victims.


TW: abuse, violence Amnesia. That’s what I was diagnosed with once I woke up from my 3-month coma. The doctor reassured me that it would take some time for my memories to come back however they didn’t expect me to completely forget who I was as well. When they asked me my name it was so frustrating not being able to answer. It was on the tip of my tongue, yet I just couldn’t remember. The FBI was assigned to look after me because it was them who found me. And weirdly enough there was no trace of me in any database. Now that I was awake, they could only go on the fact that I had a British accent which didn’t solve any mysteries. Although I am thankful, I’m not a criminal, it would have been absolutely appalling if I had woken up just to go to jail.

A lovely lady named Sasha took me home since I had no recollection of any family. Technically I was skint too, the personal items from the hospital only contained an iPhone 6s, a packet of gum, a hair tie and $150. Sasha told me about when I bought into the hospital. I was beaten up badly, bruises all over my stomach, a couple broken ribs, a busted lip and cuts all over my body. The wound on my head needed 23 stitches. My body was dehydrated as fuck and I was (still am a little) malnourished. The FBI suspected that I was held captive before they found me unconscious in one of their old safe houses. So here we are now, trying to remember as much as I can to solve the mystery of my identity and what happened to me.

A man with a scar across his right cheek grabbed my hair clenching it tightly as he lifted me to my feet.

“I swear to God, I’ll kill you now bitch. You think you can try to escape Amara? Huh? I’ll show you exactly who you belong to puttana.”

His hands grabbed my throat and bashed my head into the concrete floor. An audible crack could be heard; a sticky substance trickled down my face, but the pain was too high for me to notice it. My captor’s dark murderous eyes stared into my soul as he continuously punched my stomach. The man dragged my body to the metal table in the room and snatched up the dull knife from the medical table beside it. His maniac gaze stared straight at me intent on slashing lines all over my body. I didn’t have the energy to cry but the knife cutting into my thighs wretched an ear-shattering scream out from my mouth. Tears leaked out of my eyes, I pleaded Marco to stop–

A gasp escaped my mouth and I shot up from the bed. Sasha, the poor thing, ran into the room with a gun clutched in her hand.

“Oh, sweetie what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Before I could free her from her worries, I ran into the bathroom and heaved anything I had in my stomach.

“I’m so sorry Sasha for worrying you. I just had a flashback. I was being tortured by my captor because I tried to escape. He- he was cutting into my skin with a knife while I pleaded for him to stop.” I sobbed out while laying my head on the toilet seat. It was so terrible being in that room.

“Oh, babe I’m so sorry.”

“Amara.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My name, I think my name is Amara.”

I don’t remember Sasha’s reply or getting back into bed, but the next morning I found myself warm under the duvet. Sasha was talking to her boss from the sound of it to tell them about my identity, well the first part of my name anyways. While on call she handed me a tray with some food on it signalling me to eat and get dressed. We were going to go to the FBI headquarters so that I could work with a psychologist and tell them about my flashback. God this whole situation is so messed up, why can’t I remember?

Sasha and I arrive at the FBI with Dr Kate waiting for me. She leads me into her office, and we talk about my flashback. Her whole aura was so welcoming and warm, I felt comfortable enough to tell her about my flashback.

“I was dragged into the basement and he was choking me. He smashed my head into the concrete and from what I remember used a dull knife to cut into me like a butcher. It was only him in the room, he punched my abdomen area. He also called me Amara, so I’m guessing that’s my name. I’m sorry, that’s all I can remember.”

She nodded her head, jotted down everything and asked it I could describe him at all. Turns out she was a very talented artist too.

“He had dark brown eyes, dirty brown hair and was about a head taller than me. When he lifted me up, I only came to his shoulders. He had a strong jawline; quite high cheekbones and I’m pretty sure had an Italian accent. Oh, and there was a scar across his right cheek.”

I hesitate before I tell her his name. I know it’s stupid, but I fear that the moment I say his name out loud he’ll pop out of nowhere and make good on his promise of killing me.

“I also know his name, but I don’t want to say it out loud. Can I write it instead?”

“Of course, sweetheart, anything that makes you comfortable.”  And with that she hands me a sticky note and a pen.

During the rest of my time in her office, Dr Kate was so accommodating. She offered me drinks, snacks, and she even played a few board games with me. Before I knew it, time had passed, and I was being escorted to Sasha’s home by some guards. The car passed many local food joints, the beach and also a tattoo shop. I don’t know why the tattoo shop stood out to me so much, but I felt an undeniable pull to it.

“Hey, Amara can you clean up the front, I have to do inventory.” Something seemed off with my boss, he’s never done inventory and not asked me to help. He says it gets done faster with the two of us working together. What is going on?

James saunters off to the back and I decide to follow after a minute or so. Peeking through the curtain, I see a tall man entering through the back door and James looking very nervous. I can’t make out what they’re talking about, but it seems very heated. I barely make out the words money, more time, no and please being thrown between them. I don’t have a good feeling about this, but I carry on watching their interaction. My spine stiffens as I hear the word omertà come out of the tall guy’s mouth. Fuck. The tall guy pulls out a gun with a silencer on it and points it directly at James. He doesn’t hesitate to shoot James point blank between his eyes. A gasp must have escaped my mouth because the tall guy squinted in my direction and walked out of the curtain. I was too stunned to move in his presence. I tried to run but before I could even get past the counter, he hauled me over his shoulder and carried me to his car.

“Are you alright miss?” One of the FBI agents, Tony, asked with a sympathetic look in his eyes.

With tears filling my eyes, I nodded and stared out the window. Washington D.C. in the winter was quite nice. The Capitol building looked so majestic surrounded by snow. Seeing it

“Amara Pierce, I am so lucky to have you in my life. You have taught me so much. You make me want to be a better person and you make me a better person by just being around. You are perfect and so beautiful I get so happy when I remember that you’re all mine. And even though your tastebuds are a little questionable, seriously I don’t understand how you like pineapple on pizza, I love you with all of my heart. So will you make me the happiest man in this universe and be my wife?”

“Oh Max of course I will!”

Max slid the emerald ring onto my finger, and we walked around the Capitol grounds, hand in hand, listening to Christmas songs with Jack Frost certainly nipping at our noses.

Tearing up once again as I enter Sasha’s flat, I miss the life that I once lived. I missed my fiancé and my family but most of all I missed my memories.

Once Sasha returned home, I told her all about my flashbacks and had her record them. I just didn’t want to go back to the FBI again tomorrow no matter how accommodating everyone was. I was exhausted from doing nothing and was pretty dizzy throughout the whole day. The next day was uneventful, I rested at Sasha’s home and she went to work. The day after, I had to go into the FBI because they think they found my identity. Amara Pierce, daughter of Robert and Émeline Pierce. Her parents murdered in an ‘accidental’ break-in only a month before her disappearance. She inherited her parent’s million-dollar fortune even though she was estranged from them. Hearing about it all only worsened my headache especially since I had been reading news articles about my life as soon as I found out my full name. Why is this happening to me? I was happy before; my life was good. So why is this happening now?

The next week went by quick with lots to unpack. I had constant meetings with Dr Kate and was starting to unlock more memories of my previous life. They’d come to me in random bursts triggered by certain places, textures or smells. My favourite memory was when we walked past a hotdog stand, I remembered how much Max loved them. We finished our first ever date with hotdogs.

The week before Christmas, the FBI had informed Max about me. He took exceptional care of me and I moved in with him. That Monday I had a flashback of my parents they day I left them. It was because of my relationship with Max. It felt horrible that I had lost them forever and never got to tell them how much I actually loved them. Tuesday the FBI found Marco’s identity and put out a BOLO. By Wednesday they had gotten multiple tips about him and arrested him for assault and battery, kidnapping, murder of James and the attempted murder of me. The interrogation of him uncovered a lot more information that I expected. Max was in the Italian mafia; James was also in it too and Max was friends with him only to keep an eye on him because he was a rat. Max had hired Marco to kill James unfortunately, I was at the right place at the wrong time, so Marco kidnapped me and tried to kill me too. Max was in a relationship with me because of the money he knew I’d receive after my parent’s death, so he organised that hit too. It was so much to take in that I nearly went into another coma. Thursday morning the FBI interrogated Max and arrested him. It was heartbreaking finding out that the only family I had was the one who had caused all the misfortune in my life. Friday, I went back to my parents' house and cleaned it up, looking through all the memories I made there from my birth to my graduation. It felt nice to truly be home again. To be at my home.

So now it’s Christmas and I’m here in my home working on getting all of my memories back and enjoying Christmas with the new friends that I made.

“Let’s toast. A toast to new beginnings.”


Tessa always liked routine. Or at least she thought she did. She never did know the difference between wanting to do something and being used to doing something. So at 6:00 am on a Thursday morning, she willed her legs to move her to the sink where she could wash away the sleep that dawdled mulishly onto the crevices of her eyelids. But the soft and constant thrumming of her toothbrush would pull her eyes shut again.

Later, her closet would creak open. Her fingers would brush the variety of fabric that hung inside. Silk to denim. Today though, she decided to reach for the upper shelf, onto the back of her closet where unworn clothes sat. Outfits that she was saving for something special. Her fingertips then grazed over what felt like embroidered flowers embellished on soft, thin fabric. She recognized this one from the texture alone, a gift from her grandmother. A dress the color of her eyes. She pulled out the hazel fabric, her eyes studying the elaborate pattern of lace that was sewn onto its neckline. There was nothing special about today but she decided to settle for this one. So she gently shook it from its neatly folded state. It was the first time she did so. When she received it, she let her fingertips trace over the embellishments, the embroidered flowers, the patterned lace, familiarizing herself with every intricate texture. That is until she stuck it onto the back of her closet, didn’t even try it on. Her eyes gazed over the bottom part of the dress that she hadn’t seen before. Fingers softly reached for the delicate embroidery on its waistline. She pressed it against her body, studying how she looked from top to bottom. Hazel like your eyes, her grandmother told her over the phone when she had received the gift.

As she relished the dress in the mirror, she noticed a picture on the floor. It must’ve been nestled inside the folded dress. She picked it up. Her grandmother’s pristine handwriting read 628 Wellbury. She turned it over to see a picture of her and her grandmother from when she was little. A toothy smile formed on little Tessa’s face, her eyes beaming with joy as she hugged her grandmother whose features hinted at signs of aging that hid behind a smile that reached her eyes.

Something welled up from inside her, a strong emotion that she didn’t take the time to understand. She folded it up again, as neatly as she could. Trying to bring back how it looked like before. How she had folded it. It didn’t satisfy her though, regrets flooded her mind. She wished she had left it as it were. Entrapped in time like the picture. She placed it back in her closet. - She kept the picture inside her diary that she usually brings with her to work. From time to time she’d glance at the picture and flip it over. 628 wellbury. Why her grandmother would put that there, she did not know.

“You’re off today,” Charles, her co-worker pointed at her with a pen. “You’re quiet.” “I’m always quiet.” “No no, you’re-” he paused, squinting at her. “What’s that? You keep staring at it,” Charles wheeled his chair towards her and peeked over at her shoulder.

“Oh,” he mumbled softly when he saw the picture.

“It’s fine,” she said dismissively and flipped over the picture, “628 wellbury, do you know what that is?” He leaned back on his chair and placed his feet on Tessa’s desk, “628 wellbury. Wellbury, it sounds familiar. Is it an address?” Tessa shook her head and traced over the pristine cursive writing with her finger, “not anywhere near us.” On any other day, Tessa would swat off Charles’ feet, a routine that the two of them had grown accustomed to. But today, she didn’t care, just thankful that he doesn’t treat her differently after what happened. Charles lingered at Tessa’s desk for a while, she felt his gaze on her as she went back to work. None of them said anything, she didn’t mind. - Charles asked if she wanted to get dinner with him and the others, she declined, said she was tired. He didn’t pry. A part of her wanted him to, why though? She didn't know. She decided to walk home that night, instead of taking the 6 pm bus. There was something intimate about walking alone at night, devoid of fear or worry. She let her mind wander. Where did they get dinner? She should’ve come. She didn’t feel like cooking tonight. If she did, would she cook the fish or just microwave some leftovers? The last time she ate fish was with her grandmother. Just two weeks ago. She didn’t want fish. She should throw it away, it’s been in the freezer for quite some time now. How long do fishes stay fresh anyway? Her grandmother was the one who taught her how to cook, she must’ve mentioned how long you should keep produce in your fridge. She misses her. She can’t remember what she said though. She wished she wore the dress today. But she can’t wear the dress there’s nothing special about today. No there’s nothing special about today.

A honk from a car took her away from her thoughts, she hated how loud cars can be.

“Tessa!” Charles pulled her towards the sidewalk, “Jesus, can you-” The mere touch of Charles made her realize how starved she is for it. For comfort. For company. She collapsed onto his arms, tears gushed down onto her cheeks. If Charles minded, he didn’t show. He didn’t say anything as he held her on the sidewalk. People and cars passed them but they remained still as if they were a picture entrapped in time. He hugged her tighter as she cried, kissed her hair as she buried her head deeper into his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “I’m here.” “She didn't tell me that it was anything serious,” she said a moment later, her voice barely a whisper. She stopped crying now, but she held onto Charles and she held her back.

- Charles walked her home that night, the sounds of their footsteps treading the sidewalk were enough for the two of them. He offered to stay over when they reached her house, she thanked him but said no, said she was tired. She watched him walk away, glancing back to wave at her. She lay on the couch, exhausted. She closed her eyes and thought of Charles, her grandmother, then to the picture. She sat and pulled out the picture, noticing every detail from the freckles on her cheeks to the items on their background. There was a bag behind them, you can barely make out the details but as she examined it closer, the bag had Wellbury on its logo. Immediately she went to her grandmother’s room. She had not been there ever since she last saw her, everything inside was left untouched, entrapped in the time when she was still alive.

Gently she opened the door, it creaked softly on its hinges and the wooden floor protested beneath her feet. The faint smell of lavender found its way onto her nostrils as she entered. She let her fingers find their way onto the light switch, the warm orange light of fluorescent bulbs filled the room. Her fingers slid from the light switch and onto the embossed wallpaper, tracing over its crevices and patterns. It was exactly as her grandmother had left it, the bed wasn’t made, and a pillow was on the floor from when she was hurriedly carried onto an ambulance. The carpet warmed her bare feet, she scrunched up her toes like she did when she was little. She didn’t dare sit on the bed, for fear that she’ll disrupt its frozen state.

Tessa consciously walked over to her closet, thumb grazing over the smooth knobs, and opened it. As she suspected the bag was there. Wellburry. She sat on the floor and examined the leather bag, studying the gold-plated logo. There was a lock in the bag though, three numbers. She slowly put in 628, rolling the dials as carefully as she could as if she was prolonging the event. It opened softly with a click .

She paused before opening it, closing her eyes to take a deep breath of the lavender-scented room. Inside was a notebook, a diary bound in leather with strings tied in a bow. It gave in in one pull. Inside were diary entries, letters with the dates for June 28 but each was a different year. Pristine cursive danced in black ink, waltzed with Tessa as she celebrated her birthday with her grandmother.


I sat in my room, my nose dripping blood onto my cedar desk. My palms rested on the wood, and my skin was as pale as starlight. In front of me lay a small thin point syringe. I had bought it a few days before. It was filled with diluted fentanyl. I stared at it with longing eyes. My gaze cut holes in the desk, lasering down cedar and sending fumes billowing from the wood. The syringe was filled with narcotic lifeblood. My escape to Neverland was always preluded by this stare off. Me vs. it. Like two cowboys staring each other down before taking steps and pulling their revolvers. My breath was deep and exaggerated. My room was dimly lit by a small LED table lamp, making everything white and ghastly. My hands shaking, I reached out towards the syringe. It was cold between my fingers, and I could see a sliver of my reflection in the needle. My warped face stared back at me, twisted like a starry night poltergeist. I held the syringe vertically and flicked the needle. A lonely drop spigotted down its side. I laid my arm out against the desk. I felt Deja Vu sweep over me. I had been here a million times, and I was back to visit. That needle seemed to be my only benefactor. The only thing I could trust to always be there.

I set it down and tied a rubber tourniquet around my forearm. My veins popped like thin calcitic highways. I could feel them pump tight blood to my hands. I grabbed the syringe and put the tip onto the fattest highway I could see. I pressed the solution into myself, cracking the flesh concrete and creating a skin deep pothole. It was cold and sent analgesic shivers through my entire body. In seconds, I felt a comforting warmth engulf me. Almost as if I were wrapped in a motherly cot, swaddled by narcotic strokes of my hair. I felt my breath slow and my heart go almost completely quiet. I laid back and stared at my popcorn ceiling. Everything was calm and wonderful and perfect. As it circulated through my body, I was relieved of everything that had plagued me. The drug erased my problems. It erased my real life and replaced it with a plastic, perfect one. No thoughts crossed my mind. Soon, I felt my eyes droop into my eye sockets, and I was lulled into a sleep. Everything became dark.

My dreams were horrific. I was plagued by drooling lepers and chased by my greatest fears. Monsters limped towards me, leaving red footprints behind them. Green drool fell from their lips and slowly fell to the floor. Everything was slow and steady. Saliva fell from chapped lips like marmalade. Footsteps were like those of shackled prisoners. Ghosts wafted through the air slowly, as if oxygen had turned to sap.

My heart beat fast, and the hair on my arms stood up and danced. My hands trembled. My eyes twitched. I felt like my veins were going to burst and paint the world red. I couldn’t stop shaking.

Then it all disappeared. The nightmare went black. My eyelids half opened, and I woke up.

I saw that syringe laying on the floor. I grabbed a hand mirror that had been sitting on my desk in front of me. I was the ugliest mother fucker alive. My skin was thin as tissue paper, and you could see blue veins lining my face. They mapped out paths around my eyes and my nose and my palette. Streams of red fell from my nostrils like strokes of a thin brush. Palor clouds were my cheeks. My jaw was loose and swung beneath my mouth like a pendulum. I looked down and that tourniquet was there. My forearm had turned lilac and pulsed with purple cruor. The rest of my arm was as pale as my face. I threw down the mirror.

My thoughts were scattered around my head like playing cards. I tried to pick them up and rearrange them. Over and over, I failed. The only thing that I managed to gather was that I had to leave. I had to leave that one bedroom apartment. I had to breathe fresh air. I had to escape that dark cave that I lived in. And so I shakily got up, supporting myself along the edge of my desk, and I hobbled to the front door. I looked behind me for a moment at the dimly lit desk that I had spent so many nights numb at. It was ghastly, engulfed by haggerty shadows, scattered with dirty syringes and aquamarine tourniquets. Empty pill bottles were splayed all across the room. Each bore a different name. The air was disgusting. The whole place was disgusting. I was disgusting. I turned the bronze door handle and left.

I lived on the first floor, so as soon as I came out of my apartment, I was engulfed by autumn air. My eyes were blurry, my skin was damp with sweat, blood dribbled down my lavender arm, and my clothes were brown schmattes. But I could breathe. Good Lord! I could Breathe. I walked the cobble stone path out of my complex, passing crumbling arboretums, browning trees, and a blue tiled pool. I was barefoot, and the stone floor battered and dilapidated my toes. I kept walking. I could barely see in front of me, but I didn’t care. My veins still pumped narcotic panacea, and my lungs still breathed fresh air. Even if I wanted to stop walking, such a thought couldn’t have even crossed my mind. I was on a journey to anywhere except where I was.

I came out onto the highway. The cars were impressionist chariots passing by. Wind hit my face as they sped past. Their brays were smooth, and their spurs slid across concrete. On the other side of the street was a glowing shopping complex. I began walking across the road. Stallions rushed by me, sending my hair all around. My eyes still hung like lackadaisical sunflowers. I slowly crossed, my feet gripping the cool concrete. I stepped. Right. Left. Right. Left. The cars honked and honked. I paid them no mind. I simply looked down at my feet, counting my steps. People rubbernecked from their rolled down car windows and screamed at me. Their words fell on drowned ears. I felt like I was underwater, floating across the highway. After a while, I reached the other side and stepped onto the sidewalk. I walked through the grass area surrounding the parking lot. As I did, I felt my eyes become heavy. Heavy as drooping water balloons. Heavy as cubicle paper weights. Heavy as dumbbells. The heavier my eyes became, the more my body sagged. First, my back. Then my hips. Then my knees. Then I stood on my knee caps like a sinner at the foot of a cathedral, and I fell face first onto the grass. I was unconscious before my cheek slapped the ground.

When I passed out, it was early dusk, and my body was bathed in icarus red. When I woke up, it was early morning, and I could hear birds singing. Their chirps were wonderful symphonies. As I gathered myself. I focused only on their songs. The sun shined above me, and I lay beneath a green oak, half silhouetted and half doused in sunlight. I laid there for a moment and just felt my lungs heave. I heard my breath. I heard the birds. I heard my pumping heart. Slow as an old man gets into an armchair, I got to my knees. My eyes were blurry with sleep, and my muscles ached. I rubbed my pupils and forced my eyelids to fully open. After a moment, that blurriness had dissolved, and I could see.

I looked upon that shopping complex and admired the sandstone outlets. There were Chinese food restaurants, family-owned laundromats, and dimly-lit gothic dance studios. A collection of bronze jilapis populated the parking lot, dripping oil and billowing smoke. My eyes swiped over the complex a few times before I saw it. Nestled in the corner between a restaurant and a vacant lot were two huge neon letters. An N and an A . They shined like beautiful stars in an obsidian galaxy. Below the letters was a sign that said “Club 404: Narcotics Anonymous”. It was a small lot with a single draped window. I walked to its front, my knees buckling with every step, and I opened the door.