In many ways, an orchestra is like a jenga tower, for its success rests equally on all the individual parts. A few missing pieces and it collapses. Leonard’s job as a conductor was holding together that delicate construction. He kept a clear view on each and every part at all times. Aware, that the smallest disequilibrium could bring the entire structure tumbling down. Tonight’s program was Johannes Brahms’ third symphony. A challenging piece for a young conductor like himself. To get into the right headspace, Leonard followed his usual ritual. He arrived at the theater a little over an hour before the show, which meant he still had some time to sit down at the piano in his changing room and clear his mind. Then he took a shower, shaved and put on his white shirt, black tuxedo suit and bow tie. He sat down again, this time facing away from the piano, the sheet music on his lap as he scanned the orchestration for the more challenging parts. He settled on a selection of passages to rehearse. While he acted them out with his eyes closed, the first bell rang—fifteen minutes until the beginning of the concert. He closed his eyes again, now it was crucial not to hurry. The conductor is the one who decides when the concert starts after all. As the second bell rang, he rose from his seat, did some light stretches and went to the restroom. The third and final bell rang, while he was washing his hands in the sink. He took a deep breath and winked at his reflection in the mirror. Then he calmly approached the concert hall, Leonard could hear the musicians tuning their instruments through the thick, wooden doors, a smile spread on his face. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. The audience’s whispers turned to silence. As he walked toward the podium, the audience now applauding, he caught a glimpse of his father sitting in the first row, smiling right at him. Leonard panicked, his face flushed red, his throat constricted. In that split second, his composure dispersed. He stepped up to the podium, shook the concertmaster’s hand, turned around and bowed down to the audience. As he turned back towards the musicians, he closed his eyes for an instant, if this was a dream, he’d like to wake up right about now. Nothing happened—he sighed and grabbed the baton. Why? I never use the baton. Too late to set it down now, isn’t it? Leonard lifted his arms hesitantly. His hands were trembling. What followed is the most overlooked aspect, when it comes to conducting. The moments of silence before the music start are just as important as whatever follows. A frown encroached on his face, but he immediately regained his composure. The musicians needed to put their complete trust in him now. They had their own ways of reaching the state of togetherness, that they needed to hold throughout the entire performance. The last thing they could use right now, was to pick up on his insecurity. He took a deep breath and gave the brass and woodwind section the signal to start. The second his hands moved, his heart dropped into his stomach. This buildup is way too slow. It was going to be a long, difficult battle. Brahms’ third symphony builds to an imposing climax within the first three notes, by which point the orchestra beams in its full brilliance. Now that he’d initiated at such a snail-like pace, he had to stay committed. He could speed things up after the peak, any sudden overcorrections would throw off the musicians. Maybe it wasn’t actually his father watching in the front row? Wasn’t he supposed to be living somewhere in Belgium or Sweden? He fought to keep his mind clear, but the thoughts kept pushing at the veil of his consciousness. He noticed he was now crawling through the orchestration. The baton in his hand felt unusually heavy. If this is my dad, why would he show up now? Oh crap— . He’d forgotten to signal for the oboe players to start their phrase, a few of them had begun playing regardless. For once he was thankful to the individuals that never seemed to care much about his instructions. He signaled to the others players that they should join in on the next phrase. Leonard worked his hardest to stay focused. If this was in fact his father was watching, he wouldn’t let him have that power over him. It must be him. Although he had never seen his father, he knew exactly what he looked like. Leonard closed his eyes before launching the next movement, he tried to give himself up to the flow of music. He must’ve noticed my mistakes, being a concert pianist and all. Leonard felt rage build up in his chest. His father’s gaze was like a knife in his back, draining him of attention. Why would he sit in the first row of all places? He should know that would distract me. How could he be so inconsiderate? My father never cared for me when I was young, why would he care now? Did something happen? Was he sick? Leonard drew his attention back to the orchestra. Oh my god, I’m playing way too fast now. He needed to get it back together. With the music so quiet, he couldn’t afford another mishap. Pearls of sweat dripped down his temples. By the third movement, Leonard’s Anger had subsided. Only a heaviness remained in his chest. Leonard remembered his piano recitals when he was a child, at the end of which, he always expectantly scanned the audience, hoping he would see his father. Every single time he ended up with his head hanging low on the car ride home. Good thing he didn’t show up to any of those recitals, I can barely handle it now. Oh shoot— . He almost missed a French horn entrance. His left hand gestured hastily. Perhaps he should’ve chosen to mess up one of my recitals, not this performance with the symphony orchestra. Leonard wasn’t going to let himself be distracted any longer. His father was just another audience member. In fact, if by chance one of his many babysitters was watching tonight, he would be in the presence of someone, that’d actually cared for him, as he was growing up, and they surely didn’t make him nervous. He pushed through the third movement with a resolve to enjoy the music and nothing else. Okay I’m playing super slowly now. Time to pull himself together for the final movement. Leonard managed to keep a somewhat clear mind for a few minutes. His face wore a blank expression and a lump lodged in his throat. He could’ve at least called me before showing up here. Why didn’t he try to contact me earlier? His mother had fought hard to bring him through. He never even had a stepdad. He’d blown on countless eyelashes and birthday candles as a child, wishing for a father. Any father would’ve done. His mother must’ve been too hurt to find a new husband. His sense of the symphony was completely broken at this point. He couldn’t establish a proper connection to his players. It felt like he was stuck in between a boulder and a cliff, unable to express the musical sentiment through his gestures. He was used to his coaches telling him to tone it down, that he shouldn’t be taking the attention away from the music. So naturally, he tried to hold himself back. But he couldn’t help himself. He just naturally moved to music. Now that he was experiencing the other extreme, he just wanted to go back to his own eccentric style of conducting. This felt way worse.

At the end of the concert, Leonard was panting, bathed in sweat. He gave a shallow bow and shot a glance towards his father, who sat in his seat, weeping. Leonard's heart raced as he scrambled off the podium. The baton still in his right hand. A quick shower later, he sat in the changing room, absently jingling on the piano to calm his mind. His heart was still beating loudly in his chest. He sighed and decided to rise from the chair. He grabbed his bag and walked towards the theater’s exit, nodding absently in response to the greetings he received. The moment he stepped outside, he froze abruptly. His father was standing on the sidewalk, holding a bouquet of flowers. Leonard stared at him in disbelief, he returned an awkward smile. Leonard had spent hours contemplating what he would say in the unlikely event his father ever showed up. Regardless, he was unable to open his mouth to speak. “Congratulations, it was wonderful.” His father stammered, as he walked up to Leonard. He extended his hand to his son, who shook it wordlessly. His father looked much older than he’d envisioned. Leonard raised his eyebrows, “Why are you here?” “Lenny,” his father sighed. “I understand, if you don’t want me here. I’m sorry. I can’t give you an apology that excuses my behavior.” His father pulled a business card from his breast pocket. “Please take this, if you ever want to reconnect, I just wanted to let you know how proud I am.” Leonard accepted the card and the flowers. He flashed a weak smile, as he turned and walked away hurriedly. Tears streamed down his face, he could no longer hold them back. Leonard chuckled at the fact his father thought of him as Lenny. He was still conflicted about his father’s sudden appearance. He’d quite badly thrown him off his game tonight, but whether he liked it or not, without his father’s absence, Leonard would never have worked so hard to become a conductor in the first place. In many ways, life too, is like a jenga tower, it’s unpredictable and the missing pieces eventually add up and decide your path for you. But who’s to say you can’t pick up those pieces and carefully slide them back inside? Ultimately, in life—unlike in a game of jenga—you set your own rules.


Different day, same nurse with a stump where her empathy should be. ‘And you’re absolutely sure you fell down the stairs again?’ Sienna nodded and the nurse rolled her eyes. ‘You sure are a klutz,’ she commented and licked her finger to turn the page on the form she’d filled out last time. ‘Still no family history of inner ear disorders? Strokes? Brain tumours?’ Some nurses at the emergency department tried to coax the truth out with words dripping like honey, but Sienna was allergic to honey. Some raised their eyebrows so high they looked like they were about to detach from their faces, transform from caterpillars into beautiful butterflies, and fly off forever. No matter how raw Sienna felt, no matter how many stitches she needed, she knew to keep that big mouth of hers shut. In Sienna’s native, Eastern European language, the oversized mouth she supposedly had would be called unblanched . She wondered if that would have made a difference to her husband. If he knew the expression, would it inspire him to pour boiling water down her throat and watch the red skin on her tongue come away just like it would peel off a tomato? *** When she came home from the hospital, a cardboard box was sat on the kitchen table. She could see from the way it was dented slightly near the bottom that it had been simply dropped on the surface. Bob emerged from the pantry. ‘I found some shit of yours in the garage,’ he said with his mouth full, pointing at the box. ‘Now let’s see your face.’ He approached her and a familiar grip closed around her jaw, but she knew that this time, it wouldn’t end up dislocated. Bob had a process, and part of it was sweet, post-fight reconciliation, especially if she’d needed ambulatory care. Sienna suspected he probably imagined her making out with one of the nurses after the stitches had been put in place, which would explain why he was always so insatiable whenever she came back. ‘They cleaned you up well,’ was his final judgment and he ran his fingers along the cut. She didn’t flinch. ‘You’re a brave girl after all.’ *** The box had bits and Bobs in it. Sienna’s old life and new squeezed together, things of no consequence that never got unpacked when she’d finally moved in with her husband. The contrasts reminded her of a charity shop display window, with tennis rackets next to evening gowns next to books on stargazing. She couldn’t remember the transition from a lone immigrant to a lonely immigrant wife. On top, a guide from a London museum Bob took her to when he was still trying to impress her. A framed picture from a holiday he booked on condition she would work for that beach body . A plain, boring Valentine’s card in an obscene shade of pink. Pink stands for flesh that reveals itself from beneath the burnt sienna skin, she thought, and her hand wondered absentmindedly to a scar on her forearm. Underneath, she found a diary she’d kept when she’d first moved to the very foreign country. Her native rambling got progressively interspersed with more and more English words, flippant and proud like children on their first day at the kindergarten. At the bottom, she saw a book in translation she didn’t recognise at first: Rose Madder by Stephen King. She opened it and found a stamp claiming the paperback as the property of her town library, its name embedded on the first page, all red and accusatory. She couldn’t recall how it was ever possible that she’d brought the book along with her. *** She told herself she would only read for ten minutes to jog her memory. But she couldn’t put the book down and a dangerous feeling crept up on her: an opening to a person she once knew as herself was widening like a creaking door. If her thoughts got loud enough, Bob would hear them and come running with lubricant to put an end to the incessant noise. Here was a book about a Rose Daniels, a woman escaping domestic abuse by walking into a painting made with a type of dye called rose madder, pictured on the cover. Sienna remembered how incredulous she felt reading it for the first time, how little empathy she could muster for the protagonist. How eventually, she abandoned the book halfway through. Who was that silhouette in her distant memory, so sure she would never be beaten around the bush, never get bent out of shape? Bob managed both at the same time once when he broke her arm behind some rose bushes on their trip to a botanical garden. He dragged her there after she’d been on his case like the world’s smallest violin for hours on end , going on and on about their sterile lawn. Sienna learned a lot of English expressions that day. Bob had a unique way with words — they could suddenly invade the physical realm in the most literal way. He once told Sienna she ought to have her mouth washed out with soap, and he did it for her, holding her head in a steady grip under his armpit until she gagged on the bitter suds. That’s how she learned the expression. Nails were regularly hit on their heads until they turned purple and had to be tugged off Sienna’s fingers. Curiosity did once kill her old, blind and beloved cat when it had to suffer the consequences of peeing in the marital bed. In her ideal world, it would rain cats without the dogs, and she promised Bob she would never forgive him. She closed the book and looked at the cover. She spotted some raw sienna in the painting, which was the same hue her bruises would always eventually pale into: the most curious, sickly shade of brown. *** She realised that simply turning up at the airport wasn’t a solution people opted for anymore: they all booked their tickets in advance. But she couldn’t do that either way, not with the joint account. Bob loved going through the statements day by day to investigate Sienna’s outgoings. ‘What’s the public transport charge for?’ he’d ask innocently and she’d reply with such zest it only made him more suspicious. ‘It was raining hard earlier, so I took the bus home.’ ‘Why is there a supermarket bill from today? Did you go out?’ ‘An international fee? Have you been sending money to your mother again?’ ‘What does Bitchbox stand for?’ It was Birchbox, the only waft of monthly luxury she would ever get. A few pathetically tiny samples of cosmetics she had no use for, with a beautiful calligraphy brochure attached every time. Love yourself, queen. Every day is your day. Look beautiful, feel gorgeous. None of the travel-sized bottles and plastic containers had made it into her hand luggage. She had the book and a few changes of clothes in her bag, and the pristine woman at the counter with no discernible facial expression was staring her down like some artefact of the past. ‘You’ll have to wait until there’s a cancellation or a no-show,’ she explained after giving Sienna’s request for a plane ticket some thought. ‘It might take a while.’ ‘No problem,’ Sienna replied and wondered whether the woman would just forget about her. ‘Thank you,’ she added with emphasis. People in this country loved expressing gratitude, even when nothing was being done for them. ‘Thank you in advance,’ she remembered to pile on. She walked away in a chuffed-to-bits state of mind. This should make the robot lady feel obliged enough. *** The sweats started like some twisted waterworks as soon as she inserted the credit card into the terminal. She waited, suddenly feeling like her bladder was flooded, and ran away the moment the boarding pass was printed and handed to her. She didn’t make it. She felt a warm, spreading fullness in her underwear which made the material cling to her skin, and then a tiny trickle ran down her thigh. She changed out of the ridiculous thong she could floss with into boxer shorts — the forbidden pair, reserved for the messiest, bloodiest periods only, as per Bob’s Bible of Bootylicious. *** There was nothing remarkable about the flight, no unnatural buildup of emotions, no dreadful turbulences which would symbolise Sienna’s rocky path to a smooth landing. She fished the book out of her backpack for comfort, but she ended up stepping eagerly into the pages. Carts were wheeled and plastered smiles were flashed at her, but she barely raised her head to shake it. No, thank you. Thank you in advance for not bothering me any further. *** She remembered the name of the narrow side street the library was perched on because one of her school friends had lived right above it, and she gave the address to the taxi driver at the airport. She’d withdrawn as much money as she could, fearing her husband would block the card as soon as he caught on. It would cost her wordy Bob a pretty penny , as he often said. At the same time, with no pain , there was no gain . The library was just how she remembered it, tucked into an otherwise normal building with floors and floors of flats above it, one of which her friend had occupied. Sienna gave the librarian her name, but her loan sheet couldn’t be found. ‘Do you get rid of members if they’re inactive for long enough?’ The woman shrugged. ‘On occasion.’ The book card was also not in existence anymore, which the librarian proclaimed after sifting through a folder with the words LATE RETURNS written across it in red ink. Sienna put Rose Madder down on the counter. ‘I’d like to return it anyway,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to pay anything,’ the woman reassured her, hoping Sienna’s determination had an obvious, financial source. ‘Stuff like that happens.’ ‘No, no,’ Sienna interrupted. ‘I’d like to return it. I can’t explain it right now.’ The lady stepped back a little. She knew that inexplicability wasn’t a real word for a reason, and its adjective form, inexplicable , often prefixed news reports about terrorist attacks and school shootings in faraway lands, and she felt something foreign about the manic woman on the other side of her meagre barricade. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said finally. ‘Checking that book back in is a lot of paperwork,’ she added. In a country where mentioning bureaucracy was equivalent to pulling out a bleeding, beating heart, surely, the Sienna woman would understand. ‘Treat it as a gift from the library.’ *** Sienna stepped out and the sour smell of old paper and old people subsided with the next inhale, so warm and dry it could only be continental. She looked around. Her childhood home wasn’t far, only a thirty minute walk, but she was in no rush to surprise her parents. Her feet and hands weren’t tingling, and she wasn’t apprehensive, not anymore. She discovered that her favourite ice cream parlor had been replaced by a tiny shoe boutique with touching pairs of flip-flops and sneakers clearly selected by someone with provincial taste trying to impersonate Gucci. They told her the old owners had moved to a bigger building nearby and she found it without a problem, now clinically clean, stickers of excellence and hygiene in the windows. Sienna only tucked into her treat when she’d reached the park, by which time the four scoops inside the waffle boat had melted out of their spherical shapes. She turned her phone on and it buzzed in her hand for so long she could feel the tips of her fingers numb from the vibrations. Missed call from Bob, message from Bob, email from Bob, missed video chat with Bob. She answered when his palindromic, ridiculous name next lit up her screen. ‘Yes?’ ‘Where the fuck are you? Why is there an airport charge on our account? And ATMs? Twice? Sienna?’ She got distracted by two children rattling past her so fast it shouldn’t be possible on a tricycle, and she admired their need for speed. ‘Yeah,’ she replied. ‘Yeah? What kind of an answer is that? Where are you? I’m coming to get you.’ It occurred to her briefly that he could, but she realised he wouldn’t know the name of her home town if he had a gun put to his stupid head. ‘Alright, Bob. Come get some,’ she replied and clicked off. The sun was shining and the children were making more noise than should be possible when you’re that small. She would get up soon, her stomach pleasantly filled with sugar Bob would have called charged with cellulite , or pumped with the bingo wing mutation . But she wasn’t going to call it that anymore, no, it could just be called ice cream again. She felt a little dizzy when she got up and her hand wandered up to the dissolving stitches holding the two parts of her left eyebrow together. She realised with all the force in her thrice-concussed mind that she wouldn’t have to wrap bandages around her head anymore. And that somehow, she’d need to wrap her head around that .


Jolting claps of flame, thunder on the brain. Sinewed synapses writhing, electric tentacles in the dark. Pulsing jellyfish to a tube worm’s feather, a consuming mycelium on a decaying carcass. That sudden realisation of the mess you’re in, you know the sort. A twisting, wrenching, churning sinkhole inside that could swallow life itself. You can’t leave here, you know that. Act natural. Are you sitting upright? Do you look your best today? I hope no one’s watching. Judging you for not having a significant other, a house, a car. Because that’s what you want, and it’s what they all have. Stop biting your nails, it’s weird. Everyone watches you indulge your compulsions, and they think you’re disgusting. That’s why you stay perfectly still when Emily looks over, so you can’t do anything wrong. She smiled at you, once. You couldn’t sleep for days. The back of her head, a cascading chocolate ponytail under the white office light. Her soft neck and the intoxicating perfume that calls to you from across the room, a taunting pheromone you can’t stop drawing in. You’re obsessed with her, she’s all you think about. The only good thing about working in this gruelling office is the woman who doesn’t even know that you exist. Fantasies of what could be culminate daydreams, and you almost muster the courage to go talk to her. All that empty gumption and false bravado is swiftly silenced by Chris. Emily always laughs at his jokes. The blushes and giggles, and the way she always plays with her hair when he speaks. He’s smooth, gift of the gab, but he’s also fat. He doesn’t look after himself whatsoever. He took your promotion, and now you’re the accountant that amends his financial documents. You’re the nit-picking monkey who’s been slogging away in this whitewash hell for three years, and he's coming up to his first. The boss, Andrew, is a stuck-up tosser. He assured you’d get a pay rise on multiple occasions, but you heard nothing. You hate him. Detest him. What’s stopping you from ki- “David, what’re you doing?” “Sir, I-” He stammers, frantically jerking the mouse around his dirty desk and minimizing the personal document. “Did you finish analysing the asset turnover ratio?” The boss questions, leaning over and trying to read the spreadsheet on the monitor. “I was looking at the um, the short-term and the cash flow. I think, well, the current account-” “David, I asked you to do that two hours ago. What have you been doing this whole time?” Andrew questions loudly, and the office falls deadly quiet. “It was taking longer than I thought it would.” “That’s not good enough, what’s that document there.” “Where?” “It’s minimized down there, is that work?” “Um, no. That’s nothing. Not work.” “Open it up, show me.” “Sir, I don’t want to.” “Do I look like your schoolteacher? My name’s Andrew. Open the document.” David reluctantly shifts the mouse down to the taskbar and returns the piece to its maximised state. He feels the blood rush to his face and his stomach melting as Andrew silently reads the whole thing. “If only your accounting was as good as your poetry.” David dissociates in his chair and starts counting the individual pixels on the monitor screen. “We can’t have harassment in the workplace. Your feelings for Emily, Chris and I need to be kept to yourself in the future, alright? Not in your personal diary.” “What did he say about me?” Chris demands. “Well, he started writing poetry and then it turned into a deviant little rant. I don’t want to offend you, but he wrote about you being fat.” Chris chuckles for a while before returning to his work. Emily doesn’t move a muscle. She’ll pretend like she didn’t hear but David knows how intelligent she is, how switched on she can be. “And David, this is why you’ll never get a pay rise, because there will always be someone better than you.” “Yes, sir.” “Andrew.” “Sorry.” “You’d better stay later and crack on with some admin for Chris’s files. Treat it as an apology for being rude to him.” “Okay.” “Oh, and David, you couldn’t kill me.” He puts a hand down on David’s sloped shoulder. “You can’t even walk to the printer without pissing yourself.” Andrew grins as Chris erupts into laughter again, and he returns to his own office. David remains frozen for the remainder of the day. He skips lunch, doesn’t drink, and steadily completes his work. As colleagues leave one by one, he finally feels at ease. No more eyes, no one to look at him. He opens his inbox to find mail from twenty-six minutes ago. A folder sent from none other than ‘chrismanagerial@balanceconsult.com’ along with a subject containing the description ‘Fat Administration :)’. Documents upon documents that he must have been sitting on for days like a rotten hen, now casually dropped into David’s inbox for him to deal with tonight. Robert, in marketing, just finished working on some new flyers for the company. He’s a softly spoken and kind man, a few years younger than David. He lets out a sigh, switches off his computer and hauls a rucksack over his shoulder. “Alright mate?” He startles David who was entranced by the monitor. “Yeah, I’m alright, Rob. Yourself?” “Knackered, it’s been a long one.” He moans, turning to leave. “Me and the boys are going down the Oval for a few pints and some pool at seven. You’re more than welcome to come.” “Thanks, but I think I’ll be heading home after this.” David brushes him off. “You don’t have to play; I’ll buy the first round and you can come have a laugh with us. Colin’s there, you’ll like him, he’s a scream.” “I’ll think about it.” David smiles, leaving it in the air so Robert would stop asking. The PVC door at reception slams shut, leaving David the last desk-jockey alive in this soulless prison. There’s a certain peace with being alone. It’s not a positive thing but equally not a negative either. David’s comfort lies deeper than the surface of his skin, for his imagination can run wild when the fear takes control. He opens the embarrassing document once again, ruby red as he reads. Fingers start prodding the keyboard as he constructs more phrases for his feelings, more analogies for his thoughts. This method of mental digestion soothes his sickly stomach. He types until he feels his bladder. Shooting pains ricochet through his quadriceps and knees as he gets up for the first time since eight o’ clock this the morning. Waddles past the printer, he glosses over the patch of carpet he wet himself upon last month. It’s all dried now, but he still pictures the stinking, straw-coloured puddle that was once discharged from his pathetic body. Down the corridor near the kitchen, David pushes the toilet door with his unkempt hands. The keratin talons on his fingers bend against the wood. Staring at the ground to avoid eye contact in the long mirrors, he navigates to the furthest cubicle. The one he routinely eats his lunch in. Dropping the toilet seat down and perching on the bowl, shooting pains fly through his legs once again. While urinating, he clamps his eyes shut for a few seconds, and everything goes quiet. SQUEAK The unmistakable sound of the gent’s door shatters the silence. David hastily lifts his legs from foot view, his eyes wide with shock. Waiting for a moment, holding breath deep in his chest. No footsteps followed; the door is too heavy to be a draft. Mere moments feel like years before David cautiously worms his way to his feet. A sensation he knows all too well trickles down his spine, and the feeling of being watched lurches over. Animalistic tingles of flight or fight spark the urge to turn, let curiosity execute the decision. By slowly panning his eyeballs to the right, he can finally see it in his peripheral vision. Up above, in the next cubicle, someone is looking over at him. A mass of sorts unmoving. David’s heart pumps wildly, though his body turns cold. The swallowing, squeezing contractions of his oesophagus echo loudly in contrast to the nothingness around him. He meditatively inhales in preparation to stare back, face the individual observing him. Just as he spins to the right, the mass sinks below. David opens the door and walks round to the neighbouring cubicle. Upon inspection of the interior, he finds nothing. “Yeah, really funny.” He stammers mildly at the door. After the interruption and forgetting to flush, he returns to his designated cubicle and fumbles with the flush lever. Walking back out into the vastness of the room, it’s now there in the corner. Facing the wall, the dark mass stands stationary by the sink. At first, David rubs his eyes. What he is seeing, he cannot physically perceive. Like a lash stuck to the cornea, or unidentifiable remains of an insect plastered a windscreen, David’s eyeballs struggle to communicate the information to his brain quick enough. Whoever, or whatever this being is, shouldn’t be there. Not in this world. He begins walking backward at a speed slower than a tortoise, holding his gaze upon the man-shaped optical abrasion before him. Tensing what little muscle he owned, he prepares for the moment that the thing flies toward him. Though it never happens. He backs out of the door, making sure to gently release the squealing hinge. Once it was fully shut, he ran for his life. Snatching and clutching all his belongings, he takes to the PVC door. Agoraphobia is usually blinding, but David had never been more relieved to be outside. The bus stop is nearby, and he doesn’t have to wait long for the 103. It’s late, everyone is eating tea with their families now. The bus is almost empty, there’s no one except an old man sitting near the back. David barely squats on the lip of a seat in the middle of the bus, making sure to keep his hands to himself in prevention of touching any nasty germs that may be present. Fixating on the red ‘stop’ sign on the yellow handrail, he waits until the bus driver peels away. The journey back round his town was a quick one, and the view from the window was startling. Every stop along the high street yielded more of those embossed black phantoms. Their piercing existence carved into David retina, his fearful focus glides back to the comfort of the red button once again. One by one, in his peripherals, empty seats begin filling up with shadow men. He opens his bag and tears a page from an accountancy book. Scribbles and scrawls as the black pen crawls, steadily he writes about things in his sight. Those beings of haze maintain their gaze. Darker than coal, penetrating his soul. Everything around David suddenly dissipates. The bus driver has parked up and is walking to the rear of the vehicle. There, he places his hand on the old man’s shoulders, waking him up from his doze. “Sorry to wake you, Stuart. This is your stop.” The old man’s eyes slowly pry open, revealing sunken holes in his visage. “Can I not stay on for another round, Michael?” Stuart’s fragile capillaries make up a small, bruised hand that gently wraps around the driver’s. “It’s my last round, I’ve got to get home to the kids, mate.” Stuart closes his eyes again, loosening his grip on Michael. “I think it’s my last round too.” He crackles, a singular tear rolling down his wrinkled cheek. “Michael, I’m starting to think that I’m really lonely.” “I’m sorry.” The driver mumbles, unsure of what to say. “Although,” Stuart smiles. “There’s only so much riding and old geezer can do in one day.” “Can I drop you home?” Michael asks softly. “It’s alright, I don’t mind walking, and you’ve got your tea to eat.” The driver helps Stuart to his feet as he shuffles down the walkway. As he reaches David, he stops for just a moment and looks toward him. “I don’t think you ever really get over it. You only learn to live with it.” Stuart solemnly states. “It’s Friday night, son. Shouldn’t you be with your friends?” “Come on, Stuart.” Michael impatiently guides him to the door. The frail man poodles along the street, holding his plastic bag of things. “When there’s no getting over that rainbow.” He sings heartily outside. “When my smallest of dreams won’t come true.” The driver apologises for the delay and continues his journey. David looks onward for a while before quickly punching the red button. “Getting off?” Michael questions. “Yes, I’m going to go to the Oval.” The driver goes to speak then hesitates. He checks his watch instead. “I’ll drop you nearby.” “Thank you.” David breaks a small smile. Outside the Oval was busy. It may not have been for other people, but for David, it was a lot. He slowly drops from the door of the bus, and they shut behind him. The impending doom washes over once again, his sickness twists around inside. He stares at the ground whilst walking, avoiding eye contact with the patriots outside. Soon enough, those patches scratch into view once again. “LOOK AT ME.” A shadow hisses and screeches repeatedly. “LISTEN.” Another screams from across the way. “I AM THE WORD IN YOUR EAR.” He pushes past and gets inside. Immediately, he is overwhelmed by the sounds of clinking pint glasses, scraping chairs, fruit machines, music, pool, chatter, laughter, singing, shouting, it’s all too much. He becomes entirely overwhelmed. “David!” A voice calls. “Nice to see you, man.” Robert is leant against the pool table; his friends bat their eyes. “Oh, God.” David utters. The expression he wears is that of an animal in headlights. He turns back out the door and into the quiet street. The masses move in close, reaching out to hold him. They’re clearer now. The faces of Andrew, Chris, and his own parents, all dance around as they shriek. “Stop it, just stop it.” David blubbers, swaying his arms around to waft them away. They dissipate and reform like black mist, covering his eyes and face. He falls to the floor and folds up into a ball. He cries like he never has before. “David, what’s going on?” A familiar voice asks. “I saw something I shouldn’t have, and now it’s coming to get me.” He chokes back tears. “Let’s get you up on your feet mate, ‘cause your making a scene here.” David is helped up and held by a couple of men. They walk him over to the bench and set him down, sitting down next to him themselves. “Right. What’s going on, fella?” “I can’t do this anymore.” He sobs. “The world is caving in on me, I’m being crushed.” An arm falls over his shoulders, and one of the men lean in. It’s Chris. “The world is fine, Dave.” He assures. “You’re the only one crushing you.” “I can’t do anything right, I’m useless.” “Did you finish the admin files earlier?” He questions. “Y-yeah.” He sniffs. “Well, there you go. I wouldn’t call that useless.” “But that’s monkey’s work. Child’s play compared to what you do.” “Dave, my job is easy. What you do, however, keeps the company together. You work harder than anyone does in that office, so don’t think bad of yourself. You’re the glue, my friend.” He pats David’s back. “Sorry for calling you fat.” “I could do with losing a little weight,” Chris chuckles. “No one is out to get you, and you can’t let Dave hold you back.” “We’re all in the same boat.” Robert adds. “It does get hard sometimes, no matter who you are. Just remember that you do have friends, people who care about you. I know things have been hard since the passing of your parents, but we’re always going to be here.” “We both know you want to leave this place sometimes, Dave.” Chris looks out onto the road. “But if you weren’t here, our lives wouldn’t be the same anymore. You’d be leaving us in a world without you.” “There may be no getting over it,” Robert continues. “But there’s always learning to live with it.” “Thank you, both. I think you’ve just saved me.”


"A demon." "Yeah man, that's what I've been trying to tell you. A demon wrecked my place last night." Dave looked up from his phone. "Are you sure it's not just your latest excuse for your crappy housekeeping habits? I mean, really? A demon?" I shook my head a little. "Come on man, that's harsh. But yeah, really, a demon. You know the PS5 controller I borrowed from you last week?" Dave nodded and laid his phone on the breakroom table. He sat back as he said, "Yeah, what about it?" "The demon stepped on it!" I stomped my foot "smash, into a hundred pieces!" Dave glanced down at his phone then back up at me. "Ok, let's say it was a demon. How did a demon get into your living room?" I stepped back a half step and looked down at the table. "Well, I, uh, I kinda summoned it" I mumbled, trying to say it without saying it. "You summoned a demon. Ok. How, exactly, did you summon a demon?" I looked back up at him. "Well, that book I told you I found, the one in that weird language, remember?" Dave nodded. "Well, it turns out that there's a translator app that can use your camera to read it. So, I went through and translated a bunch of stuff and read it and figured out how to do a summoning ritual." Dave leaned forward and put his forearms on the table, palms flat. "You did all this? Really?" "Hey man, I'm not stupid you know. I know how to do a lot of stuff and I can figure things out pretty good sometimes." Dave nodded as he shifted back again and crossed his arms. "And yet you summoned a demon in your living room and let it trash the place." I could only nod a little. "Well, yeah, I did do that, but I didn't expect him to trash the place. That wasn't part of the plan." "Ok, so, what was the plan? What are you planning that requires a demon?" I smiled. "Well, getting rich and stuff. You know, and not having to be afraid of anyone or having to work or whatever. Just doing anything I want whenever I want." Dave just looked at me. He stared at me until it got uncomfortable. I started shifting my weight back and forth until I couldn't take it anyomre. "What, man? Why are you just staring at me?" He spoke slowly and carefully. "I can see why someone might try to summon a demon to get all those things, freedom and stuff. But I'm still not sure I can believe you actually did it." I nodded a little. "Yeah, ok, I get it man. That's fair I guess. But I'm not lying, I swear." Dave nodded. "I can see that you believe it. So I'm not going to try and argue with you. But now I have to ask, what's next? Is your demon going to give you what you ask for?" I nodded. "Yep. Today! Just as soon as he's done, uh, taking care of a few things... a few, you know, demon things..." Dave started to speak but before he could we heard screaming out on the plant floor. His eyes darted to the door then back at me. I nodded. "Look man, I really like you so I decided to give you a chance. If you stay in here with me then you won't get hurt. Because I'm in here this room is off limits. But," I turned and pointed towards the door. There was more screaming and the sound of machinery and stuff being thrown around. "If you decide you just have to run out and try to help or save anyone then you're fair game." I turned back to face him, leaned over and put my hands on the table. "Stay here, man. You've got a family. I'll hook you up and..." Dave slid his chair back and stood up, eyes wide and completely freaked out. "You crazy or something? What the hell is wrong with you?" The screams and the sounds of destruction were overwhelming as he ran out the door. It faded some when the door closed. I stood back up, put my hands on my hips and looked at the door. "Dangit Dave, that's why I really wanted you to stay with me. You always were such a great guy.


He was on a highway he didn't know, in a state he'd never been to, between cities he'd never heard of, surrounded by what should have been corn but was something else. They looked like a crossbreeding of sunflowers and roses, enormous heads of petals enclosing a face full of giant seeds. The sky was purple, and the sinking sun was just a crescent on the horizon. There was a life behind him, a wife who was no longer his, though no children because she had, secretly, prevented their very possibility.

A frost began to form on the edges of his windows. A chill seeped through the cracks and seams. He cranked the heat and it poured from the vents. The cold creeping in seemed to combat it, like soldiers on a battlefield a hundred and fifty years ago. A white mass like a cloud bank rolled out of the sky and a wind gust shook the body of the truck. It was all he could do to hold it in his lane. A shriek filled the air, low and constant, building until it was the only sound to be heard. Somewhere ahead, a new life awaited. He could have stayed, watched Jessica move on and perhaps marry again, maybe even have children. That would have been something akin to waterboarding. It would have filled his mind, for their lives had become so entwined that neither had friends of their own, their families merging into one cohesive unit. They regularly ate dinner together, held parties in each other's homes, spoke and messaged often. One of his cousins had even married her sister. There was no place he could exist where she would not emerge with consistency. So he had taken himself out of the picture, to ease pressure on the families as well as himself. He held no ill will toward her side, and wanted his to hold none against her.

The field of sunflower-roses ended on an exit and he took it. The sign indicated places of food, lodging and gas. There was a storm coming, and he wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything like it. He could feel it's energy, the way you could just before a lightning strike. And it was getting more than chilly. His heater was pumping at it's limit and still that cold was winning. He thought of the last time he had seen Jessica. They had been on the porch discussing the weather. Sweat poured from his forehead and she was complaining of her sticky clothes, if she didn't get inside soon she was going to faint. They had left without their keys, only realizing it when they tried to drive away. Kyra was on the way with the spare, but she lived twenty minutes away. So they had been trapped in a sense, forced to face each other after so long avoiding such contact.

The first building, a Shell station, was devoid of activity. There were no cars at the pumps nor inany of the spots along the building. He tried the door but it was locked. The place was dark, the shelvesfull. He knocked, but no one came. He turned to the rest of the little piece of the world he'd pulled into. The cold had more than crept in now, it was inside of him, like it meant to freeze the very blood in his veins. There were no vehicles in sight. He could see clear across the road to the Denny's and the Super 8, but both had empty lots. No one moved. Standing there, he realized it was more than that, no thing moved either. There was an American flag at full mast but it just hung there, like a lifeless corpse left as a warning. He moved closer, and as he approached realized it wasn't dangling, as it would if there were no wind, because there was, it cut across his cheeks, burning like a liquid flame. The flag wasn't moving because it was frozen. He spun, backing slightly into the flagpole. There wasn't a single bird to peep his movements. There were no distant sounds either, the way there always were when you made your way off the interstate, the low hum of sixteen wheels running over asphalt or pavement. The drone of lanes of traffic moving steadily along to their various destinations.

Hurrying back to his truck, he drove on, not back to the highway but continuing on the two-lane in hopes of finding refuge from the cold, and just maybe someone to explain the desertion of the businesses just beyond the exit, places which surely saw enough patronage to support round-the-clock service. Still that cold remained. Worsening. His vents were directed at his face but he couldn't feel their warmth at all. Instead, the chill which had begun only ten minutes ago was now a frost, clouding his windows and sinking into his hands until he almost couldn't get them off the steering wheel.

The first intersection came only minutes later. There was a sign which had an arrow pointing toward the town of Hyberia. It had a population of less than 2,500. That was good enough, and it was only five miles. He thought he could make it five miles, but put his foot down anyway. The truck growled but kind of sputtered before really getting up on it's hubs. He went from 50 to 70 and leveled out at 85. If he got pulled over maybe the officer could explain what was going on, and why it was so ungodly cold there. And getting colder by the minute. He had it in his mind that if he didn't find refuge soon he would freeze just like that flag, and the truck would just go on until it veered off the road or came head on with something it couldn't drive through. The town sign was large, a piece of carved wood reading Hyberia: The Only Place to Weather the Storm . It may have said something else but he didn't have time to catch it. Soon after, a small gas station appeared, a place which reminded him of the filling station in Mayberry. It may have been deserted, and he actually thought that was just the case. Beyond the station more of those rose-like flowers. It might have been the area's money crop, except they weren't like anything he'd ever even seen in magazines or on TV. If they existed anywhere else, no one was buying them. It wasn't a wonder why, there was very little aesthetic appeal, and he didn't even want to think about eating the seeds from that foul plant. Just the thought made his throat convulse. A cold shock burst in his chest and the breath went with it, reverberating from his body. It took a moment to get his lungs full again, heaving as he gripped the steering wheel. It felt like ice in his hands, or was that just the temperature in general? He couldn't decide because his brain was just then somewhat deprived of valuable oxygen. As if on it's own, his foot pressed harder on the pedal and he was going a hundred, passing those red flowers at a clip too great to even see them, merging it all into a massive blur on either side of the road. His ears were numb, and his nose, and the tips of his toes too. All of a sudden he became aware ofjust how much of his body he could no longer feel. His chest and hips were still there, but the rest was just a bunch of appendages attached, like the hoses and attachments on a vacuum cleaner, useless things he could no longer communicate with. It was almost the way he had felt with Jessica in the last months of their marriage, as though she were once something he could effortlessly talk and listen to. They had seemed so connected then, so singular. How they could ever have separated he would never know. He didn't want to think about it deeply enough to figure it out. As the flowers gave way to a small parking lot he whipped the wheel and aimed the truck at the building there. Higginson's Delicatessen and Grocery . He didn't bother with such niceties as parking spots and instead slid to a stop, almost into the red-brick wall. He threw open his door and tumbled out. His grimy hands hit the pavement and stuck, like licking a pole. For one terrible moment he was sure that was it, whatever was happening was going to happen to him and that would be the end, but his hands peeled away from the ground, a bit of blood splashing the dark surface. He didn't feel it, or give himself time to wonder how bad he'd just fucked his hands, if he didn't get inside soon, those hands wouldn't matter anymore anyway. He slammed into the glass doors. They didn't budge and his heart shot into his throat. He pushedand shoved and kicked. He turned toward the waning day, and saw what was coming. It was a wall of pure white, the clearest void of color he'd ever seen. The way some clouds looked on very clear blue days, but this was deeper somehow, like the complete opposite of a massive sinkhole. You thought you could see things in that darkness, and you could definitely hear them. This, though, this whiteness you could feel, down in the very fiber of your bone and muscle. It was coming for him, and it would fill him to bursting, it would sink down into him and form crystals of ice and expand every organ and bit oftissue until he exploded like a can of soda in the freezer. He spun, out of breath completely now, numb to his core, moving by fear alone, pushing and slamming and pulling now at the door and it opened toward him with ease. For a moment he just stood there, confused, until he felt something like ice on the back of his neck. Lurching, he stumbled into the store and fell onto his hands and knees, sliding onto his face as his bloody hands slipped out from under him. An already the encapsulating warmth washed over him, as though there was a space heater hanging just above him. For longer than he could tell or calculate, he just laid there. The floor was even warm, like one of those rich people's bathrooms. The lights above were dark, the only light that of the whiteness outside, falling in through the single door he'd escaped through. His hands began to sting and to burn. He would have to find some disinfectant and some gauze. As he sat up, he realized that door had been an exit. PUSH was very clearly stated above the handle. On the outside, he knew, it would read PULL . He got up and turned toward the store. It was mostly dark, the shelves like ghosts emerging from their unseen realm. It was just a humble little shop, no bigger than a McDonald's or Subway. There were two registers. It crossed his mind to wonder why the place was unlocked and unattended, and then it crossed his mind to search the register, but thought better of that. Just what he needed, a robbery charge to go with the divorce and his near-death experience. Near freezing-to-death experience. Everything outside was white, and he thought of that movie The Mist . He hoped that wasn't what he had found himself facing. As he watched, ice crystals began to form at the edges of the glass. They seemed to build one on top of the other as they spread, moving inward like ants, ants devouring some piece of food dropped onto the ground. He thought that if he kicked that glass it would shatter, and that cold would find it's way in.

A thump from the darkness. He whirled, but it was murky still, no more than edges and vague shapes. “Hello?” he said, and told himself that was a stupid thing to do. If it was some criminal, or monster – No, he shut that thought off immediately, a storm so cold it formed ice in seconds, on pretty much any surface, that was one thing, he was not going to entertain the idea of monsters. Something answered him. Some thing being the only way he could describe it because there were no words, only a few guttural mewls like a little animal struggling into the world. He moved into the darkness toward that sound, telling himself this was how all the stupid white girls died in horror movies and slasher flicks, but too curious to stop his forward progression. He heard something else, like water dripping, and realized that his hands were leaking onto the floor. He wiped them on his shirt and pain flared into his wrists and arms. Yeah, he was going to have to deal with that soon. The mewling came again, so much closer yet no more intelligible. It could have been a puppy ora deer or some unimaginable freak of a thing no one had ever seen before. But of course that was more ridiculousness. There were no monsters or creatures scurrying through the darkness. Whatever it was, he'd likely come across it before at one time or another, his fear addled brain just hadn't recognized that sound yet. Out of the darkness, something did come crawling, but it was no monster or horrible creature or anything else he'd been scaring himself with. It was a baby. It saw him and sat back on it's butt. It was half-wrapped in a blanket, and had on a onesie with little paw prints like a pup had trekked all across the thing. The baby had bright blue eyes and starkly blond hair. It cocked it's head. “Hi, little baby,” crouching as he moved a little closer, “where is your mommy? Or your daddy, I guess. That seems more likely, leave it to a man.” The baby reached with one clutching hand, as if wanting something. He looked down at his own neck and found the bandanna he had been wearing, in case he should need to go into a place requiring coverings. He untied and offered it. The baby snatched it away and smiled. It made a giddy little yeeing sound and started swinging the kerchief from one side to the other. He finished closing the distance and picked the baby up, careful not too get too much blood on it's clothes, wondering if it was a boy or girl, and asking again where it's mommy was. If the baby knew, it wasn't saying, though it didn't take long to find out. Just a few feet away was the entrance to the little grocery. The door was held slightly open by an arm, the PUSH stark just beside it. He could just see a woman's face through the white haze building on the glass. Her other hand was firmly locked around the outer handle. As he watched, those crystals moved up her arm, forming even more rapidly than they had on the glass. Almost the way an animal will switch meals when a meatier prey presents. Through the space provided by her arm, the cold was creeping in, forming it's little crystals already on the magazine stand just inside the door. He knew what he had to do. If he didn't, that ice would continue spreading, and their warm little cave would no longer be much of a haven. In fact, it would be a tomb. He took the baby to the registers and placed it in the space between them. “Stay here, little baby, you shouldn't see this. I shouldn't do it,” he mumbled turning back toward the entrance and the woman who had tried to reach the safety the other side of it provided. The woman who had thought to save her child even as the cold crept into her. How much of her had frozen before she had gotten it to safety? How difficult that must have been. He had only felt the first wave of that chill and his mind had nearly shut down. He found the magazine rack almost completely white. He wondered if it would spread from there or if it needed the chill from outside to maintain itself. If he got the door closed, would that be enough to keep them from freezing as well? The only answer that mattered was, that it didn't matter, because if he didn't close that door, that woman's efforts would be in vain, and so would his own. So as much as he did not want to do it, he lifted his foot and kicked that door as hard as he could. The woman's arm didn't severe so much as shatter. Like a meat Popsicle, it hit the floor and burst into frozen red chunks. The door closed and the magazine stand began to thaw, though he could tell it would be quite a while before the pages of the periodicals there would come apart, if they ever did. Before those pieces of what had once been a hand and part of an arm could start to look like what they now were, he faded back until the whole scene was obscured by the comforting black of lightlessness. He found the baby, still between the registers, and sat down to wait for the storm to pass. He hoped it would be quick, but if it wasn't then at least they would have plenty to survive on. Pulling the baby into his lap, he reveled in it's warmth, and hoped the little guy, or gal, was enjoying his as well. For a while, that was all there was going to be. Maybe all there would ever be. THE END


My eyes were closed tight blocking the afternoon sunlight that peaked from my bedroom blinds, willing myself to fall back to sleep.

If I just fall back to sleep, maybe I will wake up and feel better. Maybe this will all go away , I thought. Just then, she woke me. As if she were right next to me in my bed shouting in my ear, I heard her, my Aunt Maureen, shout, “BRIGID, WAKE UP! WAKE UP!”

Her voice was so crisp and clear and loud, it felt like her lips were pressed against my right ear. My eyes shot open. My heart now was pounding, fluttering, buzzing, skipping beats all at once. I gasped for breath and slowly glanced to my side baffled.

Is she here? Is she dead? She is dead. She can’t be here. But, I hear her. Wait, did she die?

I felt drugged, confused, distorted. Her voice did not fade. Another shout. This time, her message was not clear. But that voice is unmistakeable. As my eyes scanned the room, I laid terrified to move my head, feeling the surge of pain up my spine like shock waves into my brain.

She isn’t here, I thought.

My Aunt Reen, who died of an aggressive cancer two years ago, could not be here but she is speaking to me. Screaming in my right ear drum. And I am awake. I am not dreaming. Is this what it feels like to lose your mind? Is this a psychotic break? Is this all a dream? An apparition, supernatural experience? If so, I am not comprehending the message. Am I dying? How do I explain this to anyone? What now? ————————————————————----- Twenty-four hours before, I was in my classroom, my students not yet with me, dry heaving into a trash can. The fluorescent lights felt brighter. The stale, moldy school building air had a more pungent aroma, and my head felt like it was on fire, like someone struck a match and my scalp was slowly sizzling. It did not feel like one of my typical migraines but I came to teach that day anyway willing it away with Advil and nausea meds.

It wasn’t long before my protein bar came back up and I found myself curled up in a ball around the little trashcan on my floor, hoping a student or colleague wouldn’t walk in. But, he did. “Brig, what the hell! You ok?” My friend James did just that.

Popped his head in with his coffee and much to his surprise, there I was hugging a trashcan in my teacher garb with watery eyes and sweat smearing my makeup.

All I could do was shake my head no. As he made his way over, I finally got out, “I think I have the flu or something. Maybe I should go.” I grab a chair and look like I’d fail a DUI test. “Ya think? Get out of here. Damn, you are unsteady. I’ll just walk you to the nurse.” I felt like a child. My vulnerability beat out my stubbornness and need for control, and I let him take me by the arm. I felt too shitty to care how this looked, weak and needing help. Deb, the old motherly nurse, took my temp and said, “Yep, low grade fever. You should really go, hun. I’ll call the office and they’ll handle your subs.”

I remember worrying about my sub plans. I don’t remember how they got done. But, I do remember walking down that hall slowly. My buddy James trailing me to see I made it out. Telling me to feel better. I did not return for 456 days.

Somehow I drove home, must’ve been like cruise control, because I certainly wasn’t in control and don’t remember that ride.

————————————————————----- My dead aunt is no longer screaming. But as I lay there in my bed deciding my next move, I see movement in my corner. Black, flickering shadows erratically circling in my corner. I blink. I blink again. They are still there, and they have multiplied. I see bats in my corner right in between my closet and my beloved rocking chair passed down from my Mommom Rose.

I have laid in bed many nights staring at it, picturing generations of women in my family rocking babies, myself included. Baby Owen first, and then Baby Hope, now in Kindergarten and Pre-K. I see that chair and I can smell that sweet delicate baby shampoo mixed with milk and I feel the warmth. Now, it is empty and surrounded by what appears to be bats.

First, my Aunt Reen and now bats in my room. Terror engulfs me. I am not ok. This is when I call my mom. Whether you are 3 or 33, it is mom. “Mom, I am still feeling bad in bed. I’m feeling a lot worse. I don’t know… feeling loopy.” She’s the most anxious woman I know, so I spared the details. “Can you pick the kids up from school, please? I need to figure out what to do.” “BRIGID, I don’t like the sound of this.” She emphasizes my full name as she does when she is serious.

“I am telling your father, too.” She calls out to him and repeats my words but with her motherly worry. “We both think you need to get to a doctor or hospital. I love you.”

“I will call Jeff. He will take me if I ask. Don’t worry. I will do Urgent Care. I think it’s the flu and I need meds. Love you.” If she knew bats were infiltrating my room and her dead sister was speaking to me she’d die of a heart attack and then I would really be screwed.

I take a deep breathe and call Jeff. He has called me dramatic before. We’ve had fights over it. I’ve gotten it in my head to rehearsal my words to him before I speak to assess how it sounds. I don’t want to sound dramatic. How do I say this without sounding insane? Looking back, I know now I should never have to rehearse words like this. And my fear of fitting his stereotype cost me some precious time. ————————————————————----- I am laying on my side in fetal position staring at the white wall. I have been in and out of a sleep state, but at the time that the ER doctor finally came to speak to us about my MRI results, my eyes were open but I wasn’t there. I was like a prop, no feelings, no affect, and too weak to sit up.

“It looks what we are seeing may be a mass. We don’t know what kind and she needs more testing.” The doctor said this without much empathy. The most peculiar part of this moment now looking back is my reaction. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hysterics. It was an odd unperturbed curiosity, like it was not me who she was speaking of. Like I was watching a movie. Well that’s something. Look at the plot twist here with this bat seeing teacher, lady. Wonder how that’ll play out. It was not long before I was in an ambulance on my way to University of Pennsylvania Hospital. Turns out the ER I hobbled into was not equipped for batgirl. In fact, they thought I was pregnant or had Lyme’s disease for the first few hours there. My sister, a nurse, made calls and found a way to get University of Pennsylvania Hospital to see me, and time was of the essence.

I am told I was fading. In and out of consciousness. That morning, I thought I was going to teach Shakespeare in front of 16 year olds all day. By 9pm, I was on oxygen on a stretcher in the ICU. Within minutes, they read the results, they did their doctor talk, and they made a guess in order to give me treatment.

Herpes Simplex Virus Encephalitis. Not a mass. The doctor, who I actually do remember looking like a George Clooney type, pulled no punches when he said the previous hospital completely misread my results and also me. “All of the signs are pointing toward Encephalitis and though we won’t officially know for a couple days, we want to give you the anti-virals, seizure medication, along with antibiotics, to keep you alive. We will help you.” Turns out my psychological thriller film of a day made complete sense to him. The pain, the vomiting, the bats, and even my aunt, my aunt’s voice I have not heard in two years. My brain was inflaming, under attack by the herpes virus, and as a result, I was having Simple Partial Seizures. Instead of a cold sore because I was run down that month, the virus chose my brain.

————————————————————----- My head and eyes are still throbbing.

There is a rhythmic beeping of hospital machines, muffled conversations and sneakers squeaking. I hear a voice again, clear and close in my ear. Panic sets in instinctually.

“You are still here. You are alive. You are going to be ok. You keep sleeping, sweetie. I love you.” It’s a whisper. I stir and blink, afraid I am alone with this voice, afraid to open my eyes for what I will see, but there is a hand and I squeeze it tight. I take a deep breath and exhale two days of pure terror. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who it was. I wasn’t alone. A single tear ran down my face and all I could manage was, “I know, Mom.”


I was born with perfect hearing. A genetic mutation that allows me to listen in on the inner rhythm our bodies provide. Until the previous generation, no one had detected the music our bodies produced. The frequency is so strange and subtle, that specialized listening devices had to be made. Surprisingly enough, when people like me first started experiencing the music of others, we were not treated as mentally ill. There was no hate campaign or b.s. politics. The first of us were treated with respect and it allowed science to flourish. Once it was determined that we weren't physically suffering and obviously no threat to society, we continued on as if nothing was different. Some of us hated always hearing the music. For them, a cochlear-like implant blocked the soundwaves. Others, like me, really embraced the ability. We considered ourselves privileged. There was something about hearing the music from so many that made us feel connected to them. Like mycelium under the earth. Connected to each other in a way no one but us could understand.  The music that humanity shares with us is mostly pleasant. It could be described as the definition of your personality. The music inside you is the truest form of self. Happy, healthy and whole typically provides an upbeat soundtrack to the world around me. Lots of music in C and G major, accompanied by A and E minor. Unfortunately there are lots of people who are born with disability, mental illness, or general malaise as well. In the key of D minor, their music is so sad, often reflecting on their quality of life. It's easy to tell the nature of a person when they don't know I'm listening. I know its kind of tasteless to always be eavesdropping, but my hearing is a natural function that I will not hinder. In the 2 generations since we first heard the music, there have been all kinds. All the music of the world, on display for all abled beings to hear, all the time. I enjoy being in public. The music never gets old, its always new and different. I spend time in malls, grocery stores, parks and carnivals. I enjoy walking downtown, where the hustle and bustle provides an amazing jam session. People watching takes on a whole new meaning when you're vibing to their music. I somehow feel my connection to them is more personal. Since we began keeping track, the music has generally been the same. The newborn and pre-dead produced psychedelic sounds, often convoluted, a cacophony of warped emotion. That was all anyone ever heard. Until the low, foreboding tones of G minor came creeping into my world.  It came on softly at first. A low rhythm over a static hum, seemingly blanketing the earth around me like rolling fog. I had never felt this before, never heard this before. It was filled with agony. It was rhythmic, rife with anger. A tone that suggested vile and violent intent. I could feel myself fill with dread, the baby fine hairs on my neck standing at attention. The cold trickle of fear on my spine. This music was unlike any other. It swelled and dropped. It ran through various chord progressions. It had become a hardened, driven beat, louder, angrier and vengeful. The sounds hit my hears like the speech of a brutal dictator. Fear seemed like the driving force behind this music. What was this? No one sounded like this. I wondered who else, if anyone, may have heard it. I wondered if anyone was as intrigued.  I went looking for disaster. I followed the music. This march of sorts. It was frightening and captivating. Every drum beat, every guitar chord, every bass string plucked drew me closer and closer. My brain was becoming very anxious, while my very soul was being drawn toward this powerful new sound. I searched, following the symphony of probable demise. It brought me to an abandoned prison. Dilapidated and weathered, the prison still stood. From outside the entrance, I could hear the tortured chords of hundreds of people in the halls and cells over the driving beat of this mysterious new menace. Filled with trepidation, I ventured forth into the prison. I had to find the source. It drew me closer. I walk into an empty hallway, lit only by the light from the outside, pouring in through holes in the roof. The screams went silent but the hurt increased in volume. It was uncomfortable and I hated it, but I shouldered the weight. In the distance, a red door, the only red door, was pulling me, magnetized and mesmerized. I stood, silent, scared. In that moment I took stock of my feelings, my emotions. I was of two minds, but a singular body. I hated where I was but only ever wanted to be right there, exactly then. I opened the door.  What I assumed to be a child stood before me. Androgynous and slight. Hairless, pale skin that appeared blue. Blue in the way that a cadaver is blue. The child hovered over the floor, its legs crossed in the way school children's are at story time. The child's eyes looked closed, yet open. Eyelids translucent over black eyes. It's lips were stretched tight across its mouth, the corners forced ever so slightly into a disgusted frown. The child seemed fraught, like it was disappointed in whatever was in its mind. I was compelled to speak but barely made a peep. The child's eyes shot open and all music stopped. *All* music had stopped. The silence was deafening. Staring through me, into my soul, I could feel its presence enter into my consciousness. It was then that I understood: the child wasn't a child. This being was the literal embodiment of hate. It spread itself, like a virus, covering everything in it's path with disgust, hate, anger, rage. Homicide, suicide, and genocide was the goal and this being was damned and determined to spread. The music resumed. It spoke to me. Not in words that any human could comprehend, but in a way that imparted all of its knowledge on me. I was the Eve to its Serpent like the folklore tales of old. I felt the change consume me. I hadn't been in pursuit of good or morality or love, so the hatred plunged into me like a dry syringe into the vein. The Hate imparted on me all the things it was, and left none of me. I was eradicated. I became the fear from which we run. I had become the destroyer of senses. I had become terror. I am Wrath. I am Jealousy. They will all feel me. They will all hear my death march. Humans and mutants alike will feel the chorus of a millions souls. It will be their prison. I will be exalted. No one had any idea what I'd become. I am Sin. I am despair. I am become death. I am death. They will acknowledge me. I am.  Edited to add: this is my first time writing. I initially posted this story originally on r/WritingPrompts I changed a couple things that I thought made the flow better. Please critique and criticize. Thank you for your time.


Lyla Magda and I lay sprawled out on Lyla's turquoise sectional in her spacious entertainment room. There were various modes of entertainment to choose from. A 50-inch flatscreen was mounted on the wall; programmed with any channel or movie you wanted to watch. There was fuse ball, a pool table, a VR station, a scrabble table (my personal favorite), and a recording studio where you could make a video to the song you were singing off karaoke. Lyla was checking her food delivery apps to see who was delivering with a discount. Lyla could eat and was always hungry. High metabolisms ran in her family. So she could shovel it in and not gain one pound. No matter what or how much she ate she stayed a skinny beanpole. Magda was sending audio clips to open voice over positions around the city. Her voice was lovely. People enjoyed talking with and listening to her no matter what the topic was. Magda wanted to host her own holistic radio talk show one day. Me...I was just lying on the sofa agonizing over my Aunt Astra's upcoming visit. Don't get me wrong. I loved my aunt; in fact she was my favorite aunt. She was smart, sophisticated, a stylish dresser, worked out and kept fit, did volunteer charity work, and owned her own advertising agency. So why am I agonizing you ask.....because although my aunt had all those great things going for her; she had two serious flaws. She was honest. Too honest. No I mean like brutally honest and she always repeated her self as if to underline what she said. No one was spared. She didn't discriminate. It didn't matter who you were. My Aunt did not believe in telling even a little white lie....ever. My aunt's attitude was tell and accept the truth and get on with life.

After every declared truth she would say...."If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings shooot if I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" If someone pointed out how her words may have a negative effect.....she always replied..."band-aids are for babies!...shooot....band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?" Take my 5th grade science fair for instance. I was excited and nervous. All my family came to support me. I did my my project on wind energy. I made a wind turbine out of straws, popsicle sticks, and cardboard. The girl to my right did hers on vegetable batteries. The boy to my left did his on the solar system.

It looked like no one helped the boy on my left with his project and he just winged it so he would not get a zero for failure to participate. His planets were balled up socks of various colors and sizes. The sock planets hung on strings that were knotted on several coat hangers tied together with clipped zip-ties to make a mobile.

As for the girl to my right her actual project wasn't bad. It was her backboard that was terrible. It was handwritten with several scratch-outs and the handwriting was crowded and uneven. I guess she ran out of time to get information printed out to use for her blackboard. As people were milling around checking out each project praising, giving hi-fives, fist bumps, and good jobs; my Aunt Astra was videoing. She paused tape and said loudly, "I'm going to have to crop out these two crappy projects on either side of Torianne before I send this out to the family chat group." Even at 10 I was mortified. I wished a giant wormhole would have opened up and swallowed me right there on the spot. There were huffs and angry sucking of teeth along with widened eyes and incredulous raised eyebrows that said....OMG did she just say that?!?! My dad ever the diplomat tried to smooth things over. Aunt Astra was my dads baby sister. "Astra honey I'm sure these young people did their best," said my dad. To which my aunt replied, "If this is their best, she gestured with her hand, then I'd hate to see their worst." The girl started crying. Her mom came to her side to console her and shot my aunt a dirty look. The boy's face flushed red and his fists were balled up at his side. My mom shook her head and bit her bottom lip. "Jeez Astra REALLY?" she said. Aunt Astra said, "What?! If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings...shooot....If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" The boy's father said, "Wow lady don't you see that these are 10 yr old kids?" Aunt Astra shrugged and flung her hair over her right shoulder and said, "Mr. band-aids are for babies!...shooot...band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?" Then there was the time I was trying out for my high school varsity softball team. I liked sports and I was pretty good at them. My gym teacher personally recommended me to the coach as a star player. I was pumped. Many other girls were nervous and worried if they would make the team.

My aunt was talking to her friend Pauline on the phone. "If they make it great; if they don't at least they know the truth....that they don't have any skills for softball. Find something else to do. No need to sulk or cry about it. Band-aids are for babies!...shooot...band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?" she remarked into the phone. I blew air into my cheeks, closed my eyes, and shook my head. After try-outs coach read off the names of who made starting roster. I made the team and was happy. Rolanda Spivey was happy too. She'd made the team. Her friends cheered for her and grabbed her in a 'selfie' group pose. Aunt Astra, still talking on the phone with Pauline, says, "What in the heck was the coach thinking. That girl looks like she could play defensive end on the guys varsity football team. I mean unless she's just going to be the catcher." Rolanda was a BIG girl. She was heavy-set and stood 5'11 in her stocking feet. Still. I closed my eyes willing myself to break up into tiny particles and teleport to Starship Enterprise.

"Aunt Astra, I croaked. "Please I have to practice and play with these girls. Don't make enemies for me." "She chucked my chin and said, "Oh baby girl don't worry. Maybe being on the team will do her some good after all. Get her moving; she'll drop some much needed pounds. Provided she leaves those disgusting fast food joints alone. If she does she'll look good and feel good. You mark my words. If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings...shooot....If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" Needless to say Rolanda and her crew hated my guts for the rest of high school right up until we were sophmores in college where she finally let me explain about my aunt and apologize. On many more occasions my aunt kept it real; while the rest of us had to try and smooth over, clean up, appease, hurt feelings and embarrasments. The all time worst situation involved Dexter Campbell. A guy I developed a crush on in college. We both attended the same local community college. I sat across from Dexter in sociology class. He had a handsome face, wavy black hair, and green eyes. He was popular, kind, and friendly.  For an up coming study project; Dexter and I were assigned to work together.

Professor Elbee wrote a long list of options to choose from for our project. We decided to tackle domestic violence and it's consequences in todays society. A weighty topic; Dexter and I spent a lot of time together over the next 4 weeks getting our project ready . Outside of class we would meet at the library, the park, the local coffee shop, and a popular diner downtown.

Even after the assignment was completed and submitted we still hung out sometimes.

Finally I got up the nerve to invite him, to my family BBQ. I can't tell you the relief I felt when Aunt Astra said she didn't think she would make it because she was tied up trying to work out some kinks in a contract for a cat food comercial in Arizona. On the day of the BBQ the weather was nice: clear blue sky with plenty of sunshine without being hot. Magda and Lyla of course were there along with a few other girls I had invited. Dexter came and brought his two roommates. My Uncle Herb the grillmaster was serving up delicious varieties of meats on one grill and non-meat options on another grill. The little kids were having a great time on the slip and slide. Other family members and friends sat in groups of two or more...chatting, playing cards, hang-man, and arguing over who was trying to cheat while playing a board game. Dexter and his roommates decided to toss a frisbee they had brought along. Magda hit me on the shoulder; then pointed to my patio door. "Hey look it's your Aunt Astra." I immediately got a migrane. "Please God do not let her embarrass me today in front of Dexter," I pleaded. Apparently Aunt Astra was able to wrap things up earlier than expected and take a direct flight and make it on time to the family BBQ after all. My aunt was making her rounds greeting family and friends. At the exact time she made it to me and my friends; Dexter threw the frisbee and clipped my Aunt Astra on the side of her head. Dexter came running over to us all apologetic; saying it was an accident was she hurt; could he get her a glass of water? My aunt looked at Dexter and asked him his name. "Hi I'm Dexter sorry again." he said. My aunt smiled and said, "My,my,my, so THIS is the sociology hunk my neice is madly in love with. No wonder you have a crush on him. He's cute, smart, sporty, and a gentleman. What more can you ask for. Torianne you better not let this catch get away." Dexter raised his left eyebrow as a slow grin spread across his face.

I only know that because Magda told me later. I was to busy trying not to pass out. I was tingly and hot; my face red as cranberries. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me making it hard for me to breathe. "OMG Aunt Astra!" I finally gurgled out. "What?! If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings....shooot....If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" Mom came over and gave me a side hug while rubbing my back. "Astra! Jeez! Can you stop embarrasing people?" she said. My Aunt came over to me and hugged me and then cupped my face in her hands and said, "Suck it up buttercup. He's a keeper. Remember band-aids are for babies!....shooot....band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?"


Hope. It is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? It is free of cost and gets us through the darkest of times. We can even call it our best companion. And, why shouldn’t we? It stays with us till the very end. It’s not its fault that we masochists can’t hold onto it. I hardly remembered the boy I used to be. But I did remember the man he wanted to become. It was funny how I was not even close to that. If anything, I was the farthest thing away from it, 73 million lightyears, to be precise. People still looked up to me, though. They praised me for who I was – a Class A Deep Space Astronaut. It was funny how far I had come in a career I resented. Earth was crumbling. All the resources were exhausted, economies were collapsing, people were dying, etc. In short, the world was beyond repair. This is why the UN declared an Emergency. All the capital and human resources around the globe were redirected to essential services. Deep Space Exploration Program was one of them. It was a ‘concerted effort to fix the irremediable.’ I started as a resource soldier at the age of nineteen. My primary job was to mine for resources (metals, clean fuels, etc.), amongst other things. Then, after a while, people were required in the deep space exploration program, so I was thrown into that. A skill manager there put me into pilot training. She thought I was good at it for some reason. Over the years, I successfully lead over 25 extra-terrestrial resource mining missions without as much as a single complication. After that, I was promoted to Class A and given my own unit. Only a handful of people were there in the Class A club, but I was the fastest and the youngest one to get in. But did I care about all of that? Absolutely not. I didn’t give two fucks about any of it. I did what I did not because I wanted to, but because I had to. To survive, or whatever. I didn’t hate the job in particular, though. I hated the world in general for what it had become. It ruined my life and then just left me for dead. My team and I were supposed to go to a planet 4.58 million lightyears away from Earth. Our main task was to explore and lay the groundwork for its mining. But, the wormhole we came through got unstable, and we ended up 73 million lightyears away from home, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Exposure to the unstable exotic matter had fried all of our ship’s systems. We had no way to contact Earth, or... Basically, we were just good for nothing. We were fortunate enough that primitive hardware-based technologies like oxygen filtration, heat, and refrigeration survived, or we would have died within a few hours. But that was bound to happen anyway. We had been stranded for a week, yet no one came to rescue us. Which meant that no one was coming for us in the first place. If they were, they would have come by then. The ship’s oxygen levels were falling dangerously, and the food and water were running out. The heat systems were running out of fuel as well. At best, we had just about two days left to live. That is when all hope was lost. According to our calculations, one hour at our location equalled four years on Earth. That meant that we had been missing there for centuries. Of course, that’s if humanity survived for that long, to begin with. The prospect of not having a home was taking a toll on me. Before, there was hope. Hope that someday everything will get better and I’ll find what I was looking for. But, now that that hope was stripped away from me, I broke down. I remember that day well. I was in the Geography Lab, lying on the couch...weeping and drinking. My nose was running, and my clothes were all weird. I was a mess. That is when my geographer and engineer walked in. “Chief, you okay?” Egor, the geographer, asked. “Yeah, I’m fine.” “Oh, you’re definitely not fine. I have worked with you longer than anyone else on this ship. But, in all these years, I haven’t seen one emotion on your face, not even a smile. And now you are crying. So, something is definitely bugging you. Besides the obvious, of course,” said Zoe. “Chief, we are all gonna die in a few days, anyways. So, you might as well open up your heart. Let it all out,” said Egor. “This isn’t what I wanted. Any of this.” “This what?” Egor asked. “This. All of this. This life, this world, this career, this stupid fucking Class A badge,” I said as I ripped the badge out and threw it away out of frustration. “Woah, Chief! That badge is a badge of honour. You’ve earned it. You have done so much for the world. You’ve...achieved so much. All that means nothing to you?” Zoe asked. “I didn’t want to do it. I just...did what I had to do. This is not the life I wanted.” “Then what did you want, Chief?” Egor asked. “I wanted to be a painter. I had it all planned out, you know. I’d go to art school, meet a nice guy, fall in love, become successful, get married, start a family. I had so many fantasies of doing all that cliché relationship stuff, of having an ordinary happy life. But that will never happen now. I survived all these years because I had hope. Hope that someday everything will go back to normal. But, that’s all gone now. Now, we are all gonna die within 48 hours, and I won’t get to experience any of that. I will never know what it feels like to have someone by your side. What it feels like to be in love. Or what it feels like to have a child depend on you. None of that. Just a lonely insignificant death. No one will even find our bodies.” “Everything will be alright, Chief. Don’t you worry,” said Egor and hugged me. And, just like that, I started sobbing into his chest. Years of pent-up feelings were coming out. The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed. A couple hours had passed by. I was feeling much better, considering everything. I guess it’s true what they say. You shouldn’t bottle up your feelings. I went into the lounge area, which is where everyone usually did nothing, but no one was there. I checked the labs and the rooms, but there was still no sign of anyone. The last place I expected them to be in was the cockpit. “What are you guys doing in this dump?” “Looking at that asteroid,” said Saad, pointing in a random direction. I squinched my eyes and tried to focus. Since I was a bit hungover, it took me a while to see it. “It’s gonna hit us,” said Zoe. “How can you be so sure?” “I just know,” she said. “Well, at least, this way, it will be instantaneous.” “That’s a valid point,” said Bethany. “How long until impact?” “I’d say ten hours,” said Zoe. “Okay... Everyone, listen here. Wrap up your business, whatever it is...if any. We’ll all gather here T-30 minutes from impact. Dress good, people. It will obviously be an open casket.” Those somewhat ten hours were the longest ten hours of my life. Accepting death is one thing, but waiting for it is far worse. I cleaned my room and packed everything. I don’t know why, but it felt necessary. After that, I dry-cleaned myself and wore my uniform. All of us gathered in the cockpit way before time. We all sat in our seats and talked about our lives for the rest of the time. There wasn’t much, though. Just work, missions, and...that’s it. Finally, it was time. The asteroid was here. Saad started the countdown, and I closed my eyes. Three... Two... One... And, boom. Everything went quiet. There was nothing but darkness around me. I was in what seemed like a void, pure emptiness. And, the silence... It was deafening. I felt no pain, no anger, no pulse, nothing. Just dread. It was like standing in the middle of the jungle at midnight. Terrifying. Was I in hell? Or heaven? I didn’t know. But, it was agonizing, the loneliness. And, apparently, you can’t fall asleep in death. It’s not an option. I don’t know how long I was there, but I could feel my mind breaking. Just the prospect of spending eternity like that is enough to break you. Suddenly, there was light. It was like a dot, twinkling, at a far-off distance. And, I could hear something too – the faint sounds of waves and seagulls. It was overwhelming to feel the presence of something else in existence. I started walking towards the light. I walked, and ran, and then again walked. I kept walking for what felt like years. But, giving up wasn’t an option. Eventually, I could feel it getting closer to me, the light. And, the sound of waves was getting louder as well. When I finally got close enough, I could make out that the source of light was some kind of an orb. It was also the source of the wave sounds. When I touched it, my hand went through. It was spine-chilling, but I somehow pulled myself together and walked in. I was blinded by the light, and then I woke up. There was a small window in front of me, and I could see the sky through it. It took me a second to realize that I was in bed. Then I felt it, a breath at the back of my neck and the hands wrapped around me. I gently untangled myself from the firm grip and got up. I saw the man who was holding me. He had tanned skin and short dark hair. He was also shirtless. I could have admired his form all day, but I had more pressing issues. I had no idea where I was besides in a wooden cabin. I walked out of the cabin and was met with the most beautiful beach I had ever seen. It was mesmerizing, the caramel sand and the blue water. The sky was a seamless gradient of purple and orange, so it was hard to tell if it was dusk or dawn. But, the landscape was breath-taking nonetheless. The cool sand against my soles, the gentle breeze against my skin, the sound of waves and rumbling trees falling in my ear, it was all magical. It had to be heaven, I thought. A few minutes later, I went back into the cabin. The man was still sleeping like an angel. When I looked up from him, I saw myself in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself at all. I looked much younger, and I was skinnier than before. And, I had a beard. And medium-long hair! And, the scar on my forehead was gone. I took my shirt and shorts off only to discover that my abs were gone too, and so was the scar on my thigh. I also noticed something else. There was a ring on my finger! Shocked, I pulled the quilt off the sleeping beauty, only to find a ring on his finger as well. I was fucking married to this guy! I was processing everything when something dinged – a phone. I didn’t recognize the model. But, it unlocked the moment I picked it up. It knew me, I guess. The wallpaper was a picture of me giving the sleeping beauty a piggyback ride. I got dressed and sat on the stairs outside the cabin. It took me a while to figure my way around the phone. I didn’t recognize the OS or any of the apps. But, I was familiar with one thing – Gallery. The pictures in the gallery were exhilarating. In this life, I had already done everything I wanted to do. I was a successful painter. Dated for years and then got married. I even had kids, a boy, and a girl. As soon as I found about them, I had this uncontrollable urge to know their whereabouts. I went in to ask the sleeping beauty about them, but when I got in, he was already looking at me, all confused. “Where were you? Come back to bed. It’s still too early,” he said. “Where are the kids?” That was the first time I heard my own voice. It was different, less hoarse. “What do you mean where they are?” he asked. When I didn’t say anything, he got up from the bed and hugged me. “Hey, we dropped them at your parents’ house. Don’t you remember?” “My parents? They are still alive?” I accidentally blurted out. “Of course, they are! What are you talking about? You sick or something?” “I’m fine.” “Let’s go back to bed. Come on. You are probably sleep-deprived. We went a bit too crazy last night,” he said. We went back to bed, and this time, he cuddled up to me. I had never felt such peace before. It was truly blissful. I had the best sleep of my life that day. The other version of me was as alive as I was. With time, our consciousnesses merged, and we became one. While he got the inspiration for his art, I got everything I always wanted. Death is inevitable, yes, but it is not the evil everyone makes it out to be. In fact, it is the best thing that ever happened to me.