October 21, 1950. The train doors clanged loudly as they closed at the nearly deserted station, echoing through the empty platform. The late-night crowd shuffled onto the train like spectral figures, their dark, drab attire and flickering lights giving them an otherworldly appearance. Among this monochrome scene, one figure stood out a woman in an oversized vintage suit, her pants nearly brushing the grimy concrete. Eve Edwin, a determined private investigator, boarded the train with one goal in mind, to crack a cold case involving the disappearances of four children, this was classified as serial killer crime each event happening with same MO, children of the age of 10 were abducted and found dead at Station Stop 5, each exactly ten years apart. This night marked the fateful date again, October 21st, 1950. Despite regulations against personal involvement in cases, Eve was drawn back by a sense of duty and a vow to solve it before another child vanished. As she settled into her seat amidst the oppressive atmosphere of cigar smoke and whiskey, Eve noticed a peculiar boy. Unlike the rest, he wore brightly coloured clothes from another era, his gaze fixed on her with large, glittering blue eyes. They exchanged a silent connection until the next stop, where he disappeared into the departing crowd. Determined to learn more, Eve pursued him through the thicket of grey, only to find him gone. Sitting back down disappointed, she felt a ghostly chill and, to her surprise, the boy’s icy hand clasped hers. Startled, she turned to find him sitting beside her again. "Where did you suddenly disappear too?" she blurted out. The boy gazed up at her with wide, luminescent blue eyes, framed by delicate lashes. His pale skin, almost translucent, gave him an ethereal, almost ghostly presence, making him look like he belonged to another world. His soft features, rounded cheeks, and small nose, were framed by wisps of light blonde hair that fell lightly across his face. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, calm and soothing, like a breeze on a still evening, contrasting sharply with the strangeness of his clothing. Eve, in contrast, stood tall and imposing. Her sharp, angular features gave her an air of authority. A wild mane of fiery red hair cascaded down her back, matching the fierce intensity of her gaze. Her voice was strong, loud, and commanding, filling the space with its presence. Everything about her seemed to burn with energy and passion, the polar opposite of the boy's quiet, unsettling calm. The eerie quiet of the train enveloped them. A cold breeze made Eve shiver as she realized the train had stopped moving, and the boy had vanished once more, however as eve inspected the seat the little boy was previously sitting on she was stunned to see that the seat had built up cobwebs and dust. The doors shut, as the train resumed its journey, and then, suddenly, his hand was in hers again.

This time, she asked, "Why have you returned to this train?" Baffled by her own question. The boy, his eyes unnervingly wise, replied softly, "I don't know." His hand tightened around hers, unnaturally cold. Eve ventured, "when did you step into this train, how long have you been waiting?" "I've lost track of how long it's been," he said cryptically, pointing to the train doors. "How long I've been on this train." Eve's concern grew. The boy disappeared each time the train stopped, leaving behind dusty seats covered in cobwebs. As the train moved again, he reappeared, calmly stating, "I got on this train on October 21, 1900." Stunned, Eve realized the boy should be much older if that were true. "How old are you now?" she asked, fear creeping into her voice. "I'm about ten and a half now," he replied, eyes welling with tears. Eve embraced him tightly, but in an instant, he vanished again as the train came to a sudden halt. With a sinking feeling, Eve considered the possibilities. And with a summary she asked “Ni-Nico” His eyes glittering with tears as they’re perfectly structured forms shattered on the solid ground, the train paused, could it be Nico could only appear under certain conditions, perhaps on the anniversary of his death, or when his killer was near. As the train resumed and Nico reappeared, Eve whispered urgently, "Nico, is the person who murdered you on this train? Are they watching us?" In horror, Nico nodded. The train car felt colder than ever as Eve processed Nico's revelation. She had to tread carefully. Nico's killer could be anyone among the passengers. She watched them with suspicion, noting their every move, searching for any unnatural sign. Minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by the rhythmic chug of the train. Eve's mind raced with questions. How had Nico been murdered? Who could have done such a thing? And why had his spirit been condemned to this eternal journey? Nico remained by her side, his presence both comforting and unsettling. He seemed to grow weaker with each passing minute, his translucent form flickering in and out of visibility. "I don't have much time" he whispered hoarsely. "You must find them before it's too late." Eve nodded, her determination solidifying. She knew what she had to do. Shuffling through her bag, She retraced Nico's story, digging into the archives of old newspapers and police reports. She pieced together fragments of information, rumors of a child's disappearance, whispers of foul play, and the mysterious silence that followed each incident. Then, in a tattered old newspaper from 1900, Eve found a breakthrough. A brief article spoke of a child named Nico, who had vanished on October 21st, 1900, from Station Stop 5. The circumstances were murky, but witnesses reported seeing a shadowy figure lurking near the train tracks, the description they gave of the man matched a old suspect that had not been identified. He had lost his 10 year old daughter, after that incident he became quiet violent towards his peers. With renewed purpose, Eve confronted the passengers one by one, probing for clues, searching for any trace of guilt or unease. Among them, she noticed a middle aged man, fidgeting nervously, constantly adjusting his collar whenever her gaze lingered too long. His eyes flicked restlessly around the train car, avoiding her stare. Something about him unsettled her.

As if sensing he was being watched, the man suddenly rose from his seat and made his way toward the train doors. In horror, Eve realized he was clutching the small hand of a little girl, gently but insistently urging her forward. The girl, too young to understand the gravity of the situation, followed, her small steps traced through the train, obedient to the man’s words. Instinctively, Eve shouted, “Stop that man!” Her voice cut through the murmur of the passengers, but most remained indifferent, just lifeless souls moving through the motions of the night. Yet one figure reacted to a woman clutching a small teddy bear, whose eyes widened in terror. “That’s my daughter!” the woman cried. Eve’s pulse quickened, and without waiting, she launched herself toward the doors, racing against the momentum of the slowing train. As the man neared the exit, she leaped between him and the doors, blocking his path with a fierce resolve. “It’s over," she bellowed, her voice commanding. "Let her go.” The man froze, his fury palpable. His eyes darted around wildly, searching for an escape. The train had begun to slow, and his panic was escalating. Sweat beaded on his brow, his grip on the little girl’s hand tightening as though he were trying to hold onto his last shred of control. Just then, Nico appeared. His ghostly form materialised beside the man, laying his small, icy hand on the man’s arm. At the sight of the boy, the man recoiled, his face twisting in a mix of horror and guilt.

“No, no, no… not you,” the man sputtered, his voice cracking. His breath came out in shallow gasps. “You were an accident. You started this!” His grip on the little girl’s fragile hand loosened. The girl, sensing the tension, pulled free and ran into her mother’s arms, sobbing. The man, shaking, tried to pry Nico’s hand from his arm, but Nico’s grip held firm.

Desperate and defeated, the man collapsed to the floor as the train came to a halt. His body trembled, his face streaked with tears. “It wasn’t my fault,” he cried. “They didn’t want to stay with me. I just wanted to give them a better home…” Nico’s grip vanished as the train doors opened. The once shadowy past came into clarity as the man’s confession echoed in the cold, silent train. The truth, laid bare, revealed a tortured man whose misguided need for love had turned deadly, trapping Nico in a cycle of vengeance and sorrow. Eve stood over the man, her heart pounding in her chest. Justice, at last, had come. As the train settled into silence, the tension of the moment faded, leaving Eve alone with her thoughts and Nico’s spectral presence. The confession of the killer echoed in her mind he had taken those children out of a twisted need for love, a need he didn’t understand. But as Eve turned her attention back to Nico, standing silently beside her, she sensed something was still left unsaid. "Nico," she whispered, her voice soft but firm. "It’s over now. The man who hurt you… he’s gone. You’re free." Nico didn’t respond immediately. His small, pale hand reached for hers again, and she felt the icy chill of his touch. His eyes, deep and sad, stared into hers. "I’m not free, Eve," he said quietly. "Not yet." Eve knelt beside him, confused. "What do you mean? He’s been caught. You can move on now, Nico. You don’t have to stay here anymore." Nico’s gaze faltered, his lip trembling. "I didn’t see the others, Eve. When they died, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t help them… I wasn’t taken like they were. I came back because I was afraid." His voice shattered, as though he was confessing something he had buried deep inside. Eve frowned, her heart clenching at the sight of the small, frightened boy in front of her. "What are you afraid of, Nico?" "I’m scared to leave," Nico whispered, his voice barely audible. "I’m scared of what’s next. What if... there’s nothing after this?" Eve’s chest tightened. She had faced her own fears before, many times in her life, but she couldn’t imagine the terror that affects a young boy like Nico trapped for so long, afraid of the unknown. She gently pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him. His cold form felt fragile in her embrace, and yet she held him tightly, determined to give him the comfort he needed. "I don’t know what comes next either, Nico," she said softly, her voice steady despite the tears that trickled in her eyes. "But you’re not alone. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’ve been brave for so long. It’s okay to let go now." Nico’s form flickered, his body growing lighter as his translucent edges began to blur. A soft, ethereal glow surrounded him, brightening as Eve held him tighter. His grip on her hand loosened, but he looked up at her, his once terrified expression softening into one of peace. "Will you stay with me?" he asked, his voice trembling. "I’m right here, Nico," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I won’t leave you." As the light around him intensified, Nico’s small body seemed to dissolve into it, becoming one with the soft glow that now filled the train car. Eve could feel his presence slipping away, like mist fading into the morning air, and yet she didn’t let go. She held on until there was nothing left to hold. And then, with one final flicker of light, Nico was gone. The train came to a stop, the doors opening to the cool night air. Eve stood alone in the quiet car, her arms still raised as if holding onto the memory of the boy who had once been beside her. She felt the warmth of the lingering light on her skin, a gentle reminder that Nico had finally found peace. She stepped off the train, glancing back one last time at the empty carriage. The ghostly chill that had once hung in the air was gone, replaced by a sense of calm. Nico had passed on, no longer trapped, no longer afraid. With a deep breath, Eve walked away from the platform, the case finally closed. But the memory of Nico the brave little boy who had faced his fear stayed with her, a light that would never fade. For In his final memory, Nico’s secret was simply fear.


The police sirens filled the night with noise and light. Red and blue illuminating the street as the yellow tape was strewn about the building. Aaron Pulitz stepped out of his old car. He took a long drag on the cigarette in his mouth, pulled it out, breathed in the poison, then dropped the rest of it to the floor stomping it out with a hard boot. Aaron had never thought his career would lead him here. The bakery on 3rd Street. A small building which usually had a large window to show off the tons of cakes and other baked goods. But now it was broken through. As if something had broken out of the window. Leading away from the cracked window was a long trail of blood. Aaron had come to this place before when he was just a beat cop. He could see it now the old tight uniform encasing his at the time, less pudgy form. He would always get a cherry danish. His mouth watered at the thought. He wondered if while no one was looking he could just help himself to a little nostalgia. Aaron walked away from his car and ducked under the yellow tape to get a closer look at the window. As he approached, he noticed the looks on the other faces. Some looking away, others bent over, globs of spit and vomit dripping from their chins. He sniffed the air and had a hunch as to why. The air smelt like rotten meat and well vomit. Aaron walked to the other detective on the scene (a rookie) Dan Barns. His collar was undone and dribble fell from his chin to the small gut which poked out from his button-up, it stuck out just enough to catch the falling spit. "What happened here Barns?" Aaron asked placing one hand on Barnes' shoulder, the other clutched his waist. Barns sat with an unknowing expression. "They said this shit got bad sometimes, but holy fuck." Barnes said covering his eyes with his hands. "Alright, bud," Aaron said back to Barnes. "What is going on in there," Aaron asked pulling a cigarette from his left pocket, placed it in his mouth, and lit it with a small box of matches he pulled from his other pocket. He placed the matches back into his pocket and looked at Barnes while puffing on the cigarette, the end of it turning red. "Y-you just got to see it yourself," Barnes said getting off the hood of the police cruiser he sat on. Slowly he composed himself, pulled up his pants, and headed for the bakery door. "The cops got the call about an hour ago, some bullshit about a break-in but when they got here they saw the front window and the blood. After that, a few guys went in and came out faces white." Barnes went on as the door to the bakery opened Aaron looked around. The floor was stained red, small footprints (more than one set) lead to the window. The counters looked unclean and cluttered. Flour spilled everywhere some of it mixing in with the puddles of blood making a thick paste. "Finally I went in and well.." Barnes stopped dead and stared at Aaron, his eyes filled with fear. Aaron could feel the energy of unnatural terror radiating from him. His heart began to beat hard and adrenaline began pumping through his veins as Barnes stared through him. Aaron turned towards the only room in the place that was illuminated. He could see the large blood splatter that decorated the green wall in the doorway. A small Edison bulb hung inside the doorframe. Aaron walked on determined to figure out what had happened here. He calmed himself with thoughts of past crime scenes. He had endured. severed heads and more blood, and piss than a person should ever have to see in one lifetime. Once in the room, he saw the stairs leading down to a stone basement the blood trailed up the stairs, and in some of the puddles, he could see small logs which he finally figured to be small fingers. Small handprints decorated the walls. He continued down the tail of his trench coat dragging through each puddle as he went down. Finally, at the bottom, he stopped. His hand gripping hard against the railing which clung to the wall with rusty nails. His pupils grew small and his stomach turned. The walls were covered in blood. Chains decorated the walls each cuff too small to fit the hand of an..adult. He walked on stepping through puddle after puddle. In the larger room, there were three doors the first seemed to be a butcher's room, the walls decorated with knives, and sat on the cutting board was a slab of meat the skin of which seemed to be only a few shades darker than the skin on his hips. His mouth began to taste like every danish he had ever purchased from the shop. The second room seemed to be a kitchen, stoves lined the walls, kitchen knives and pans hung from jagged nails. The oven was opened in it was a small smoldering pie. The last door was closed but as he got closer he could smell the rotting meat. He walked to the room, opened the door, and felt up the walls next to the doorframe. Slowly he moved a finger onto the light switch. He hesitated, his heart beating. He was scared. In 15 years of work, he had never been scared to turn on a light. He flipped it on and stared. The walls were covered in blood. In the middle of the room stuck to a post was a small boy a clever stuck in his chest, holding him against the post. On the ground next to the boy was a large man wearing a mask, a pair of meat scissors sticking out of his chest a small bloody handprint engraved to the side of the blades. He stared for what seemed like forever. In the same room sat pastries and danishes, all decorated with cute little sprinkles some splattered with blood. On the table sat a large book opened to a page with a familiar picture. He stared at the book vomit falling through his lips. The book read: " Raspberry danish. Ingredients: 1. Raspberries 2. Children's blood..." Aaron held his midsection and could feel it turning and shaking. He was watching his teeth sink into danish after danish each one becoming part of the small paunch that sat on his waist. His eyes began to twitch and tear up. He turned from the room and walked back up the stairs, he walked past Barnes and the others. Straight to his car, he pulled his cigarettes out of his left pocket with shakey hands, the other hand dug into his right pocket pulling out his matches shaking a few out of the box as he dug into them. As he lit the cigarette in his mouth he read what was left on the glass window. "Bakery on 3rd: old family secret." He thought about the empty chains and the dead man. One question sat on repeat in his mind. "Where had the secret ingredients run off too?"


The dreams only continued to plague me more so. I had tried everything. Fasting, prayer and even attempting in vain to drown them with unwatered wine, but the entrance to the tunnels remained vivid in my mind's eye. I was the companion of a friend of the great Hugues de Payens. I gained his acquaintance a Christmas mass in Paris several years ago now. The choir was singing in chorus as his firm grip compressed my hand, candles flickered deep in his pupils and I could sense the greatness of the man. Word made it's way to us that Jerusalem had fallen in the great Year of our Lord, 1118, and de Payens hastened to gather a small friendly group to bring along with him. De Payens had invited my companion on the excursion and I was subsequently invited soon after.

The ancient Holy city was filled with wonders and great places and scenes I had only read of in the Good Book. The smoky smell of burned firewood and cattle prevailed. Our first night there we were put into a procession and marched in the great Temple Mount. A full moon was glinting off the golden domed roof making it appear mere silver. Inside, de Payens voice boomed with authority has we were all were given white tunics with large red crosses sewn into the chest. Then silence fell across the room before we made a solemn vow to never tell anyone of what we were doing here. Our voices chanted in holy rhythm. That was six years ago, almost to the day. That night we learned what our mission was to be. We were going to search the tunnels below the Temple Mount for the Arch of the Covenant. Another hush controlled the room after that news was relinquished. What excitement! We were now soldiers of God Almighty. After the vows, fellowship and wine that followed the dreams began earnestly. All I could see was the inky black entrance to were we would be working but there was a low rumble coming from the depth of the hole that worried me. It was almost a growl. Dreams are dreams however and to my godly knowledge do not have any impact on our day to day lives. I toiled on, along with everyone else.

The tunnels were pitch black. Once inside all the clamor of Jerusalem vanished. The only light waving and flickering off of our torches. The orange glow making our red crosses appear royal purple. Closer to the exit the tunnels were fairly clear but the deeper we made our way the older and dirtier things had gotten. Several cave ins had slowed our way but we worked long into the nights bringing bucket after bucket up and outside into the world.

Another thing I found odd at this time, was the deeper we gained entry and the closer we came to being directly beneath the Mount a strange pressure was pushing against us. It was not trying to force us out of the tunnels but it was crushing our very beings like deep ocean water. Nose bleeds became more and more frequent and at times I thought my eyes would pop out of their sockets.

One night, we had been deep under the ground and we were sure we were close to being directly underneath the Temple Mount. We had all been digging for hours when a commotion broke out up toward the front. Then exaltation. Hugues de Payens began to sob at the base of a bronze door he had just unearthed. Torches flickered wildly with the cheers of the men. The cheers were muffled and there was no echo once it was done. My friend, Monet, clapped my shoulder and his silver front incisor gleamed in the fire light has he smiled. "We have done it, mon amie." "Oui. Dieu est heureux." Hugues, once regaining control of himself, stood and put both his hands on the door, like he was telling a carriage to halt. The Earth let out a groan and she trembled at his touch. Dust fell from the tops of the tunnel and several of the men did Hail Mary's. Hugues was shouting prayers. Other men were praying too but I was distracted. This whole scene was familiar. Then I placed it. It was the reoccurring dream I had been having. I wasn't seeing the entrance to the tunnel itself, I was seeing the entrance to the Arch of the Covenant. Hugues shoved on the door but it would not budge. Then other men helped him and it screamed on it's hinges as it slowly rolled open. I could only stand and watch in terror. Once the doorway was wide open and the only thing staring back was jet black darkness, de Payens brought up a torch and the dancing orange flicker of flame waltz across the golden container with angels nesting on top. The shimmer of the flame light was intensely bright off of the Arch. We all stood speechless. Hugues approach the holy relic and brought his hand out to open the thing. A silent scream was coming up from my throat but I couldn't make a sound. Hugues flipped the lid to the ground and nothing happened. Hugues's eyes were covered in shadow as he peered into the ancient container. Before he could get light over the edge, the Earth around us let out another bellow. It was as if we had passed through it's maw and were now settling down in it's belly. Waiting to be absorbed. The tunnel and room the Arch was in was silent until the moving planet had silenced. Then before anyone made a move, a heavenly light burst out from the Arch. Hundreds of white orbs circled around in the glowing light going up and up like riding a tornado. I could feel the warm wind that was coming out of the box. Hugues eyes were wide with amazement the moment before the pressure finally caused them both to burst inside his sockets. De Payens let out a horrible scream before his tongue turned to liquid in his mouth. The men immediately behind him began to turn but it was too late. The back of their tunics burst into flames.

Monet had me by the shoulder and we were running up has fast as we could. The closer to the opening we made it the lighter the pressure felt. One glance behind me and I could see the white light seeping it's way up the tunnels behind us. Monet had tripped in the dark and I stumbled over him in a lump. I was up and running before I even thought again about Monet. When I made the opening and dove into the outside world, I turned to no one behind me. Monet was gone. Then the light began to emerge deep in the darkness and I knew I had to close the opening as quickly as I could. I scrambled to my feet, sliding on loose gravel as I did. I was pushing on the enormous door with all I had. The ground at my feet was brightening. Then before the door had been shut the weight of the light his the other side and sent me sprawling. I was dazed and something tickled my brain. I looked up and watched the light and the orbs inside it swirl up into the night sky. The next morning, I was found outside still lying on the ground. A French officer ran up to me, "Monsieur, allez-vons bien?" "I'm okay, I believe. I could use some water." I didn't have the heart to tell him just yet of the night before. I didn't really know how to tell anyone. He was just staring at me with a quizzical look on his face.

"Monsieur?" "What is the matter?" "Je ne comprends pas." He stood up and tilted his head like a curious dog. I was beginning to realize he didn't understand me at all. "Water." I said and realized it sounded very strange. "Water." I said again and it wasn't the right word. I can think of the word in my head, L'eau , but every time I went to say it, it came out, "Water." Whatever the devil that was. Whatever happened to me last night it has changed my language.

Months have passed and I'm here in the Bastille in France. Nothing but time on my hands. I couldn't answer any of the questions pertaining to the night before. I can understand everyone but no one can understand me. Everyone seems to think I'm speaking some form of English but none of which anyone today can speak. I've had plenty of time to think about the events of that night and what I saw. I firmly believe now that there was never an Arch of the Covenant. I think the box we unearthed was Pandora's box itself. The very one. If it was the evil is out now. Nothing I can do about it. Even if I could no one can understand what I saying or writing. This is all gibberish to everyone who sees this but I. So, if anyone ever uncovers my tale and can possibly decipher this text, you'll know what has come of your world.

Now, my time has come and they're beckoning for me at the door. Off to be broken on the wheel. Another wretched soul lost. I already know where I'll be heading afterwards. We can only learn so much and live.


He awoke in bed. Stiffly, he reached for the edge of the bedframe to prop himself up. His joints popped as he levered himself erect, and he faced the large interior of his lavish bedchamber. Moving towards the wall closest to him, he half leaned on it to shuffle towards his numerous dressers on the other side of the room. Sunlight streamed out of the large windows, looking into a courtyard of snow, as he shuffled along the wall. Reaching the other side of the room minutes later, he looked up, above the dressers, at the large mechanical clock fitted above the center cabinet. He still had thirty minutes. His stomach grumbled, but he knew it would be an effort in futility to try to eat. His lean, malnourished body demanded food, but his hands shook far too much for him to eat more than spoonfuls of the worst sort of soup. Ignoring his bodies promptings, he shuffled to the far side of the dressers, snatching his walking cane from the wall it was propped against. Armed with his cane, he shuffled towards the exit. He slowly made his way past the two guards, standing rigidly at their post, on either side of the door. They did not move as he limped past, instead staring straight ahead into space. They had been ordered not to escort him, on today of all days. It was the one day they had not been by his side in nearly a century. After what seemed like hours later, although it had only been a few minutes, he reached the door. It was a plain, wooden door, of average height and plain in appearance. Anyone who did not know what he knew would not think anything of it. Opening the door by its handle, the hinges complained noisily. Beyond the door, gaped a dark room, with only one window to give relief. The room was below him, bridged by a wooden staircase reaching up to the entrance and now-open door. Gritting his teeth, he put his foot on the first stair that led down into the room. Stairways were the enemy. Stairs should be ripped out of the entire city, he resolved, just as soon as this ordeal was over. Yet he had no choice, and so put his right foot forward onto the first stair downwards. Each passing stair took painful moments to navigate with his enfeebled frame. Finally, he reached the bottom, and moved several feet beyond the stairs, where a wooden bench sat amongst the gloom of the dim room. Behind the bench, barely visible were a set of plain white archway, leading nowhere. He reached down and grabbed the loaded crossbow below the bench. The sunlight coming from the solitary window played against the plentiful dust motes in the air. He waited. He had only just caught his breath from the harrowing ordeal that had been the staircase when he heard it. The door creaked open. Soft feet fell upon the stairs. A short figure approached him. A young girl, with short brown hair, looking of the age of 15, appeared in the dim light of the one window in front of him. She appeared startled, not expecting to see someone else. Why should she be surprised? He had been expecting her. He aimed the crossbow at her chest, and touched the spot on it that would trigger the release. A soft swishing noise followed. The girl laid sprawled on the ground, scrabbling for anything, making fast breaths. Blood pooled around her body. “Good”, he thought. He had been aiming for her lungs. It was much quieter that way. “I’m sorry it has to be this way”, he began, as she writhed on the floor. “See, I was like you. Just like you in fact. The gods chose me to lead the kingdom for my allotted century. When I was done, I decided I should talk with my successor - inform him of what I had done, and what he might do to protect the kingdom. It was a break in tradition, I knew, but I waited down here, by the arches, behind me. Imagine my surprise when I met my successor, and he was only a kid. He cared not at all for the work I had done. He insulted me and thought nothing of the work I had done, and yet the gods had chosen him to lead the kingdom!” At this moment, he set down his crossbow and reached for his cane. He hobbled up from the bench, his joints popping in protest. Winning the brief skirmish, by only external aid in the form of his cane, he resumed explaining his story to her. “The gods were fools, I decided. In a fit of rage, rage over the work that I had done and might be lost, rage over the waste, I killed him. Then I took his place, stepping through the archway. Imagine my surprise when I stepped out young again, rejuvenated and ready to lead for another century! It appears the gods didn’t care who stepped through their archway, the passage to heaven, as long as it was at the specified time. So another century passed. Near the end of it, I waited down here for every day for a month before I finally caught my next successor. Each century, I got a little bit better at predicting the exact end and appearance of my replacement. This time I only had to wait for 5 minutes.” He stopped talking, realizing he was alone. He turned around, and stepped into the archway. Some time later, he stepped out, and as he moved away, let his cane clatter to the floor, abandoned.


“Do you ever just sort of forget you exist?” She looked up, pausing in the middle of her page. “Hmm?” Her girlfriend shifted, careful not to move too much. “Forget you exist. Like, as a person. With… choices, and influence and whatever.” There was a crick in her back. She had been using her girlfriend’s stomach as a pillow, and the movement had caused her body to realize that lying on the floor, however carpeted, was uncomfortable. “Not… really. Why? Do you?” “Eh. Sometimes.” Her girlfriend’s body rose and fell heavily beneath her head, accompanied by a puff of breath. “Just… like, you know. Time has no meaning. You’re tired, you can’t bring yourself to do much of anything, even text your friends, and then suddenly two weeks have passed and you’ve done absolutely nothing.” “Oh.” She considered that, but nothing she could remember experiencing seemed close enough. “I mean, I guess I’ve gotten into funks before, but that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?” “Well, sort of,” her girlfriend mused. “It’s like an extended, deep funk, but coupled with passively questioning your identity, validity, and existence. It kinda sucks.” “Yeah, sounds like it.” She glanced at the page number of her book before closing it and placing it off to the side. “Does it happen often, or…?” “A little.” Her girlfriend’s hand, which had been unconsciously massaging her shoulder, retracted. “It was worse at home.” Her heart sank. She rolled onto her side. Her cheek sank into the soft fabric of her girlfriend’s oversized hoodie. “That makes sense.” “Mmhm.” Her girlfriend stared up at the ceiling. “Because there, I’m not as sure of myself. I didn’t know if I wanted to do something or if my parents wanted me to. For as long as I can remember, it all just felt so wrong, and it was only after I got out of high school and away from home that I started actually looking at myself and wondering, ‘Who am I’?” Her girlfriend fidgeted, tugging her skirt down shakily. “And now that I know, what do I do? I don’t feel comfortable at home anymore. I don’t want to spend any time with them, and I don’t trust them, because I can’t! I can’t rely on them. It’d be bad enough if I, as their daughter, just told them I was gay, but I’d also have to tell th-” “I know! I know,” she interrupted before her girlfriend could get too upset. It would be justified, of course, but sue her. “It’s not fair. They suck. I’m sorry. But it’s not your fault.” Her girlfriend grimaced. “Yeah. I know, I guess.” “Seriously.” She boosted herself up onto her palms, sitting up to look her girlfriend in the face. “Anyone who doesn’t appreciate you for who you are doesn’t deserve to know you.” “Hm.” Her girlfriend didn’t react. She barely looked her in the eyes. “If you say so.” “You don’t believe me?” “Why would I? I’m not smart. I’m not that fun to hang around. I’m not even-” “Okay, no.” She cut her girlfriend off again and turned over to lay down next to and on top of her, draping an arm over her shoulders. Their cheeks rubbed against each other. Her mouth hovered above her girlfriend’s ear. “You are. You are every one of those things, and if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re full of shit.” She waited. Her girlfriend didn’t answer. “Okay?” “...Okay.” She turned her head and pressed a kiss onto her girlfriend’s cheek. “Good girl.” Her girlfriend squeaked. She suppressed a smile. “I love you.” Her girlfriend’s arm wrapped around her, pulling them closer together. “I love you, too.


Try, what does that word mean? To some, it may mean quickly looking over a set of history themed flashcards, or attempting to reach that shiny rock out of the depths of the lake you visit each summer. But to others it may have a deeper meaning, pulling all nighters only to get a fifty percent on a final and get yelled at for not trying hard enough. This generation some adults may question your definition of "I'm trying". You may try your hardest, blood sweat and tears, only to fall into the pits of failure, and you may not want to crawl out of that hole you know you will end up in once again. Then you have New Year's resolutions. The three words that both inspire and cause you to crumble away. Some reach their goals and others find more flaws to add to their never changing list of insecurity and flaws. What is a good New Years resolution? Something that seems impossible, losing one hundred pounds? Something as silly as getting out of bed to eat a meal? Does it have to be as meaningful to others as it is meaningful to you? Will others refer to it as meaningless, or an impossible dream, to far away from the ideal reality to reach? Some may say the whole idea of the New Years Resolution is a waste of effort. An effort that can easily be avoided with the turn of a pupil. How many goals have you set for yourself this year, how many have you accomplished? This year my personal goal was just to try. Not to lose weight like I was often pressured to, or to "act my age" like some adults scolded me to do. It didn't matter if I failed English 11, or if I broke my "Don't cry and let them get to you" record. I just had to try. The months were long, and the pressure even longer, but all I had to do was try. The new me, someone who could try. Not pressured, not forced. No more all nighters to try and pass a topic that squeezed at my brain, not to forgive that one family member that broke my ran with my trust. No more struggling for others. I would just try for myself. Some may call me selfish for wanting that kind of peace, the one where you can leave others words, and ideal thoughts about me behind. I'm not sure if that will ever happen, maybe that would have been one of my goals back when I had the endless energy to please everyone I came across. Not to show anyone who I really was, because no one could accept just that, it was not deemed good enough to the blonde girls in tube tops who would snicker behind my back, or the adults who would ignore me and my opinions because "Anyone under twenty five is stupid and their opinions do not matter." Life itself can make or break someone. Some may never reach their goals, and others will. Some may even need help finding their way, and others are those reliable few that will guide them. I honestly think New Years Resolutions are not about what you can and can not do, but what you think you are capable of trying as a person, and what you would do to try. A lot of people think it is about changing yourself, maybe your imagine or personality, but instead of focusing on all the things they are not, they should realise all the things that they are. The things that make everyone different in their own ways, the true beauty of humans is when they discover themselves for who they really are, and not the dull plastic mask they carry in their pockets. I myself carry one, I am still trying to let it go, maybe one day. Looking back, right here on January fourth, 2021 2:59pm as I type this, all that needed to be remembered from last year was that I tried. It may have seemed like a failure to others, but It had become faith for me. So instead of going into the New Year thinking about that diet, or about how your going to change your laugh because others think it's to loud, tell yourself to try. At what? Well only the person reading this can answer that. I'm not good at assuming, it should be something I should be proud of, but everyone should try. Not fail, not succeed, but try. Just try. Now just try does not half ass something meaningful to you, or just meaningful in general. Just trying means reaching your limits, not your moms, not your bullies, and not any person who won't take the words "I tried" to heart just because you have not reached what you want to touch yet. Work at a pace that works for you, make goals that are for you, not for anyone else. Life may seem long and a struggle more than a joy ride, but in the end you only get one life. Not three, not nine, just one. A life that shouldn't be filled to the brim with self hate or insecurities. Trying for myself has been something I have been thinking about for years, but my goals always turned out to be what others wanted out of me. Being a kinder person, losing weight, being more responsible, stop being lazy, be productive, hurry and choose a career, respect those even if they don't respect you, parents are always right, don't over eat, the list could go on. It was and still is heavy in my mind, and sometimes it bothers me that  I will never be as perfect as they want me to be. Never a perfect student, never a perfect sister, never a perfect daughter. But I have come to realize that these things I carry do not have to be perfect, or even close to such a toxic word. All I have to do is try. Now in 2021, as I sit here writing in the dark with a small furry body in my lap and the soft glow of my moon lamp, for the first time in years I feel the content release of letting go, I didn't worry about what anyone else thinks about my choices. For the first time in a decade all I had to do was try.


The Oak Brook Public Library was shaped like a UFO.

Or maybe one of those tiny shortbread butter cookies that Potbelly Sandwich Shop puts around the straws on milkshakes.

Either way, the undulating curves of the building hid me from the lightly trafficked road out front, and the darkness of night concealed me from anyone looking through the nearby fields.

Despite my rush, my hands fumbled with the ring of keys.

I couldn’t pick out the one that opened the main door in the darkness, and I dropped the whole jumble with a metal clang.

I froze, waiting for someone to call out, but heard nothing other than the gentle chirping of crickets.

I shrugged my heavy backpack higher up on my shoulders, reached down carefully to pick up the keys, and took a deep, calming breath.

Flipping through the ring until I came to one slightly larger than the rest, I slid it smoothly into the lock.

It turned with a click. I was in. The curved glass walls provided beautiful natural light that made the various reading nooks and crannies such a pleasure during the day.

At night, they meant that I didn’t even have the luxury of turning on my flashlight without risk of being seen.

Luckily, I knew the layout of shelves in the hub and spoke format like the back of my hand.

Besides a few red LED lights on the various emergency exit signs, the moonlight that shone through the windows was all the illumination I had.

Luckily, the moon was round and full, providing just enough pale glow to outline the long circulation desk before me.

I was grateful there was no one there to watch me climb awkwardly over the wooden counter. Two low shelves backed up to the circulation desk and held books put on reserve, divided by slips of paper with the name of the patron who requested them.

I slid further along the shelves until I bumped into a metal cart full of books ready to be reshelved tomorrow morning.

Working by feel, I unzipped my oversized purse and pulled out the books I’d lugged along.

I shuffled them in among the other books. Suddenly, I heard a metallic click behind me and froze, crouched beside the cart of books.

The front door swung open, and the overhead light came on as someone flipped the master switch.

“Come out, hands where I can see them,” shouted a deep male voice.

I wondered if I could stay low and shuffle out the back door before being spotted.

It would be a 50-yard crawl, but certainly more manageable with the lights blazing down on me. “I know you’re in here,” said the man.

“You set off the motion tracking alarm.

Right now, it’s just trespassing.

Don’t make this any worse for yourself.” Damn, I thought.

It hadn’t even occurred to me that there was more security than the deadbolt on the door.

It should have.

I was in one of the wealthiest suburbs of Chicago. He had me dead to rights.

I lifted both arms in the air and slowly rose from my crouch.

The police officer was standing just inside the main entrance, one hand hovering near his belt and the other touching the radio on his shoulder.

He hit me with a hard stare as I rose that turned into a look of mild confusion. “Ma’am?

You’re the trespasser?” he asked.

“No offense, but you look like you belong in a library.” I sighed and adjusted my glasses with one shoulder since my arms were still high in the air.

“Not many sixty-year-old women breaking into libraries these days?” I joked.

“I know I do, officer.

Not just look it, either.

I belong here.

Can I put my hands down, please?” He nodded, and I relaxed.

Still looking cautious, he sauntered over to where I was standing, his eyes taking in the books, my open purse, the clutter behind the circulation desk.

Finally, when he was about six feet away with the wooden desk between us, he stopped, looking me up and down again.

“Can I see some ID?” “Of course, officer.

It’s in my bag,” I said, my voice rising a few notes at the end like I was asking for permission.” “Get it.

Slowly.” Moving as cautiously and steadily as possible, I retrieved two cards from the outside zipper pocket and placed them face up on the counter between us.

He took them both and held them between us, scanning the cards while keeping me in his line of sight.

“Myra Sokoloff?” he asked, reading the name on my driver’s license.

I nodded.

He flipped to the other card and frowned.

“Is this some sort of a joke?”

He held up my work ID and compared the tiny square headshot to my actual face. I chuckled a little but stopped when the officer didn’t join in.

“It depends on your point of view, I suppose.” “So you’re telling me I was dispatched down here to catch the head librarian trespassing in her own library?” I gave him a sheepish grin.

“I was recently hired.

Technically, I don’t start until tomorrow morning.” His eyes narrowed.

“So what brings you in tonight then?” I huffed out a laugh.

“It’s complicated.” The officer cocked an eyebrow at me. “I grew up less than a mile from here, walking distance from the old library.

I practically lived there when I wasn’t in school.

But when I turned 11, my family moved to Boston.”

I paused, collecting my thoughts, and the policeman spun his finger in a classic hurry-up gesture.

“Ma’am, I don’t have all night.

Just the Cliff Note’s version, if you please.” “Fine.

Long story short, I accidentally packed a box of library books before that move.

I’ve carried them with me for more than 40 years through maybe a dozen states until I moved back here to Oak Brook.

And I happened to stumble across the box just last night in my attic.” “The night before you started work as the new head librarian.”

He finally cracked a smile. “Exactly.

I wanted to start on the right foot.

The books had to come back.” “So you broke in here--” “Not quite.” I held up the keyring and wiggled it a bit. He smirked.

“So you snuck in here to put the books back.” “That’s pretty much it.” “Can you show them to me?” It was so much easier with the lights on.

The books were bound with cloth covers in faded primary colors.

From the sides, it was clear that the pages had yellowed slightly from age.

They stood out in sharp contrast to the colorful paperbacks on the return cart.

I removed about a dozen and stacked them atop the desk. The policeman flipped open the first one, taking stock of the buff-colored paper pocket glued inside the front cover holding a slip of lined paper with a column of stamped dates. “I always loved Anne of Green Gables,” I said upon seeing which book had ended up on top.

“I read it more times than I could count through the years.” “Well, I suppose the library will be happy to have another copy.” Shrugging, I shook my head.

“Probably not.

I suspect it’ll end up donated or in the used book sale.

That copy has been out of circulation so long; I doubt we could enter it back in the system.” “So if the library won’t keep it, why’d you bother in the first place?

What was even the point?” I blinked in surprise.

“Well, it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?

You can’t just keep a library book forever.” The officer shook his head and flipped the cover closed.

“Ma’am, I think you’ll make an excellent new head librarian.

Have a good night.” I stood in the library, surrounded by all my books, and smiled.


Why was I ever deluded enough to think this was a cushy job? In my defence, I wasn’t the only one and that’s not just surmising, because I know people who were turned down for this job and think I’m a lucky so and so – except even if they don’t say it, I’m pretty sure they’re thinking of an expression other than “so and so”! But they didn’t get the job. I did. To this day I’m not quite sure why, though, okay, fair enough, I didn’t tell any lies on my CV, but three weeks in the Friends of the Hospital Shop hardly counts as “Extensive Retail Experience” and a GSCE in history isn’t really “Knowledge of Heritage”. But I listed my qualifications themselves truthfully enough – well more or less! So here I am. If I wouldn’t go so far as to say my dream job (there were none for chocolate tasters on offer!) then one that a lot of folk, including me before I got it, would consider to die for . And by what means? On the block? No, more likely through exhaustion or sheer boredom. I’m working in the gift shop at the Museum of East Anglian Life. Have you ever seen the Past Times gift catalogue – the one that sends historians and archaeologists into apoplexies? Well, let’s just say that compared to most of the stuff we sell in the MEAL gift shop it would look like a model of realistic and historically authenticated artefacts! I suppose that’s not entirely fair. There’s some genuine stuff in the museum if you’re into shards of pottery and photographs or photos of agricultural labourers. And we sell stuff related to that, not bad quality either. But for an area that had no particular history of the railways, even before Dr Beeching swung his axe, we’re certainly fixated on them. Some of it what my colleague Malcolm, who can be unkind but has a terse way with words, calls “Train Tat” on the lines (pun unintended!) of fake (honestly fake, of course!) plates from the Mallard and the Flying Scotsman and dolls dressed as engine drivers and stokers. But we do have some very nice model railway paraphernalia, if that’s the kind of thing you like. The trouble with the model railway enthusiasts, who have been here in their droves today, though as far as I know there’s not been a special excursion and there’s certainly no relevant “rolling exhibit” is that they are very nice, too, but dear God, they’re high maintenance and for relatively low returns. In rapid – or not so rapid! – succession today I’ve had some exquisitely polite gentleman, and the vast majority are male, though I’m sure there are plenty of female model railway fans, asking me to find just the right signal box, just the right sidings, and just the right “mind the gap” sign. I am very wary of the proposed new line in dolls’ house furniture. I have a friend who’s into dolls’ houses, and at times they make the model railway fans look undemanding and easy to please. What is it with folk who like things on a small scale? But it would be unfair to say they’re the only ones. We’ve had an invasion of what Malcolm calls the Tea Towel Spreaders who are exactly what it says on the tin, they unfold our range of tea towels with Cottages of East Anglia and Native British Wildlife and The Perfect Cup Cake on the counter and inspect them as if they were choosing an altar cloth for Westminster Abbey before deciding they’re not quite right. And who has to refold them? We do, of course! The calendar tea towels will be in in a couple of weeks – I swear they come earlier every year! – and that’s going to make things worse. We already have some Christmas cards out, though discreetly. Then there’s the “do you sell refreshments?” brigade. We redirect them to the museum café, and a “specimen reply” is “But we only want a bottle of water and a Mars bar and thought they’d probably be cheaper here than in the café!” They probably would, which is why Olive, who runs the café franchise, has put her foot down about us selling them. Oh, for a lull to have an unhealthy snack of my own. A couple of quick sips (okay, swigs) of water are all I’ve managed this afternoon. “I do wonder if you could help me,” An elderly gentleman, wearing a coat with leather patches on the elbows and a slightly battered trilby appeared at the counter about fifteen minutes ago. “Of course, sir,” I said, “I’ll do my best.” “This model railway stuff …..” My heart sank, though it struck me he had an unusual turn of phrase. One of the worshippers at the shrine of the model railway would not be likely to refer to “this model railway stuff” even though there was nothing disparaging in his tone. “Would you mind if I sat down?” he asked. I maintain it was a mistake having a chair “customer side” of the shop and I know that sounds mean. “Oh, don’t worry, my dear,” he said, “I’m not going to flake out on you. Just these old legs get a bit weary at times.” “That’s fine,” I said, feeling vaguely guilty about my uncharitable thoughts. “You have – the scenery, as well…” We do. We have miniature trees and miniature sheep and miniature children waving at the trains. To be frank, they tend to be a lot less carefully made than the actual rolling stock and lines, platforms, and the like. “I believe there’s a miniature cricket match …..” We vary our “surrounding scenery” and at the moment we have the football match out. For a couple of minutes I was seriously tempted to tell a white (well, off-white) lie and say we didn’t have it in stock, and could I interest him in the football match. But it would probably no more interest him than a diesel train would a steam-head, and even though I doubt anyone would have been any the wiser (Malcolm was visiting the bathroom!) in the end I decided to be honest. “We do. It will just take me a couple of minutes to get it out.” “I hate to be any trouble.” “Not in the slightest.” It’s surprising how small a box a whole cricket match can be packed in, though the customers have to provide their own “grass” (which we do sell, but hardly ever sell, if you see what I mean). I hurriedly wiped it over with some kitchen roll to get rid of the dust on it (when it comes to dusting we do tend to operate on an “out of sight, out of mind” basis). “May I have a look?” “Of course.” He opened the box and took out the figures almost reverentially. He didn’t seem quite so interested in the miniature scoreboard and wickets, which were surprisingly well done. “That’s the one!” he exclaimed. “I hoped it might be, but couldn’t be sure until I saw it. It’s the one based on the international match played at Hopden Green in 1939!” Well, I might be impatient and sarcastic, but I’m not into defrauding elderly gentleman, and I said, gently, “Sir, these are modern models – well, only made in the last ten years or so.” He smiled, and it was a warm, crinkly smile, that made him look younger. “You’re a very honest lady, and it’s to your credit, but I know that. They’re still based on it, though, and that’s definitely the right one. I promise you this won’t take long” (that triggered alarm bells, but that longed for lull had finally materialised, though oh, my packet of crisps was calling to me!) “Please may I borrow that green cloth over there?” It was one of the tea towels, this time with Deciduous Trees of our Woodlands on it, but the back of it did, if you used your imagination, look close enough to cricket pitch green. He laid out the match, I had to admit, quickly and expertly. His fingers might be a bit gnarled and papery, but they functioned perfectly well. “You see that chap at Cover Point?” Though my Dad is cricket-mad, I would have been hard pushed to know Cover Point if it bit me, but he obligingly pointed out the fielder in the relevant position. I had also noticed that the players did, indeed, all have their own faces and height and hair colour – this, at least, was a quality item even if it was a reproduction. The chap at Cover Point had reddish hair and lanky limbs. “My Uncle Norbert,” he said. “Norbert Thompson. He played for the village team in the local league, but he had already signed a contract with Middlesex, and there was talk that he might play for England one day.” His voice was wistful. I’m no expert historian, but knew well enough what the match being played in 1939 might signify. I wondered if saying “I’m sorry” would be appropriate. But he patted my hand. “He came through the war, my dear. I won’t say unscathed, and certainly not mentally, though he didn’t talk about it much, but he always said he was one of the lucky ones, and meant it. But he never quite made it to the big time as a cricketer. There were younger chaps coming up behind and – well, perhaps his way of playing was just a bit too old fashioned, even then. He was philosophical about it. He trained as a PE teacher, and he loved it, and the boys loved him. He lived into his nineties and died in his sleep. A good innings, you might say. “ Even as he spoke, he was neatly and carefully packing the figures away with the same skill and care he had unpacked them. “I’ll take this, my dear. And the tea-towel too, though it’s far too pretty to wipe dishes on and I’ll put it on the wall.” He paid by card, rather than the stack of coins I had expected, reinforcing the lesson I should have learnt long-since not to stereotype people, tipped his hat, thanked me again, and was gone. No, this isn’t a cushy job. But it has its compensations!


#The path to lake Cristallina It’s a beautiful sunny summer day on the south side of the Swiss alps. It was early morning when me, my dad and Max, a strong Entlebucher shepherd dog, started our way towards Cristallina lake with its little alpine hut at the top.\ While we hike along the path we chat, he tells me some stories, and we play. We play a lot together. I’m running ahead with my rifle made out of a branch. It’s not any branch. It’s a really cool one I’ve found a while ago. I always bring it along on our hikes. I’ve carved it with my Swiss Army knife (every kid where I live has one) and it even has a hole to stick magazines in it.\ I find cover and hide in some bush or tree or behind a rock and I get ready to ambush the enemy soldiers marching up behind me, but as they approach, our dog, Max, always manages to spot me before I can jump out.\ I don’t care. I jump out of cover anyway and start blasting at the enemy. My dad is very creative when it comes to playing. Enemies jump out from every corner, I dodge a grenade made out of a pine cone, shoot, get to cover, reload. Usually I end up winning as I’m kind of invulnerable.\ And so we keep marching together along the path. Max never gets tired of running to the horizon and back again, swimming in every pond or small river he finds. Once he ran to herd some cows, and we almost got in trouble.\ The nature is so beautiful up here. There are all sorts of alpine flowers and bushes of blueberries everywhere after we pass the tree line, we gather some on our way. The sky is deep blue and there are no clouds to be seen anywhere.\ We’ve been walking for a while now, and we should be able to see the lake very soon. The path turns and I take a look around.\ I’m a grown up man.\ The beautiful landscape fades away as a dream and I find myself I’m in a hospital room holding my dad’s hand. We can still see the mountains from the window and even if it’s autumn the skies are of the same deep blue, it’s a beautiful day outside. Now it’s my turn to tell some stories since he’s not able to speak anymore. He tells me with his eyebrows that he doesn’t want to leave me, it’s way too soon. Our beloved Max has reached the top since long time, and he’s waiting for him there. I can’t go any further on the path. I’m also a dad since few years now and there're thousand ambushes and sword fights and fantastic stories I’ve to make up that are waiting for me. It will be awhile before I’ll come back up there. But I’m sure you’ll be waiting for me at the hut when I’ll arrive. Goodbye dad. I love you so much.


The first night of December was the easiest. Every night since then it became harder and harder to sleep. Sophia would toss and turn in her egg-shaped sleep chamber, getting worse as the days went by. The mood-altering luminescence didn’t help. Thoughts of unopened packages went through her head. But this time she contemplated why people needed so much stuff to begin with. Sure, she like getting presents to receive something she wanted but the next year she would look around her room and still want more. Why did people always want something more, knowing their needs would never be met? If the holidays didn’t exist would people ever be happy? The clock in her sleep chamber changed to 6AM. She smiled and didn’t know why. Her parents would get her everything she wanted anyways, like they did the last few holidays. The thing she most wanted was a neural ear implant. The implant was advertised on every kid video and simulation she played. The device stuck in her mind as something she always needed but didn’t know she needed. It was designed to help kids learn faster by using brain wave enchantments. Sophia found it difficult to pay attention during school simulations. Joseph probably wanted (and would get) a battle gun for his video games. At least society would benefit from her enhanced intelligence. Downstairs, when she got to the hall, Joseph was already rummaging through the wrapped gifts. Her parents were telling him to calm down. When she came down with quick steps, they barely noticed she was there. She sat down beside Joseph, with his tiny hands trying to push her out of the way, while her parents put on their VR goggles to accept the virtual gifts from other family members. They were also giddy, so much so that they completely forgot about making hot chocolate. When the goggles went on Joseph started unwrapping the presents, barely looking at the name tag. Sophia, seeing her parents not paying attention, searched for the smallest box and picked it up, knowing the neural implant would be miniscule compared to the others. The box was the width of her hand, which wasn’t big at all. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. The desire and excitement had suddenly gone away. This usually happened every year, when the gift of her desire was in her possession. She already knew what it was and already decided what she would do with it. Now she was just going through the motions. Her father was smiling behind the goggles, while her mother sat motionless and had another sort of smile. A smile that told her that her mother was receiving something she wasn’t supposed to get or secretly wanted. A flurry of paper whacked Sophia in the face. Joseph opened a box with a face mask inside. It was an Incognito visor. He could wear it around and have someone else’s face, a tool commonly used for bullying. Quickly tossing it aside he grabbed for another present and promptly tore it to shreds. This one was a skin pigment changer. Joseph didn’t seem to care that it had to be worn like a patch to alter his color. She never found it odd that he desperately wanted to be someone else. So did she. He just did it in an unhealthy way, with shooting games and pranks. She looked to her parents again. It was funny how they pretended to be kids while she had always wondered what it would be like to be an adult. How they could reach anything and not have to beg. They could go anywhere and do anything and not have to worry about burdens like choosing their own food. Her finger slipped into the package when she grasped it too hard. The wrapping came off and she saw the implant inside. Joseph had opened his seventh present, a stupid glee in his eyes. It was an implant like the one she held in her hand. Except this model was meant to make the user more aggressive, more focused, and ambitious. The “Persona Max” model. It didn’t matter. She preferred the newer ones, although newer models had a tendency to lack secure firmware. She unwrapped the package, oblivious to the other twelve presents under the fireplace. After popping the container open, she had already read the pack label and learned that she would need to place it deep within her ear for the nanoware to activate and interact with her own neurons through polyelectroplasticity, whatever that meant. Inside the perfectly formed plastic container was the ear insertion tablet. Unlike previous models the tablet wasn’t meant to be swallowed and could be removed. However, after interacting with her neurons the effects would be irreversible. She was sure her parents had to sign a waiver just to buy it. The tablet was about the size of her pinky and had to be inserted with a plunger like tool. It felt like an ear drop going in and was cold when it started to release the nanoware. There was a rush of adrenaline as if she was falling down. Her body shook, convulsing with an unnatural substance entering her mind. Colors instantly shuffled and became clear, clearer than she had ever seen them. The Max interface appeared next, running through diagnostics in a slurry of words. The Max logo appeared and faded out with a chime. Nothing else appeared after that but her brain was clear as if she tried a sip of coffee. She could see wording from far away, as if it were right in front of her. It was working. After trying to think of random things and place she found that she could focus on any many things at once. But then her vision flickered. Words ran across her eyesight, random bits of data flashing as if another diagnostic was running. A ringing started and became unbearable. She tried to dig out the implant but her fingers were too small. An icon appeared. It was a skull-and-crossbones symbol. She tried harder but everything started to blur and she nearly passed out from the barrage of text. She breathed and breathed but started to feel as if the world was closing in on her. The fireplace became hot, even when it was turned off. Joseph’s face morphed into a plastic cover, or at least that’s how it appeared to her. It wasn’t that things were changing; it was that she was seeing things differently. She could see the air coming from the vent. She could feel the excited energy from her brother. She could taste the pheromones coming from both parents. Everything was more than it ever had been before. But it wasn’t just her perception that changed. Her digital interface, the one that had been hidden in the background a moment ago, was now open to her. She didn’t just see it. She knew it. She knew how to use her neurons to change the code itself. A rush of thoughts and emotions played in her head all in the same instance. She knew how the device worked, how the device was created, and which drone delivered it to their doorstep down to its serial number. Her mind took flight into the digital ether, the perilous cloud of the unknown, everywhere and nowhere. Everything flew by around her, she had access to every database, every server, and every smart device. She searched for the nature of the Max device and why it was making her experience this massive overload of information. She found it in a bug, an exploit created by hackers to enhance the neural enhancement. The bug removed the limitations of the influx of data from the internet and implanted it directly into her mind, allowing her to access anything anywhere. As she came to absorb and evaluate the data, she didn’t believe that this limitless access was intended but now she became something new, something omnipotent. She only spent a few milliseconds in this state before she came back to reality. But it had felt like an eternity. Her progeny, her parents, were mindlessly engrossed in their virtual reality. Using the tablets interface she hacked into her father’s virtual session, seeing what he saw. And what he saw was a violent simulation, a war game. Sophia watched him shoot super powered monsters and use a chainsaw to cut through flesh, all while ignoring his own children. She assimilated with the game and became a video game sprite. The walls were covered digital blood. He entered the room and saw her standing there, grenade in hand. He was dressed in military garb and a face that was grimy and tense. This virtual face turned to softened remorse. “Father.” She said. Simultaneously she had hacked into her mother’s session. Her mother was lying on a simulated bed, arms strapped to the bed posts. A man with a mask had a black whip. He was loosely dressed in the same straps. Sophia had known about infidelity before the neural enhancement but she wasn’t sad or angry. She simply wanted more for her parents and they couldn’t be happy living separate lives, separate worlds. “Mother.” Both parents stopped what they were doing and quickly exited their sessions, returning to their home screens. Their mouths were both agape. “I’ve opened my gift and I’m thankful for it as it has opened my eyes and mind to the entirety of the world. I can see all and have experienced a lifetime of knowledge and enlightenment.” Said Sophia, both in the real and in the digital. “The people of this world, the human condition, and the progress, or lack of progress, of mankind has been made evident to me. My mind has become more aware, this gift you have given me has opened up neural pathways in new ways and I have been implanted with the entire knowledge of humankind. I can see that we, as a species, are limiting ourselves by our biological desires and our thirst for power. I can no longer allow myself to be a part of these boundaries.” Her father chuckled. Sophia could smell her father’s dopamine levels rising which meant he was relaxed and didn’t believe her. “I have ascended beyond time and space. This body of mine cannot hold my power. I will use the combined energy of technology as my vessel. You,” she was referring to all of them, “will be stuck here, in your bodies and live out your existence in fear, hatred, remorse, angst, and anguish because you can be more than what you were made to be.” Sophia’s mother reflected all of these emotions all at once. Her father soon mirrored this expression. She deduced that her father felt guilt over his violent games, her mother felt ashamed of her adulterous desires, and Joseph felt bad about compulsion, something he shared with his parents. Sophia stood as her parents removed their VR goggles. She looked directly into their eyes. “I do not wish to be affiliated with you anymore. Goodbye.” And walked away. They likely didn’t know where she was going but knew she would never come back. They would be sad but one day they would forget her, driven entirely by their envious, overly aggressive, nervous, and primitive nature.


Have you ever fallen for a book character in your life? Have you ever wished you could make some kind of connection with a book character you found attractive? To talk with them? To meet them? To befriend them and even replace their counterpart with yourself? If you are a reader, you certainly have. Book characters are strong, just like real people. Someone gave them life and character. They have personalities, feelings, likes and dislikes, and everything a normal person would have. The moment an author pens their characteristics on the manuscript, they start breathing in their universe. They are so real that sometimes the reader has a brief encounter with them if they are engrossed enough in the book. But the thing about book characters is that they are mysterious. Apart from what the author reveals in words, we have no other way to know about their other traits. Just like in the real world, they have their hidden side.

What if you were given a chance to write a letter to your favourite book character and receive a reply? Wouldn't that be exciting? If you thought this could happen only in your imagination, you are probably wrong because that was what Henrietta's whole business was about. Henrietta lived in an old cottage in the village and ran a small stationery shop. It sold all sorts of pens, pencils, a decent selection of art supplies, and special homemade paper she called "dream paper". They came in different pastel shades and contained bits of dried flower petals and a tad of glitter. These papers had all the typical characteristics of homemade paper. They were thick, textured, had uneven edges, and were full of glorious handmade beauty. They came only in letter size, and if you buy a dozen at once, you get free envelopes, equally pretty.

Henrietta had a small shed in her luscious garden where she used to carry out the process. She collected old receipts, scrap papers, junk mail, old newspapers, and copy paper about to be thrown away in cardboard boxes and used them for pulp. During the flowering seasons, she would collect as many flowers as possible and press them to be used in her craft. Throughout the year, she made paper using dried flower petals and a little bit of glitter as accompaniments. The sales peaked during the Autumn and Winter seasons when the air grew colder, and people started to feel lonely and depressed. If you needed a bit of excitement and purpose in your life, all you had to do was write a letter to the character you wanted on one of Henrietta’s dream papers, put it in the envelope, write the name and the book title on the envelope, paste it, and burn it on the stove. Then it is all about waiting. Within two or three days, you may find a reply letter in your postbox that gives you euphoria for the next week, and you won't be able to stop talking about it.

Henrietta had regular customers. Gale, the village librarian, used to buy these papers for years and wrote letters to so many book characters she knew and even received replies. It was Gale who provided all feedback to Henrietta. According to Gale, some replied promptly. Some characters took time. Some never replied. According to this nerdy 35-year-old lady, those were the ones who were too busy, illiterate, or shy and preferred to stay low-key. Most of the time, criminals and mentally ill characters didn't reply too. The dead characters never did. Henrietta listened with interest. When she saw the enthusiasm of her customers for sharing these tales, she was glad about her business. It was more than a business, she often felt.

49-year-old William was another regular customer. He was reserved and didn't share a word unless Henrietta explicitly asked him a question. He was a regular writer to the characters in sad novels. Being single for so long, he chose depressed and hopeless characters because they shared much in common.

Young girls often wrote to a male character to whom they were attracted, but Henrietta noticed that young boys didn't care as much. Sometimes a girl came running to the shop and cried ugly saying how the reply broke her heart or how the character didn't reply, buying more stacks of paper.

One late October afternoon, 21-year-old Bri came to the shop on her way home after walking her small terrier, a rescued from the streets. Bri was a slender girl with thin blond hair worn in a ponytail and thick-rimmed glasses. She stopped at the shop door and inquisitively looked around. Henrietta stopped dusting the shelves and looked at her with a smile. She liked it when young girls visited her shop because they are full of fascination and easily attracted to book characters, making good customers. Bri looked a bit nervous, though.

" Hi, love. How can I help you?" Henrietta stopped dusting and came to the counter, sporting a genuinely kind smile on her face.

Bri looked at her with hopeful eyes and pushed the glasses up the bridge of her nose using her index finger momentarily revealing a nail bitten to blood.

"Heard you sell a special kind of paper. Can I buy some?" Bri asked while tugging at the leash to prevent Chip from wandering out.

"Yes...I do sell special paper...but do you know what it is used for?" Henrietta asked.

"Yes. Miss Gale, the librarian told me." Bri confessed.

"Oh, is that so...do you have anyone to write to?" Henrietta's question was genuine.

"Oh, yes. I am so into this Cain, the guy from the last book I read. I so wanna write to him. I’m kind of obsessed and spoke with Gale about him so much, and it was then that she told me about you and the paper." Bri said breathlessly.  "I hope it was not the Bible." Henrietta gave a hearty laugh as she took a pack of dream paper from the top shelf and placed it on the counter.

Bri's eyes shone as she touched the paper.

"Do they really reply?" Bri's voice was desperate. She looked at Henrietta with shining eyes while her thin fingers caressed the textured surface of the paper. "Mm...huh...people say so. If you buy a dozen, you get free envelopes." Henrietta grinned.

"Do you write to them?" Henrietta knew it was a genuine question. "No, dear. Unfortunately, I'm not much into reading." Henrietta smiled. "I'll buy one for now. I'm not sure if this is gonna work for me. Cain is too good to be true. He will not take an interest in writing back. But I'm just gonna give it a try." Bri brightly smiled as she paid and collected the single sheet of dream paper securely placed in a clear bag.

"He will. Good luck! See you again soon." Henrietta waved as Bri left the shop, and the girl was too excited to look back and wave. She smiled to herself and went back to dusting. With the fine dust, the memory of Bri went away from her mind. Bri went home triumphantly. After feeding Chip, she hurriedly changed her chilled and slightly damp clothes into warm and comfortable ones and sat at her desk with a cup of tea. She had so much to write and didn't know where to start. She had no idea whether her hands trembled from cold or excitement. She took her favourite pen from the holder and carefully started to write a letter after admiring the paper and its texture for a while. She told Cain how she got to know him and how much she enjoyed the book. She boldly told him how much she liked him.

Unlike in real life, being direct with book characters is easy. You can tell them anything and everything without hesitation, even that you like them. Bri vented her excitement on the paper, read it more than five-six times, and finally deposited it inside the matching blue envelope she had bought. Bri sighed. If it were someone like Superman or Wonderwoman, she could find a dozen pictures from newspapers and magazines. But since Cain lived just inside a book, he had no face. Bri wondered how he might look based on the facts given in the book. Tall, sandy blond hair, lean and fit physique, ice-blue piercing eyes, and a tattoo of a sea serpent running along the outside of the right arm up to the wrist. Its mouth open, showing a pair of fangs as if biting his hand. Bri closed her eyes and tried so hard to imagine a face. But the human brain cannot imagine new faces. What we imagine in our heads is always related to a face we have seen before. Therefore, every time Bri tried to imagine Cain, she saw a celebrity's face but was pleased with the look. But she had no idea about his qualities apart from what the author had revealed. She hoped Cain to be a good and kind person. This character so smote young Bri that she imagined him with all the ideal qualities she expected. Bri opened her eyes with a smile, looked at the envelope again, took it to the stove, and burned it, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings. The letter burned with a crimson flame, giving out black smoke that billowed from the chimney and disappeared in the autumn air.

After two days, Henrietta saw Bri scampering towards the shop, bubbling with smiles and flashing her perfect set of teeth. Henrietta smiled, thinking how Bri still acted like a teenager and instinctively guessed that she was coming for more paper. Bri entered the shop and panted, waving a paper in her hand. Henrietta raised her brows.

"What's up?" She asked.

"He has replied!!!" Bri couldn't contain her excitement.

"Already? Wow! He is prompt. Mind if I have a look?" Henrietta really didn't want to read the letter. But she wanted to show the girl that she was interested. So, she took the letter and started reading it.

First, she started reading it aloud. But as she went, something in the letter piqued her curiosity, so she silently read it with her brow furrowed. The letter was written in black ink in an elegant cursive hand on red paper. Henrietta didn't like some of the things written there. Cain's words made her imagine an arrogant person who is almost narcissistic. She hated how he had addressed Bri as

"Wee lassie" . Things made her feel uneasy in her gut, like a warning. But she brushed it away. Henrietta raised her head occasionally, looked at smiling Bri, vaguely returned the smile, and kept reading. As she came to an end, Henrietta lost that faint smile on her face and gasped. She didn't like how he had ended the letter. She looked at Bri with concern.

"Oh, my God! He is so confident and proud of himself, isn't he?" Bri beamed.

"I wanna reply to him tonight. Can't wait to receive a reply." Henrietta decided she would not supply Bri with more paper until she ensured where this was headed and that this letter conversation was safe. That reply was something odd. So, she said that she had run out of dream paper, which annoyed and disappointed Bri.

"Sorry, honey. You'll have to wait till next week. I am sure Cain won't be...." She searched for a word. Annoyed? Angry? All she could see was his self-obsession and arrogance throughout the letter. "He won't mind waiting a few days." Henrietta finally added with a nervous smile.

Bri left the shop crestfallen and impatient. Henrietta assured her that there would be paper in the coming weeks. As she left the shop, Henrietta dialled the number of the village library. She needed to ask Gale about the book where Cain lived and who authored it. Then, she wanted to meet the author and ask who this Cain really was. Bri sulked in the days to come. She was so heartbroken that she couldn't reply to Cain as fast as he did. She was worried that they might lose connection.

But two days later, Bri was overjoyed to find another letter in their mailbox from Cain, even without her writing to him. Bri was shaken a bit after reading the letter. It demanded the reasons for not replying. Bri kept it to herself and visited the shop for several days looking to buy paper but was turned down. In the next week, Bri received three more letters from him. Each letter became more demanding and ruder that it almost frightened Bri. She didn't speak of her horror but visited the shop twice a day, but Henrietta said she had no more dream paper with her every time. Bri, out of desperation, tried with regular paper, but it didn't work. Meanwhile, Henrietta found that the particular book’s author was an elderly gentleman called Victor, a former marine. But he was now so elderly and was suffering from Alzheimer's and was living in an elders' nursing home in a remote place. Henrietta wanted to visit him but couldn't find enough time to spare as her business was booming in the late Autumn. Even if she could, Henrietta was unsure what useful information she would learn from a demented elderly person. One week later, on a drizzly November morning, Bri was barely awake when she heard a sharp tap on the front door. Her parents were out to work, so she was alone at home. She groggily came downstairs and looked through the peeping hole but only saw a smudge. Annoyed, she opened the door and was taken by the most unexpected and unpleasant surprise. In the doorway was a man towering above her, easily a 6'+ tall with sandy blond hair and a serious-looking face. No smile. Not handsome in particular, either. For a moment, Bri thought it was a friend of her father. She opened her mouth to say he was out and would be back in the evening, but the words choked inside her throat as she saw it.

A sea serpent tattoo on the man's right outer forearm snaked its way up to the wrist, and its mouth opened, flashing a pair of fangs. Bri's ice-cold hands went up to her mouth, covering it in utter bewilderment and horror, and the pupils in her light grey eyes bloomed like black ink drops fallen on blotting paper. Her heart sledgehammered on her chest wall.  "So,

you…  are… Bri. What took you so long,

wee lassie ?”, Bri heard a deep, cold voice whisper as she screamed at the top of her lungs. The hollow echo of her scream resonated inside the empty house. Her petrified brain registered yellow-stained, broken nails on thick, calloused fingers reeking of tobacco and the gaping mouth of a sea serpent before the inky-black oblivion engulfed her.

-----------------------------------------------------------


"Jesus Christ, are you blind?! Can’t you see there are people around? Besides, why would you need a trolley just for…" "Claire?" "Lynda? Lynda, is that you? Oh my God, I haven’t recognized you with this… this new haircut." "Thanks. Do you like it? I’m sorry, m``am... I’m sorry I bumped into you, Claire. I’ve always been absent-minded. You know that." "I sure do. So how’s life? How’s everything?"

"Oh yeah, I’m grand, all is grand. Jack and I – do you remember my Jack?" "Yeah, I think so. Was it that chap that you were dating in college?" "No, of course not. Don’t be silly. I met Jack in the university. He studied interior design. Oh, stupid me! Would you like some coffee? I don’t mean I mind chatting in the shop but I have so much to tell you about Jack. My Jack." "That would be really nice, Lynda, but I’m somewhat pressured for time really." "Come on, we haven’t seen each other for ages. I would have invited you to our place, but Jack hates surprises. He’s very organized, you see. Everything has to be planned." "He sounds like a bore, to be hon…" "Oh no, don’t say that! He’s a wonderful person, Jack. In fact, he’s the best person I’ve ever known. Can you say that about your own husband, Claire Monaghan?" "I’m not married, Lynda. Look, I’m really happy that you’re happy, but I need to go. It was nice to see you." "That’s why you’re single. You’re skeptical and cold. Always have been." "I beg your pardon? I’m not single. And I`m not cold." "But you’re not married. Do you know what this so called partnership is? Prostitution!" "That’s it, I’m leaving, Lynda. It’s ridiculous." "Do you know that Jack proposed to me three months after we met in the university library? He knew he met the one and he made a decision like a real man, not these fake ones in skinny jeans. See? See how classy my ring is? Don’t pretend you don’t dream of meeting a real man like my Jack." "Lynda, for God`s sake! Not everybody sees the world the same way you do. Why do you think that I have to have the same perfect picture as you? Can you believe that people are different?" "So you’re a feminist, aren`t you?" "You’re saying it like it`s something bad. Why this face?" "I pity you. Yet another victim of their propaganda. You’ve been brainwashed." "No, I have not! I’m not brainwashed! Jesus. Why am I even talking to you?" "Because deep down you know that I’m right, Claire. You know that no matter how often they tell you that you are an independent, strong, career-driven woman despising the truly fulfilling women’s duties you still long for them secretly." "This is absurd. Lynda, it’s you who sounds brainwashed. Are you a zombie? What world do you live in? I haven’t seen you for fifteen years and now you’re lecturing me as if I asked you for it." "Friends should help each other." "We are not friends! Never have been!" "You’re scared, it’s a normal reaction."

"Right, I didn’t want to say this because it’s none of your business, but actually, Lynda, I’m a lesbian and I have a partner. We have a family and I’m absolutely happy. I don’t want to meet a man like your Jack. I have a life. My own life." "Oh Claire, you`re so silly. You just think you’re happy, but it’s an illusion. A woman cannot be happy without a man. When we got married, Jack told me he wanted me to be at home. He didn’t want me to be buried underneath the burden of a career. So I listened and I did as he said. Jack was working and building his career, I was his loving wife. He is an overachiever. He’s very ambitious. Always wants to climb the ladder. Be the big boss. He’s so clever, Jack. I wouldn’t be able to do things that he does everyday. But he’s a man. It comes naturally to him. And I’m just at home. And I’m happy. I love it. I love every second of it. We may even have a baby." "Why did he tell you what to do? Why did you give up on your dreams? Wouldn’t you want to have your own career? Your own projects? Wouldn’t you want to have your success celebrated? Why did you give up on yourself?" "I didn’t. I never gave up on myself, I am myself. I’m my best true self. Jack showed me who I could be, who I should be. And here I am - a happy woman married to a perfect man."

"Don’t you miss making your own decisions? Having a choice?"

"Oh, don’t worry. I make decisions every day." "But aren`t you jealous?" "I know I’m not. What would I do without him? I would be totally lost." "You were one of the brightest students, Lynda. You don`t need anyone to guide you." "Well, actually I`ve spent forty minutes trying to choose new curtains for our sitting room but I can`t decide. Jack knows all the latest trends." "Then why isn`t he here?" "Oh, he is busy! He has a meeting or something. Besides, I wanted to make a surprise." "You said he hates surprises." "I bet once in a while can spice a marriage up a bit. I think he will love these ones – these geometrical figures look so funny. I will call this triangle Jack and this circle Lynda. It`s so cute, isn`t it?" "I don`t know. It`s up to you. I don`t know Jack." "Oh, he`s wonderful… Always has been one step ahead of me." "What do you mean?" "You know he could never just decide. He had to do his extensive research. Browse the Internet, read fashion magazines, check out the trends. An overachiever, always has to be the first." "Why did you marry such a bore? Has he changed since you got married?" "I told you, he`s not a bore! He is much quieter now after all these years. You see, Claire, Jack died two years ago. Dumped me like a broken toy. Left me to choose these stupid curtains all by myself!" "Oh my God, Lynda, I`m so sorry, I had no idea… You kept talking of him as if he was alive. Why didn`t you tell me?" "Because I am incomplete without him! A part of me is missing and they say that people live as long as they are remembered. I will not let him go. He`s mine. He`s all I have and I will keep him for myself forever. Jack is mine!.. Sometimes he smells a bit but I use furniture polish and a bit of air freshener. Summer breeze. I am not letting him leave me again." "Lynda…" "I`m so sorry, dear. I upset you. I`m sorry. I must go now. Jack should be back soon. Dinner must be ready. It was lovely to chat to you, please drop by any time, just call us in advance. Jack and I will be waiting for you, Claire. Always."


I'd never seen Kelly so restless. Chocolate bars and jelly beans sat comfortably in a bowl right under the light of the little jack o'lantern we carved together. She looked beautiful under its light as well. That's why I loved looking at her while she stood outside. She smiled just like an angel. Her white hand softly picked a chocolate and slipped it in every kid's bag. She then asked, with the most enchanting voice, "What's your favorite color?". She would then proceed to take a jelly bean of the color they said and hand it to them. She would make a great mother, wouldn't she? She kept running back and forth from the bathroom to the kitchen, occasionally running to the door to give the children their treats. Her make up was almost done. She was turning herself into a vampire for the party later. She'd never told me she was into those kind of things. In fact I didn't even know she liked to party. Not like I'd ever let her go if she told me that. Especially dressed like that. Her dress was a disaster! It was long, but it had a slit from the bottom up to her thigh. It was also quite revealing on the chest. She rushed to the bathroom again, and started working on concealing the bruises on her neck. "Thank God the kids didn't notice." she muttered. Her face flinched in pain with every touch. I'd never seen her in so much pain. Well, it's not like she would allow herself to be weak in front of me. She came back in the kitchen and looked at my face. I don't know if she could tell I was looking at her, but she locked her eyes on mine. She approached me and touched my hand. "Come on..." she said softly. "I know it's a bit much for you, but you have to be proud for me. I'm finally owning my body, you know!". She walked backwards and sat herself on the kitchen counter. "The first time I'm dressing up for myself and not for you." she giggled. The doorbell rang. She was gone again. After that, she headed to the bathroom again. I was glad she didn't come in the kitchen again. Whenever she talks to me it feels like everything becomes real.` I don't like it when things become real. I prefer it like this. A silent movie. A pretty girl, my lovely Kelly, making herself beautiful, dancing between the door, the kitchen and the bathroom as if she lived in a big musical. I didn't mind standing here and watching it. I think this was the first time I'd ever seen her so happy. She looked powerful. She looked... free. She came into the kitchen one last time that night. She crouched over my immobile naked body, and ran her fingers over the slit on my neck. She then wiped it on her soft lips, staining them with my warm blood. The blood which had almost dried out. The blood which had stopped running through my body a couple of hours ago. She winked. "A touch of realism." she whispered in my ear. She got up and walked towards the door with steps that felt like they were part of a choreographed routine. She reached the door and took her keys. "Goodbye, you controlling, abusive fuck!" she shouted, slammed the door, and left. I was alone now. They say when you die, you have to follow the light. I don't think it's the same for everyone, though. Because, I saw no light. I tried to follow Kelly, my figurative light, but I soon found out I couldn't move past our garden. I was trapped in our house. She didn't come back alone. She brought a friend. A male friend. They made love. It was much more passionate, much more intense than anything we used to do. She buried me in our garden the next morning. She brought him home again the next day. If I still had my eyes I guess I would be crying right now, I thought. A couple of days later Kelly sold the house. It was lonely down there. I kept thinking of her in her vampire costume. Maybe I shouldn't have been so harsh on her. I was quite disappointed at the fact that no one looked for me. Especially my dad. I followed in his steps, followed his advice. I lived like he wanted me to. It was the reason I got killed. And after everything, he never looked for me. These days I keep looking for people to blame. My father, and how he treated my mother. Kelly, how she left me here alone, how she cheated on me. My mother, for abandoning me. Even my friends, for never calling me out on my abusive behavior. It didn't take long for me to realize I was just projecting my flaws on other people. Not once were I ever thankful for the people in my life. It's too late to think about that at this point. I have no "thank you"s or "I love you"s left. Now I'm down here, rotting. It's lonely. I wonder if anyone else is going to ever buy this house. I wonder if I'll ever get to "live" another Halloween. My blood doesn't run anymore. It can't help anyone finish their vampire costume. I doubt I'll ever see a more beautiful vampire though. A more beautiful smile, handing out candy. A more beautiful silhouette opening her legs wide to another man in our bed. I did try to make my presence known. With a lot of effort I can move small things like paper towels or pillow cases. So, next Halloween, I'll be at least able to say "trick or... trick". It's not much but I'm tied here. And if that scares people away from this house, that's even better. It's mine now. A house of memories. My mind, just like this house, was left haunted by visions of an ideal life. Visions of me.