I hear faint footsteps heading towards my door. I listen for a moment. Loud at the beginning of the step and quiet as the rest of the foot comes down. They’re walking with the ball of their feet, not wearing heels though you can’t hear the click at the end. Only Margret, Shannon, and Alexa walk like that, but Alexa wear’s heels. A faint tick sounds through the office, like a bone popping. Margaret has joint issues. From what I’ve heard and researched, Joint Hypermobility, born with it. Just to be sure I listen for the jingling of her bracelets. That’s when I hear it, just over the sound of conversation outside my office. I already know what she’s here for, so I grab the witness statement from my drawer and set it at the edge of my desk closest to the door. I hear the distinct creak of my office door opening. Insead of looking up and pretending I didn’t know it was her, I simply point quickly and get back to typing. Margaret is my assistant. She’s in her early 20’s and hasn’t mastered business casual attire yet. She just wears black and white. It makes her blend in with everyone else, she has no personality in her clothes. Makes her unremarkable and ordinary. No professional will remember her. She has dark hair and a kind face. That won’t work for her here the way it works in bars though. She wants to be an attorney one day, she starts law school in August. She’ll get eaten alive in there if I don’t thicken her skin a bit.

“Hurry up.” Until I said something she was just standing and staring at me. Waiting for me to greet her I suppose. Maybe she thinks I didn’t know she was there and was just pointing at the exact thing she needs for no reason. She’s not going to get a greeting though. She saw me point, she knows I heard her open the door. She needs to read social cues faster. That's the only way to read a witness and know which buttons to push for the answers you want. “Now.” I say sternly, she’s walking too slow. You have to be quick, efficient. Always look like you are doing something important even if you’re just playing snake on your laptop. “Make sure all witness statements and transcripts from the Buckly trial are ready by Monday morning. I’ll need them Tuesday for my meeting with the partners.” I say, all without looking up at her. “Of course Ms. Conley.” She hurries out of the room and shuts the door. I hear her exhale and mutter something under her breath. We have thin walls.

I assume it has something to do with the fact that it’s 3:30 on Friday and the transcripts are at the courthouse. The courthouse that is backed up all day and isn’t open on the weekends. A rather impossible task, but she has two options. She’ll either somehow get the transcripts over the weekend, or she won’t and come to me saying the soonest she can get them is noon on Monday. If it’s the latter and she comes to me scared and asks to get them later, I’ll scold her then tell her to hurry along. If she comes to me confident saying that she is working as quickly as possible and she’ll get them to me as soon as she can, I’ll feign neutral acceptance. The meeting with the partners actually isn’t until Wednesday anyways. I know I’m sending her on a goose chase, but she’ll need friends in the court house. Bailiffs, judges, bookkeepers. She needs anyone and everyone she can get. I sit typing on my computer until I finish my opening statement and plan my cross examinations for the trial I have on Monday afternoon. After completing those and saving them to my shared drive, that my computer at work and laptop both have access to, I look up from my monitor. That is when I see my office is dark except for the light radiating off of my monitor, and my phone sitting silently and happily on my desk. I look towards my floor to ceiling windows and all

I’m met with is a dark cityscape, the moon and clouds but no stars. You can’t see stars very well here, and most of the time, not at all.  I tap the screen on my phone and check for new notifications. None, as per usual. I look around my office slightly in a daze, I normally register time and how long I’ve been here while I’m working.  There is a cream colored loveseat by the windows, topped with a throw blanket with different shades of blue and purple, and throw pillows in the same colors. In front of me I stare at the frames on my wall, bachelor's degree in philosophy, law degree, and letter I got saying I passed the bar on my first try. That was just as impossible as Margret getting those transcripts to me by Monday morning. Those three are all in matching frames, equal lengths apart, evenly placed across the wall. I’m looking at them from behind on one side of my L-shaped desk. The other side is sitting to my right. In reality I took two desks and put them next to each other to imitate an L-shape. I’m picky and couldn’t find one I liked, so I made one myself. Behind me are bookshelves full of books, plants, nick nacks, vases, miniature busts of my favorite Greek goddesses. No picture frames though. There are none of those in here. No pictures on my desk, nor on my walls. I don’t even have a cute picture as my computer screen saver. It’s just an inspirational quote, that same one is set as my phone wallpaper too.

 I hear a chime. Excitedly, I picked up my phone, looking for the icon of one of my dating apps. Maybe Instagram or Snapchat. Hell, I'll settle for a Facebook message at this point. Instead I’m met with a notification telling me if I scan my app at Starbucks tomorrow I’ll get double stars. At least I know what I’ll be doing in the morning.

I pack up quickly, stuffing my laptop into my tote bag, followed by my phone, empty tupperware, and case files to look over for the third time. Walking out of my office I grab my coat and reusable coffee cup. It’s empty now but I don’t like leaving things at the office over the weekend.

I see Fred at the end of the hall as I walk out. Fred is one of our custodians, I see him almost every night. “Hey there little lady. You’re leaving even later than usual.” He checks his watch as I sigh dramatically and look him in the eye. He reminds me of a grandfather, not mine though. I don’t even know mine. “Yeah, I got distracted again. I didn't even realize it was already 10:30 until I looked up and saw I was shrouded in darkness” We both laugh. I turn to walk past him and smile. I don’t get to smile here often, being “The Shark” of the office means being nice isn’t in my wheelhouse. But it really is. Appearing mean and chaste works better in this business though.

As I’m walking past him, my smile fades but he says “Don’t let me see you over the weekend. Take a break. Go on a date or something. You deserve a vacation from this place.” Just as quickly as it left, my smile returns again and I turn back. “How do you know I’m not already in a relationship?”

I ask jokingly with the raise of my eyebrow. “Because there is no ring on your finger.” He mirrors my expression back at me and taps his left ring finger while holding it up to me. “I could have a boyfriend or a girlfriend.” I lower my eyebrow and cross my arms. “You could but I don’t think so because you are here all, waking hours of the day. If you’re in a relationship with anything it’s that desk of yours.” I lower my arms and giggle. “That’s a solid point you got there. I’ll call the detective's office and let them know they need you on staff.” He laughs and I see the crows feet near his eyes deepen. “I’m perfectly happy where I am.” He retorts. I give him the most genuine smile I have. “Have a good night Fred.” I throw over my shoulder as I turn towards the elevators. “You too Constance” I leave the highrise made of glass and steal. All sharp lines and polished to perfection. I’m walking along the road and all I hear is cars zooming by and the girl’s heels clicking on the sidewalk.

I soon find myself walking into Flax. It's a relatively small business where I buy all of my pens, highlighters, legal pads. Just about everything I need to be able to do my job well. “What’s up boss lady” I hear from the counter on my right. “Why are you back so soon? I thought you just picked up some of my good pens the other day” Alyssa says as I redirect my walk to the counter. “I did, highlighters this time.” I look at her and smile.

Alyssa is about my age. She’s married to Vanessa and has a daughter about two years old now. I remember when I walked in one day and she was blown up like a balloon. You could feel the joy radiating off of her.

She hands me a photo, not a photo on her phone, a physical photo she printed out. Even though this is the twenty-first century and everyone has phones that are capable of containing photos, she still prints them out, so when she shows them to her regulars, they get to hold it in their hands. Alyssa is an old soul, she even has vinyls playing on a record player behind the counter instead of playing the radio through the overhead speakers. I absolutely love it.

I take the photo and look down at Emery, their daughter. I start my walk towards the highlighters while staring at her chubby cheeks and pigtails while she eats ice cream. “God she seems so big. I feel like you were just pregnant.” I say over my shoulder towards the counter while in front of the selection of highlighters. No one else is here this late, so we continue our conversation by yelling over the store.

“You’re telling me. My body hasn’t recovered yet. I still pee every time I laugh.” Alyssa returns. That sends me into a fit of giggles while I’m reaching for my regular pack of highlighters. “I’m serious.” she says in a high pitched voice “Vanessa has been obsessed with dad jokes lately. I’ve been peeing my pants a lot.” She continues. That makes my fit of giggles turn into full on laughter. Laughing so hard I have to lean over and clutch my stomach to keep from falling on the ground. When I catch my breath I look over at her and wipe a tear. “The fact that you laugh that hard at dad jokes is embarrassing.” I still haven't completely stopped laughing so I choked the words out between breaths.

“It’s not the jokes, it's her laughing at her own jokes for like five whole minutes every time. The jokes are so bad, not even Emery laughs.” That makes the smile on my face turn into laughter again. I’m stuck laughing to myself, envisioning it and repeating her sentence back to myself in a high pitched and out of breath voice. Once I finally regain the ability to breathe, I walk towards the counter again. “You’re kidding. She does not.” I say incredulously while setting the highlighters and picture on the counter. “Oh but she does. I’ll have to film it and show it to you next time you come in.” She scans the highlighters and takes my cash. I give her exact change as always. I do however stuff a 20 in the tip jar. She sees it and tries to hand it back to me but I start running out the door faster than she can get out from behind the counter. “Oops sorry, I’ve got a very important call from my boss. Gotta go.” I yell over my shoulder as I round the corner out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. I’m still giggling to myself a bit when I hear “It’s like 11 o’clock you lair.”

My apartment is down the street so I just walk. There is no point in spending money on a taxi when my feet can hurt just a little bit more and I can enjoy the sky.

I always liked night better than day too. Being left alone but knowing someone is still there with you. Sleeping in separate rooms, but if you need them you could call them and they’ll come.

Even the dark is comforting, the stars in the sky, all the animals outside, asleep. It’s not quite the same here though. Even the night kind of feels like day. It’s like no one sleeps in LA. When I get upstairs I’m met with a cold, dark condo. The smell of the candle I lit last night and coffee I made this morning still linger in the air. I drop my bag on the coffee table in front of my couch and collapse onto the deep green fabric. I sit and stare at my ceiling for a while. I have a ceiling medallion surrounding the ceiling light so I follow the pattern with my eyes for a while. I don't know how long I lay there thinking about home, but I do know that home isn’t really a place for me. I know it’s like that for some people, and for them it's a person, a loved one of some kind. For me though, it’s a feeling. Comfort I think, I don’t get to feel it often so I think of the few times I do have it. That is home for me. My only interruption is from

the bubbling of my stomach, reminding me I haven't eaten since lunch.

I haul myself up, slip off my heels, take off my coat and throw them both at a cream colored armchair. I have a thing for cream furniture. I grab my phone out of my bag and hit play on an audio book I’ve been listening to. I couldn’t tell you the characters names or what the book is even about but I prefer hearing people talking than the silence of my empty condo. I reach into the freezer and grab a frozen dinner, I was never really taught to cook. The best I can do is rice and maybe some cookies if I devote my entire day to it. After pouring a glass of unsweetened tea I hear the beep of my microwave telling me my meal for the night is ready. I just stand and eat at the counter, I can't be bothered to move to the dining table I have. It’s big enough for 6, but there is normally only 1 sitting at it. Once I’m done with my mediocre food, I put on a robe and a face mask and watch one of my favorite movies. I turn all the lights off and sit in the dark like I used to do when I was a teenager. Only this time I have wine. I sit and stare at Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey fall madly in love with each other, surrounded by friends and family and coworkers. I check my phone again. It’s 1:47, my screen saver is telling me it gets better so I should smile, I still get double stars at Starbucks, but nothing new. This is my life. Every day of it.


It was a bright, dry Saturday morning in the town of Conistone. Too hot to fight the burning sun by hiding indoors, so it was only natural that my family decided to visit the nearby beach. So, we hopped in the car and off we went, driving carelessly on the bumpy roads. As we were driving, I began to think about all the things I left behind, I had plenty to do at home, the oven needed to be fixed since it was broken, a part of the wooden fence has shattered and needs replacing, but I still went, ignoring everything and being slightly stressed out. When we got there little Timmy jumped out of the car with joy, undressing as he ran, his mother went after him and told him to wait for us, the slower ones. When I was in the water I tried to relax, but after remembering the 35.000 dollars debt I was in, my heart sank. I thought that if I went into deeper waters I would start to enjoy this trip, so I went ahead, the water went from my torso to my elbows. I waved back at Timmy, he was already building a glorious sandcastle, but when I rotated my body again my feet stumbled and I fell off a rock into the water, so deep, my foot didn't touch the ground for almost two seconds. I don't know how to swim, I never learned even though I live near a beach and had plenty of opportunities, I should have panicked, but I wanted to try something. Because I never swam I also never opened my eyes underwater. So when I touched the ground, I got on my knees. I was thinking about how it will be painful to open my eyes, but after something like ten to twenty seconds I finally mustered up the courage and opened them. They stung, but only for a little bit, and then it felt incredibly natural. When I opened my eyes I saw the most gorgeous, breathtaking shade of sapphire blue I have ever seen. I stood there on my knees, as if I was praying, and just admired it. Then, out of nowhere a violet line stroke my vision, it was almost like the aurora borealis, it looked like too much pain has fallen on the canvas and it is now dripping. Then appeared more colors like a bright yellow, green, and shy stain of red. I realized that after so much time looking I was probably already drowning, I didn't feel any air in my chest and I couldn't breathe, but that didn't seem to bother me so much. I felt a weird sense of peace, I have never seen such a beautiful sight in my existence and the only thing I wanted to do was stare at it. I didn't think about anything, I didn't care about anything above the water. After a while I forgot my name, I forgot who I was. In the following seconds after that I forgot that I was there, I forgot that I was existing, the only things that existed were the colors. It was a blissful state. Then, out of nowhere my world got invaded, destroyed in a couple of seconds. A hand, I don't know whos, jerked me by the arm and pulled me up, back where I was standing before. As I was being pulled up the colors were rapidly eaten by a dark blue void. I felt outraged, angry that someone would destroy such a thing. When my head reached above the water I felt even more outraged as I began to cough water. After a while I heard: "Are you ok?", and then came the question, who am I? At that moment all my life came flooding back to me. I responded, between coughs, with a quiet "yes". After reason came back to me I realized that I may have died right there, if I wasn't saved. I felt really thankful for that. My savior helped me back to shore. After resting a bit I went to help Timmy with the sandcastle. I stopped caring, even if just for a while, of all my problems and started enjoying myself, if it hadn't been for the colors I may have never been able to do such a thing.


I swallowed both pills with a glass of water and sat the little brown container on my dresser. I’d had no reason to wonder over to this part of the bedroom in quite some time and the dust had already began to settle on the tops of my make-up containers and lipstick lids. Today was better, I was able to get out of bed and I even had an appetite for breakfast. Good thing too, the doctor had told me only to take the antidepressants with a good meal. I didn’t deserve to be on antidepressants. I didn’t deserve to be depressed. I scrambled some eggs along with a small pot of oats. I wasn’t used to cooking breakfast for one and threw half of the oats away. My husband had moved out into a bed & breakfast a few days ago. We’d never had an argument in our 12 years together, nothing serious anyway, yet now we couldn’t be in the same room as each other. It would always start the same way. Each of us staring into space, praying not to catch the others’ eye. One of us trying to start a light hearted conversation or questioning the silence we’d created, moments later we’d be screaming hatred towards each other, locking ourselves in separate rooms and falling deeper into the silence. How suddenly things can change at yet how slow time seems to move after they do. The last 2 months seemed like they’d lasted an eternity and yet the last 12 years had passed by, leaving only the sourest and most heartbreaking memories behind. Every photo, every gift, every item bought together, even the cracks in the walls and the creases in the sofa brought memories that would split my chest open and fill it knives. My lungs felt like they were made of glass, cracking and breaking with every breath I took. Daily tasks were near impossible and hope was a distant treasure, like an exquisite meal once eaten who’s flavour I had no recollection of. I carried the overflowing laundry basket upstairs and sat it beside the washing machine. Perhaps this is what recovery would look like. Perhaps I would never be myself again but instead dusted off, polished, a big smile painted on my face and I’d be placed on display like a ceramic doll. Hollow from within, brittle to the touch but presentable enough as to not disturb anyone looking from the outside. I kneeled beside the washing machine and one-by-one placed each item of clothing into it. Even the smallest tasks now needed to be broken down into even smaller morsels that I could manage. A sock caught itself on the lip of the machine so I prized it free with my thumb while my other hand reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a soft, fuzzy, little sweater. I stopped at once, my body became numb and cold as tears welled up in my eyes and I let out a whimper. I turned to look at it and held it in both hands. Tears distorted my focus on the sweater but its baby blue colour was clear as day, the bright purple sequences on its chest dazzled up at me. I could almost see her, looking up at me again. “Mum, mum! Please can I have this sweater. I love it I love it I love it please!” “Ok ok only if you help me put the shopping away once we get home” “oh yes! I love you mum, I can’t wait to wear this to school \*gasp\* and my birthday! It’s ok mum, this can be my birthday present. Thank you!” I hugged the sweater tight against my chest and breathed in the sweet aroma of my baby. I cried into it, visualising her holding me. “It’s ok mummy” I could hear her say “It’s ok, don’t cry. It doesn’t hurt anymore”. I let out a wail, I could feel my tears soaking the sweater but I couldn’t stop. I was no longer in my body, I was no longer anywhere but in my child's arms. My child, my only child. She was mine and nobody else’s, not even God’s. I carried her, she was a part of me. I alone endured the pain from her birth. That was the deal and that made her mine. I raised her, worried for her, disciplined her, taught her right from wrong, nurtured her mind, supported her. I lay awake every night when she screamed in agony from the therapy, I timed her hourly medication, I hunted down every cancer expert in the world, worked overtime for her private treatment. I smiled as she lay, dying in my arms, telling her “mummy is here… everything is ok”- I buried her. I cried till my eyes were dry and burning red. I lowered the sweater away from my face, it sat heavy in my hands carrying my tears and mucous. I felt a small hand, her hand, press gently on my shoulder. I turned to see nobody there. But across the hall, her bedroom door lay ajar, swaying gently with the draft passing out of her room. I carried the sweater with me as I entered her room and moved over to close the window when I saw my husband walking down the driveway, flowers in his hand. It had felt like a lifetime since I last saw him. For once I saw him not as my husband but as a complete stranger. I saw his innocence, his vulnerability. I saw the bags under his sunken eyes and the roughness of his hair. Yet he was familiar and beautiful for it. In every way the handsome, charming man I’d chosen to spend my life with. Long before she came into the world and so it should be, long after she left it. In that moment I knew that there was only one person who loved her as I did, and that was him. I walked down the stairs and opened the front door to find him standing there. His eyes were red and glistened with tears. He looked down at the sweater in my hands, then up at me. “I can’t do this alone” his lip quivered as he spoke. I stepped forward and hugged him as tight as I could. The sweater sandwiched between us and her aroma filled the air around us. “Then let's do it together” I whispered into his ear.


Content Warning: mentions of domestic violence, postpartum depression, anger issues, substance abuse Something in my brain shifted when he slammed his glass on the table and shouted “grow up!” He continued speaking, a blur of angry expressions and fists hitting the table. My head was swimming, ears ringing, like my hearing had been knocked out.

I was more focused on the glass, a gift I’d gotten him as an inside joke: world’s best teacher. He chipped the rim with his temper tantrum. Every pound to the wood made the whiskey slosh and splash the ungraded essays scattered about.

He finally stopped, his tense hands spread out and holding up his weight, his too-blue eyes staring a hole into the glass. I used to love his hands, how they’d touch and thrill and tease me in secret.

He had never said anything like that to me. Grow up . I repeated the words slowly, tasting the syllables, not quite understanding their meaning.

He’d never mentioned age. He never told me I was mature, or adult, or grown up. He went out of his way to avoid the topic. He had simply respected me, treating me like he would treat someone his own age. It had never felt wrong with him.

My next words came out in a whisper, a painful shock to the yelling and hitting moments before. “So I guess I wasn’t grown up enough when we got together?” There was a glimmer of emotion in his eyes, initially reading as anger, but I knew it was guilt.

I was sixteen years old, barely old enough to drive yet, and he was thirty. And why did it never seem wrong until this moment? My eyes searched around the lavish house in the suburbs that he had to have. The kitchen was a mess, which had started the fight in the first place. Toys were scattered on the floor, the high chair was dirty from meals days before, and the dishes piled in the sink. I don’t even remember the last time I had a shower. The depression is overwhelming, which is what I tried to explain to him. I was reaching out for help and he started screaming in my face that I can’t even do my one job. And now we’re here.

I saw the stacks of essays in my peripheral. A similar stack had once held an essay of mine, written with after school help from the cute new teacher. I never felt nervous around him, not like when I tried to flirt with boys my own age. In that moment I felt powerful, filled with stupid hormonal lust. I touched his leg when he finished reading my paper, giggling and claiming it was an accident. But I doubt it was accidental when he placed his hand on my cheek and kissed me.

Now, the only time his hand meets my cheek is when he hits me, and the only time he kisses me is when he wants sex.

I don’t know why I did it–pursuing a man twice my age. The original plan was to get him to sleep with me, a bet my friends and I made. That’s all I wanted, but then I started catching feelings.

First love is a powerful drug.

The guilt on his face disappears, replaced with his usual false sense of swagger, alpha male. He takes a sip from his chipped cup, laughing, a cynical sound saved for when you’re really angry. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Then tell me what you meant,” I started, not realizing I had these words on the tip of my tongue. “Tell me what the hell you meant, because I’ve sacrificed everything for you!” I put too much emphasis on the word everything, bringing my fist down onto the countertop. I hear the baby crying from the next room.

I suppose that describes my experience of motherhood–Daddy can hit the table and even slap Mommy across the face, and Baby sleeps right through it, but when Mommy gets loud and stands her ground, Baby wakes right up.

He looked back down, passing the cup between his hands. The look on his face suggested that our argument was over. “Aren’t you going to take care of that?” He pointed his cup towards the sound of crying.

“No.” “No? Why? The baby is crying and it’s your job to calm him down.” I was in his face in an instant, sarcastically listing on my fingers. “He’s fed, he’s changed, the sound machine is on, he’s fine.” I felt crazy, like I was losing my mind. I snatch the cup out of his hands, something I know he hates. A part of me is afraid he’ll hit me for it, but the bigger part of me doesn’t care. I swallow the rest of the liquor. “That’s the baby you wanted so badly, why don’t you go and soothe him? Oh wait,” I laugh. “He doesn’t know who Daddy is, because Daddy is never here, and when he is here, he’s drunk! and yelling! and hitting on Mommy!” I’ve finally lost my shit. The look on his face is priceless, he’s shocked that I said that. I expect him to also start yelling. He looks into my eyes, and I ready myself for a fight. I feel every emotion, from anger to resentment to nostalgia to desperation. I give him pleading eyes. We’ve gotten away from who we used to be, but I don’t want to just lose him. I want him to start understanding me for who I am now.

“Who are you?” he asks calmly, his tone more frightening than if he’d gotten in my face and screamed the words.

I’m his former student that was supposed to be a one-time fling. I never meant to fall for him but I did, and stupidly. My friends judged and looked down on me, constantly reminding me of the age gap.

I came to him during his lunch period one day, begging him to move far away with me. I was crying about my friends reactions, telling him that I only wanted him, forever. He agreed, saying whatever you want, you can have. I replied, I only want you, and he said I’m all yours.

They threatened to call the police and report him if I didn’t break things off. I lied and told them I did. They consoled me in my fake break-up, saying that he was only manipulating me.

I only ever wanted you. I was terrified when I got pregnant, but you were so excited and happy, so I had our baby. I wanted to go to college, but I gave up my dreams for you. For our family , you constantly said.

True love conquers all, you told me once, your hands gently cupping my face as we stayed after school yet again, resorting to janitor’s closets and dark, locked classrooms just to finally be alone together.

I placed my hand on top of his. I had waited too long to answer his question. “I love you,” I told him, but he wouldn’t look at me. “I’ve loved you for a long time and I don’t think I can just stop loving you.” He removed his hand from underneath mine, staring at the wall for much too long, then whispered, “I can. We’re just too different.” The cup must have cracked more than I thought, because it shatters, the same moment that my heart broke and our lives together shattered.


Ah, I really need to pee. I stare at my mother's tear stained face and wonder if this is the appropriate situation to excuse myself to go empty my bladder. I felt bad having to leave her for such a menial reason, but as I watched her tears streaming down her face, I came to the epiphany that my urine would be streaming down my clothes if I didn’t use the restroom soon. “Go, go,” an auntie gently patted my shoulder, looking at me with a face of empathy. “It’s okay, the rest of us are here for your mother. You need some time too, the death of a loved one is a difficult thing to process.” I guess I looked uncomfortable, which I was, but not for the reason she thought I was. But instead of telling her that I just needed to go pee, I tried my best to return her kind words with a grateful smile but I’m sure it turned out crooked. She stroked my head lovingly, giving me a sympathetic smile before leaving me to go be with my mother among the other dozens of the women who flocked to her side during the funeral. She had cried all her tears to the point where she had vomited, literally letting everything out. Now she simply sat still next to the casket, looking numb and broken. All I could do was watch. She didn’t feel like my mother anymore, as if her soul had left with him and she left me with her shell. She always loved him so dearly. I heaved myself to the restroom, leaving behind my mother and the rest of the funeral behind me for a brief moment. Finally being able to empty out your bladder always feels great, even after someone dies. The fluorescent light flickers ever so lightly as I lather my hands in some type of ambiguously-floral scented soap before rinsing off the suds of soap with cold water, watching bubbles disappear down the drain. As I turn off the water, my eyes flicker to the mirror and. I looked awfully put together for someone who’s supposedly grieving. Should I have been hysterically crying? It’s not like the deceased was a stranger, he was my best friend. But why didn’t I feel sad? My lack of sadness was balanced by the uncomfortable feeling in my chest. It didn’t hurt, it was just uncomfortable. I stared deeper into my reflection, I looked blank. I felt blank. All I could do was stare like an idiot. Was grief always like this? I watched as my reflection opened its mouth, “Do you blame yourself?” The words were as light as the wind, but reverberated in my ears. "What?" I mutter, disturbed. It was a face that looked so much like me, a voice that sounded so much like me, but it just wasn't me. I stared at the mirror, whatever that thing was, it wasn't simply my reflection anymore. It stared at me expectantly, urging me to answer its question. Was I going insane? Is this psychosis? Or are ghosts real? "Do you blame yourself?" The entity in the mirror repeated. There was no malicious intent in its voice, or maybe I was just oblivious. “I do,” I answer. Maybe this is a dumb decision, this always how people die in the movies but I didn’t care. “I really do.” I tear my eyes away from the mirror and stare at the sink, the uncomfortable feeling in my chest magnifying. I look back at the mirror and whatever was there is gone, my own eyes stare back at me. I clutched my chest, not knowing what the hell was going on but the uncomfortable feeling in my chest was getting worse. 𝌀 “I was afraid you fell into the toilet or some shit,” my brother bumped his shoulder into mine, chuckling as he watched me stumble into a tall vase of flowers. “Why so pale? Run into a ghost?” I look back at him with a sigh, “Maybe.” I say as I try to make sure the expensive-looking porcelain vase wasn’t chipped. “It’s so weird.” “What is?” “Being at a funeral for someone you love.” “Really?” “Really,” I took a good look at my brother, the uncomfortable feeling in my chest coming back. He was still wearing that yellow shirt, contrasting from the black swarm of funeral attendees. He smiled before grabbing my hand and leading me back to everyone, “Come on, the prayers are starting soon. Mom’s looking for you.” I walked behind him, like a duckling following their mother. All I could do was stare at the back of his head, only then did the uncomfort morph into pain. “I’m sorry,” I muttered as we walked. He said nothing. 𝌀 Parents not having favorites is bullshit, and kids know. My mother always loved him more, who wouldn’t have? My golden brother, a boy as bright as the sun. I was always in his shadow but that was okay, his light was bright enough for the both of us. His shadow was a comfortable place, he always took care of me. If I had no one, I had my brother. I stared at the smiling portrait of my brother on top of his casket then turned to see him staring at it as well with a scowl. “Why’d they choose this photo, my forehead looks huge!” He clicks his tongue in distaste as he turns to me. “How could you let them, my beloved sister? You should’ve chosen a better picture!” My brother has always been overdramatic, I guess some things don’t change even after death. I turn my head down to not meet anyone’s eyes. It’s a bad look to be laughing at your older brother’s funeral, especially when no one else can see his spirit. Whether this ghost was really my brother or my imagination, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. I just missed my brother. I look away from my dead brother’s whining and stare at my alive mother, she was the one who truly looked dead. My mother and I had a somewhat strained relationship, partially due to her favoritism but I still loved her. Her anguish left a bitter taste in my mouth, the pain clawing at my ribs. Maybe if I was the one in the casket, she wouldn’t be in this state. I tried to sit through the prayers quietly, but that pain within my chest wouldn’t subside. My face was wet, I was crying. No matter how many times I dabbed my face dry they’d keep falling. It should’ve been me. That’s all I could think about, the short sentence reverberating in my mind. “Man, being at your own funeral is weird.” My brother commented as he sat next to me. I looked once more at my dead brother then at my mourning mother, I felt something break. “I’m sorry,” the word spilled out. “It should have been me.” I clutched my chest, the pain, it wouldn’t stop. All I could do was sob and repeat the sentence. “Stop!” My mother screamed, I looked up at her, her eyes were wide with horror. “How could you say- no, how could you even think that?” Before I knew it, her hands enveloped my face, her thumbs desperately wiping my tears. “Do you honestly think I’d be doing better if that was you instead of your brother?” Her voice broke mid-sentence. I stare at my mother, my mind feels numb and confused. How is it possible that she looks more heartbroken now? “Mom I’m-” “Stop apologizing!” She looked at me and I could see tears well up in her eyes. “My son is already dead, I don’t need my daughter wishing she was dead!” Her arms embrace me as she sobs, holding on to me as if she’s scared I might disappear. My vision blurs and next thing I know is I’m sobbing too. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my brother walk toward his casket. His yellow shirt gleams in the light. He turns back to me and smiles. I return it, even though my face is tearstained and smeared with snot. I close my eyes, and when I open them he’s gone.


“Move along, buddy.” “Hey, man, I’m not doing anything wrong.” “Yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Come on, give someone else the spot.” The cop stood there unmoving while the younger man gathered his belongings into a backpack scowling.

Ushering him out the door into the masses the officer nodded his head to the empty seat, looking at me. “Ma’am?” As relieved as I was to get off my feet, I hardly wanted the attention, nor the title of “Ma’am”. I smiled as I took a seat on the newly empty stool, opting to hold my purchase rather than place it on the messy counter. The aroma of pumpkin spice replacing the smell of weed was refreshing.

Looking out the window I searched for Alexa. The crowd seemed to move as one, faces flushed and tense, pushing along luggage enroute to their destinations. What is he going to be like, I wondered for the millionth time. The mysterious text to meet in Miami was on my mind since receiving it last weekend. I checked my phone for any updates, pleased to see a new notification. “Just landed,” my daughter’s text from five minutes ago. Glancing at the array of clocks from each time zone, I quickly calculated that I still had some time before going to her gate. Unlike Reefer Boy, the previous occupier of the seat, my overpriced purchase was a ticket to sit rather than to loiter and I took my first sip.

Bits and pieces of surrounding conversations floated around me. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but honestly had no choice. The customer at the register was making a to do about her order, repeating the complicated specials as if a lifesaving concoction in a lab or hospital. Come on, lady, mellow out. Maybe I should set her up with Reefer Boy, I thought, fighting the urge to laugh at the image. There’s one in every crowd who has to make a scene. I couldn’t resist and turned away from the view of the waiting area and craned my neck. Yup, there she was with her husband, boyfriend or whoever the unfortunate man was next to her looking like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. There was a line forming behind them and I heard the exaggerated sighs and witnessed the eyerolls. Another text vibrated my phone. “Getting off the plane. See you at Gate 11.” A glance at the sign through the window showed I had a bit of a walk. Using the napkins with the famous logo I cleaned the counter of muffin crumbs, leaving it nicer for the next customer than it was left for me. Joining the sea of luggage toting travelers, I started my walk to Gate 11 when I sniffed like a bloodhound and caught a scent. No way, not again. Mixed into the stagnant air was the undisputable scent of what we called back in the day MaryJane. Increasing my pace to a walk-run, I continued my journey to Gate 11 eager to see my daughter after an entire semester without any visits. Becoming trapped in a parade of businessmen in their suits and ties despite the stifling humidity I pushed through with an aggressive stream of excuse me, pardon me like a little fish swimming against the current, fearful of getting swept out to sea.

Gate 12 appeared with passengers lining up ready to board, paperwork in hand, parents grasping the arms of squirming little ones. One more gate until I see my daughter to find out her big news. My cell chimed simultaneously with another phone close by and when I stopped to respond someone in my peripheral vision did the same. There she was! Unaffected by the lack of adequate air conditioning Alexa appeared cool, calm, and collected, and quite beautiful. Her eyes darted about, then settled just to the right of me as she took off into a sprint. Waving my arms frantically I tried to get her attention. As if moving in slow motion with the old fashioned whoomp, whoomp, whoomp noise whirring in my head she reached a young man, and they shared quite the passionate greeting. Pulling apart, she wrinkled her nose, an expression leftover from childhood when something struck her as distasteful, upsetting. What was happening? I took the final steps to approach my daughter with a smile to light up the entire area, readying myself for whatever was about to unfold.

“Ma!” She screamed delightedly. “Finally. Meet my boyfriend, Kurt.” I turned to find myself face to face with none other than Reefer Boy. My heart sunk like a stone. My beautiful daughter. My princess. Didn’t we teach her better than this? I scrambled to find my manners. I didn’t want to be that woman making a scene, the one in every crowd that everyone either pretends isn’t there or watches with amusement like I had just witnessed a few minutes earlier. “Hello Kurt! Nice to meet you,” I forced a quivering lip smile in his direction. “Great to meet you too! I’ve been looking forward to this.” He smiled a broad smile, his eyes a pretty shade of blue similar to my daughters’. They made a striking couple. I was surprised, would have been happy. “Ma, wait until Kurt tells you what happened today. It’s the funniest thing.” “Yeah, funny to you, maybe. Not so funny to me.”

“Tell me!” I became curious as to what Alexa considered to be the funniest thing. “Everything was great until I got into the Uber. It stunk. Like positively reeked of weed. The last riders must have been partying like there’s no tomorrow.” He paused.

“Oh wow,” I commented for lack of anything better to say. “Ever since I got out of that cloud I feel like it’s been following me around. Amazing how people have been treating me since I walked into the airport.”

My daughter started laughing. “It’s so funny, he’s completely anti-drug, like never even tried pot. I bet he got a buzz in the Uber.” She was outright laughing at him. “Tell my mom what happened when you got here.” “Yeah, I was minding my own business and got thrown out of Starbucks. Police officer and all. I was mortified.” Alexa covered her mouth with her hands, hiding her laughter, her new diamond ring flashing, giving away the news before she was ready. I felt the flutter of excitement but kept it in allowing her to tell me at her own pace. I looked at her fiancé, my future son-in-law, seeing how he was laughing good naturedly.

I felt my face flush thinking of how many times I thought of him as Reefer Boy. I think I’ll keep that to myself for now.


"Do you like it? It's so cute, and it's like $5 on Etsy! I have to give you the store name sometime!" Avery's smile glinted in the candlelight as she let me hold the tiny pendant. It looked like a spider was wrapped around the cork of a bottle, a dark red liquid swirling around to catch the light. The liquid almost seemed like a witch's potion, a glittery substance reflecting the orange light in my face. "Does it come in other colors?" I asked. She looked a little upset at the thought, but the smile was back in a moment. God, I could get lost in those white teeth, even more than the field of green that made up her eyes. "Nah, not yet anyway. But I'm sure if you ask the seller, they'd be more than happy to try out a different color for you! Maybe you'd be her first beta wearer for a new design!" Avery's enthusiasm was what helped me relax when we first met in person an hour ago. Her Bumble profile was what introduced me to her infectious smile, but her bio got me even more curious. She mentioned her love for historical figures, especially those that weren't as well known, so I messaged her about it. We got into a rabbit hole, and she wanted to meet me in person. Me! I felt like a businesswoman about to make a major presentation when putting on my dark blue dress, and there she was, dressed to party in her green dress. But those curls, the way her red hair turned to fire under the restaurant's dim fluorescent lights, the smile that drew you in; I knew it was her even before she greeted me at the door. By the time we saw the front waiter, any worries I had about meeting a practical stranger had melted away. "Anyway, would you like me to get you something to drink?" I felt like I was back in middle school, pretending to be an adult to someone several years my junior. Her smile somehow grew even bigger, and I worried her lips would reach her ears soon enough. "Oh! How about a Seven Oaks Cabernet? It's super fruity, but it'll go well with some fish!" Avery mentioned she was a pescatarian, of course she'd know good wines for the job. Almost like magic, our waiter arrived. She had to be carded, but not me; my hair must've given away my age long before my anti-aging cream. But she'd wanted to see me without my dyed hair from my profile picture, so I let the roots return to their natural color. "So, who're some folks you wanted to know about? Or was there something else you wanted to talk about?" Her faux-silver spider glared at me from her bare chest, but I tried to return my gaze to her smile. "Well, I hoped to know more about you, but you can start wherever." Her eyes turned coy as she rested her chin against the backs of her hands. "It just so happens I finished a podcast about a fascinating woman back in the early 1900s. She had quite a spell of lovers, though that was after she married two men prior. But, I'm not gonna say the name until the end!" The wine glasses were set before us, the wine almost black against the candlelight. "You worried I'll Google the name first?" Avery laughed, and I swore I could see bubble float from her lips into the air above us. I wish I could figure out the spell she cast to keep my attention on her. "A little, but don't worry! I'm sure you've heard of it, so I want it to be a surprise!" She cleared her throat, took a sip of wine, and then let her voice dance as she began. "In the early 1900s, it's easy to start a new life without worrying about the people around you. All you had to do was jump countries, and bam! No one knew who you were, and quite frankly, no one really gave a damn so long as you were a hard worker. This woman was one of those who wanted a fresh start, and came to America to make it big. But, after an unhappy marriage, she decided she'd had enough of being poor and went to work concocting the means to get rich quick. As it happens, insurance was quite new with a lot less regulation than we have now. So--" "--did she kill her husband?!" Avery looked like I'd slapped her, but only for a moment. She laughed and winked at me over her glass. "You got it! They'd been married a few years, and hey, he had a larger heart than normal, so really was it a surprise that he keeled over without warning? Anyway, she got her wish, and in fact it was her lucky day as he had two active plans going at once. But of course, that money doesn't last very long, so what's a widower to do?" She looked to me to answer, though I almost choked on my wine before I could respond. "Would...would she try to get with someone else?" The smile was back again, though this time her teeth turned a strange orange color. "Multiple someones, in fact. She was considered a Black Widow in her day, but not the Marvel kind. She would allegedly lure men into her secluded farming home and then they'd mysteriously vanish." The black wine suddenly churned in my stomach; I wasn't prepared for this just yet. I quietly excused myself to the bathroom to give myself a moment to compose myself. Younger people seemed a lot more apt to jump into these murder tales than I was. A brief splash of cold water to the face later and I was back at the table. Avery looked at me with her signature smile as I returned, but I was a lot more prepared now than I was. I took a few gulps of wine before I realized it, and she mentioned that she'd ordered our food for me. "I hope you don't mind having some salmon!" "I don't, thank you!" I lied. Avery's smile stayed on her face as we advanced into a different conversation. A few minutes later, I felt like I wasn't as calm as I was before. It was like my legs were permanently tensed up, though I couldn't figure out why. "Did you know Belle had children too?" I looked back at her, her smile looking a lot more manic than it had when we first met each other. "Yep, several kids. Of those, she killed about three or four the same way. Can you guess how?" I didn't want to answer the question, as a slow realization dawned on me. Why did her spider seem to mock me from the woman before me? The last thing I remember seeing was the spider leaping from her bottle and crawling towards me and me jerking away from it. I don't remember hitting the floor, but I remember how cold it was when my eyes closed.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ The skeletal remains of the campfire taunted me. Now nothing more than a memorial to my failure. As daylight arrived I set about trying to retread where others had and work out how to make a fire. I tried simply rubbing them against each other as hard as I could. Then I decided that maybe the bark was preventing success, so I picked away at the outer layer to reveal the woody flesh beneath. I applied as much friction as I could, enough to produce heat. But no smoke. Never fire. I reasoned maybe I needed a different type of wood. Maybe the ones I was using were too porous or too dense. I returned to the forest and came back with a few different types of branch and tried again. Still, nothing. With each attempt, I kept up the short repetitive thrusts of my arm, pushing as much energy into the wood as I could until the burning in my muscles was too much, until I could grit my teeth against the pain no more, and I let go. As the day wore on, each attempt grew shorter and shorter till the pain was instantaneous, the first brush of the wood enough to cause my arms to spasm and falter. My back ached from being arched all day and my legs and chest stung from the cold chill that ran through them. Yet, despite all the exertion: no smoke, never fire. I had no more to give. I stopped for the evening, my muscles hot through effort yet my skin cold from exposure. I lay down and stared at the sea, trying to ignore the stones digging into my kidneys. Slow, peaceful waves rolled over the horizon, crawling towards me, till they brushed against the shore just a few metres away - so close, yet never touching - before they retreated and returned out to sea. I traced those waves back, back across the ocean, and back through time, to where this all began, back on Kadear. I remembered when I was a prisoner in the Citadel, tidying one of the council’s homes. A song had played from that artefact. The first miracle the Archipelago had shown me. The words from that song had stayed with me across the islands. *I had a good idea* *Let’s lay these bones to rest* *Build it all over and start again* *Cause I know, that if you dare to hope* *That if you dare to try* *To rebuild the pieces of your life* *Then you’ll find, the things you held so dear* *The things you held so close* *Were never really yours* *And what’s left* *That vacuous empty shell* *Is ready to be refilled* *With all the love you should have had* Here I was. My bones laid to rest, stuck on this island. But how well those words had mirrored my journey to here. I found out my dreams of the citadel were a lie, and I lost everything. A moment on Yotese Over Haven came back to me, a moment of regret. In a fit of anger I had told Alessia that everything since Kadear had been loss. “Everything?” she had said, the question heavy with an unmentioned hurt. I ignored it. I ignored it because I knew I was talking nonsense. Sometimes, when anger and hurt overtake you, you can’t admit that there can be any good. There can only be pain. In reality, since I left Kadear I had experienced so much grief. But, that vacuous empty shell was refilled, with so much love. Despite every bit of hardship, despite the death of friends, I had somehow never been more full. Love from Xander, Kurbani and her children. Love from all the people of Deer Drum. And love from Alessia. Love for Alessia. Here, alone, hope fading at the same rate as the light dimming on the horizon, I no longer had the energy to run from thoughts that had been circling round my mind for several islands now. The woman who had saved me so many times. The woman who had survived the hard seas through bravery, but also tenderness. The woman who put others first. The woman who believed in me and my stupid mission to explore the origins of The Archipelago. I thought of the way strands of hair blew across her face in the breeze. I pictured her wry smile when she teased, the tongue perched on her teeth. I remembered how serious she was about everything she did, and how much fun she had doing it. That love that had filled me, wasn’t common kinship. The ignored cognitions boiled over, no longer suppressible by the distractions of another island and another chase. I didn’t love Alessia. I was in love with Alessia. And she might be dead. I had feared losing her twice before. On Talin Barier when I heard of the attack on the island where she had been. On Granite Vowhorn when we parted ways and headed into the warzone. She would survive a third time… wouldn’t she? I had seen that mast hit her. I had seen her fall to the water. I hadn’t seen her resurface. A new pain formed in my chest. Not for my own peril but at the thought of what else might be in those oceans. Suddenly the waves in front of me weren’t calming, they were taunting. Gleefully celebrating that they held the wet, dark grave of the greatest person I knew. Was she dead? She couldn’t be. She wasn’t allowed to be. Because I loved her. And love could keep people alive. Couldn’t it? I closed my eyes, keeping the waves out and the tears in. I took deep breaths, feeling my chest heave through the strange concoctions. Perfectly still. Cold. Alone. Grieving and hoping. I tried to sleep. I had little success. ——————————————————————— The cold was beginning to make me weak. After three days without heat, my bones felt heavy, weighed down with a frost that had crystallised the marrow. I was struggling to maintain body temperature, my blood pumped fast and hard as the skin tingled from the cold outside and the heat beneath. I was also losing weight rapidly, what fat I had being burned off just staying warm. I needed to replace it. The leftover meat from the previous bird kill had run dry, and if I wanted to eat again, I would have to use what was left as bait. The kills had been a matter of learning the moves, understanding how and when to run for the prey. But as I lay still among the rocks again I wondered if I would be able to make the same steps. Just how quickly were my muscles weakening and my reactions slowing from the creeping frost. I would soon find out. A bird landed, I jabbed the stick, the gull rolled over, and I set off on my sprint. Each push of my legs felt like a snap, the same pain when you bend your knee slightly the wrong way, and you get a jarring thud through the limb. My lungs panted coarse air that stung against my trachea. I ignored the pain, outstretched my arms, and leaped for the bird. I grabbed a wing, a victorious yelp escaping my lips just in time for my torso to smack against the rocks. A stone rammed into my abdomen, and my body went limp, the fingers loosened, and the bird flew away. It took four attempts. With each one the pain subsided, but it didn’t feel easier. The aches and stings merely replaced by a numbness, my body unsure if my legs were even there. Still, I won. I would eat. Plucking the bird felt like a relief. After the many, many failed attempts at starting the fire, the routine of a task that I could do was a kindness. This time, I also tried to keep the feathers, lining them around the area where I slept. One bird’s worth wouldn’t provide much warmth, but it had to be something. I would take anything. However, as I finished preparing the meat, the problem I had been avoiding became an inevitability. There was no fire. I couldn’t cook. I stared at the plucked, but importantly, raw flesh in front of me. The pale skin was lined with bumps where the feathers had been ripped out, pale veins and patches of white fat could be seen below the surface. The skin felt rubbery and wet. The thought of eating the raw white meat already turned my stomach. The same stomach longed for me to cram down the meal as quickly as possible. My mind tried to process the two contradicting signals of don’t eat that, and eat that now. I turned it slowly in my hands trying to find the best place to start my meal, but that only made my eyes spot new things to be appalled by. Bloody sinew draped across bones, organs ready to spill out to the ground. There would be no way to ease myself in. I closed my eyes and bit down on the meat, tearing away at the soft, squishy flesh. Fresh blood dripped down my chin, watery and warm. It was refreshing yet the taste clung to my tongue like a fungus. It pooled and mixed with my saliva as my nose smelt the iron. Slippery bits of meat rolled in my mouth. It felt like they wriggled - though dead, not dead enough. I could feel the tendons and arteries snap between my teeth, the muscles rip and release their contents into my throat. I swallowed just as the nausea rose to meet the food. But I managed to hold it down. Hunger, the drive for energy at all costs, won out. I knew raw meat would go bad quicker, I couldn’t save any for later, and so I kept eating. I kept chewing away at the gamey, yet fishy meat until my stomach could hold no more. Till even my hunger ridden body begged me to stop. My head tilted back, triumphant and smug, my chin and neck red and sticky. I had over-delivered on the need. Satiated a drive so hard that every signal in my body pleaded for it to end. I exhaled with conquest, and I turned to look at the sea. My hands immediately dropped the remainder of the bird. A ship. I leaped to my feet. The ship was miles away, clinging to the edge of the horizon, yet its size meant it was still visible. It was a great metal beast, one of the warships sold by Tima Voreef. They had little chance of seeing me this far away, but maybe one would be looking out with a telescope. If I danced enough, jumped enough, screamed and shouted, just maybe they would see me. With the raw gull still folding in my stomach, I dug into my reserve energies, and waved my hands high in the air. I hollered, an inevitable futile shout. My screams fell into the oceans as I tried to muster the energy to jump even just a few inches. With each leap I could feel the still digesting meat bounce and slosh within me. Acid rose to the oesophagus, and my throat slowly burned. I reached down to the cold, dead fire - how much I wished it were alive now - and grabbed the two largest sticks I could find, waving them as extensions of my arms. The extra weight ached my biceps, and I could feel my elbows contract with each lift, my screams more now through resistance than excitement. The boat stuck to its path, hanging at the very edge of the earth, as I continued waving slow great arches with the sticks. Eventually the branches were too heavy and they dropped to the ground, clattering against the stones. My tired arms continued to wave, a small resurgence of life now free of the extra weight. I couldn’t jump anymore, and my screams had become a squeal, yet I made myself big, and made what noise I could, as that boat continued its slow, slow, painful journey. I watched night come and light fade - hope with it. I watched the lanterns on the boat flicker on one by one, evidence of human life, proof that rescuers were there. But they never turned, and eventually the ship disappeared off the edge of my world. I collapsed, my legs giving way as the last strands of muscle capitulated through strain and defeat. My head landed against the stones with a thud, and I could feel my vision shake with the impact. “Where are you, Alessia?” I cried, my voice stuttered. Above me the stars drifted in and out of focus. “You were supposed to be here by now.” She didn’t respond. She had three weeks to find safety, get the boat repaired and come find me. Now is when she should arrive. If she could arrive. I picked up a stone next to me, and with a grunt threw it at the sea. A pointless exertion borne of nothing but anger. More joules wasted in fits of emotion. “Please. I’m not strong enough to carry on here. I need you. I need a lifeline. Please.” My chest shuddered as beaten tears reached my eyes, phlegm bubbling in my mouth. I felt something shift in my stomach. My body froze with the moment. The mourning stopped, as a more physical urge took precedence. I rolled over, just as the contents of my stomach reached my mouth. Bits of lightly-digested raw gull spewed out over the rocky beach, the liquid running between the stones. My stomach spasmed in agony, as my mind felt dizzy with the smell. My head flopped back, too tired to shift away from the acidic smell drifting towards me. In the darkness, I could already hear happy flies gathering at the banquet. My demise, their feast. More wasted joules.


The house stood in eerie stillness, as it always did in the winter, the back room that used to be Grant’s practically screaming its secrets. It had been so loud since he left, especially in the wintertime. He loved the snow, and the room never let me forget it. The gray clouds muted everything, especially at night, and the streetlamp outside the second-story window cast a long, ink-black shadow along the wall. I hadn’t realized that the wallpaper had started to peel where the wall met the molding. My fingers trailed along the top of the old paint there, my skin catching on dust, the corpse of a dead spider, and flaked wood. It really had been a long time. I couldn’t seem to bring myself to step through the doorway. I felt his eyes on me. Grant’s. I knew it wasn’t possible. Not really. He was long gone. The wooden barrier swung open regardless, the hinges groaning in protest from lack of use. The room beyond, pregnant with energy – unsaid apologies, hateful ignominy, final punctuation – leaked old memories. I hadn’t cleaned it. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had all his furniture burned, of course. Couldn’t stand the sight of it. It hurt too much. I flicked on the light switch, and a dusty bulb flickered to life above me. A chill breeze swept past me as I entered, and I realized very quickly that the window must have a crack or some kind of leak. The place was freezing. It probably explained why my energy bill was so high. My arms wrapped around myself instinctively. I didn’t really know why I brought myself to do this every single year. I was trying to get over something, something too big that I couldn’t put down. It hung on my shoulders like one of those sleep paralysis demons you see in old paintings, ghoulish and somehow a little like you. My fingers clenched around my sweater and the age-old unresponsiveness crept up on me again. My hands trembled. My chest wavered. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I had to do it. I spun toward the wall, toward the only thing in the room. Grant’s mirror hung there, covered by a cloth that I had thrown over it shortly after he left. After a few short chokes as beads of sweat formed on my forehead, I dashed for the fabric. I tore it away from the wall like one would rip off a bandage to reveal the mirror underneath. It hit me like a flood. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror, and I remembered how terrified I looked. As the date approached, I lost out on sleep. Dark purple bags ringed my eyes, wide and white like saucers, and my blond hair knotted against my skull. I hadn’t bathed for days. Weeks? Was I always so thin? Then Grant came, as he always did. The memory of him danced around the room like bad imaging on an old television. He raised his hands up at me, screaming silent words that I couldn’t remember as he spun around the room. I shouted back, pointing an accusatory finger at him. I was much rounder then. He ripped up the corded phone off the nightstand, ripped the cord from the wall, and flung it at me. It left a dent in the door. And then I said it. “When I know you’re coming home, it makes me want to kill myself!” I screamed. The mirror had seen everything. I yelled out in that room alone and I dropped to my knees under the weight of it all. I thought I could face it. I thought I could get the beast off me. I wailed so hard my throat tore itself open, and thundering footfall exploded from somewhere below me. Before long, someone had dragged me to my feet and was ushering me out of the room. “Claire? Jesus, Claire! I go to make a sandwich for five minutes.” Before I was pulled from the space, I took one last look at my reflection. That was the face of a woman who had told her husband she wished he was dead. When I finally came out of my trance, I looked up to see who had grabbed me and nearly threw up. The acidic bubble of fear came up in my throat and I swallowed it, chunks and all, back down. Grant pulled me into the kitchen – no, not Grant. Garrett. Grant wasn’t here anymore. Garrett, Grant’s twin brother, sat me down at the kitchen table and hastily reached for an orange bottle. He popped the lid off and pushed my medication into my hands. After practically throwing a cabinet door off its hinges, he handed me a glass of tap water. “You have got to be kidding me, Claire. The psychiatrist said you weren’t allowed in there. Especially today. How’d you find the key?” “It was under your laptop on your desk,” I replied. I was sure I sounded like my soul had left my body. “I don’t know what else to do. Dr. Sturges told you that you’re not ready to handle it. Every single year you have another break because you don’t listen to what he tells you. I can’t have you having another break, Claire. I’ve already had to cover every damn mirror in the house.” I didn’t say anything and just stared into the cup. I could almost make out my reflection there, but not quite, thank God. “Do you think I wanted to move out here? Abandon my life? My job? Just because my brother decided to marry some—” He stopped himself. I looked slowly up at him, interested in what he had to say. “Some what , Garrett?” * * * My shaking hands fumbled with the bobby pin as I tried to pry it into the lock. I had let myself go too far. Get lost. If I didn’t do it now, I would never do it. I would be stuck in whatever hell this was, below the surface but never quite deep enough to drown. Finally, the bobby pin clicked into place and the door popped open. I turned to look over my shoulder. Garrett should be sound asleep. He hadn’t noticed the Hydroxyzine that I had slipped into his food. Grant’s room stood before me again, that cold air wrapping me in a hug as I entered. I didn’t dare turn on the light this time. The cloth that I had pulled away remained in a heap where it had fallen a few days ago, crumpled in an uncomfortable shape on the floor. My eyes played tricks on me and imagined someone lying underneath it. I shook my head to clear my thoughts, as if that would help me, and then I looked to the wall. Where it hung, the mirror reflected just the edge of the window and otherwise empty room. I could not see myself in it. Not yet. The paper in my hand crumpled as my arms started to tremble and my fingers tightened into a fist. With my teeth, I unrolled packing tape – it practically screamed out as the adhesive gave. After ripping away a piece, I closed my eyes and pressed the tape to the paper and the paper to the wall. My finger glided over the smooth tape, and I tried to calm my breath. I could barely stand. I didn’t know if my body could take it. It had to. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the paper. A dark photograph took up the upper half of the page, almost indiscernible in the dark. But the headline wasn’t. Acclaimed and Beloved English Professor, Aged 38, Dies in Head-On Collision with Big Rig. My eyes met the mirror. A dark silhouette lurked in its circular frame, haloed by the snow-reflected light from the window. I took a step away from the mirror. Then back toward it. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I didn’t see my face. Not clearly yet. One more step toward it. And then I met eyes that weren’t mine. My eyes were blue. Grant’s dark ones stared back at me. The world turned around me and suddenly I had been flipped upside down. My face slammed into the mirror, the glass breaking against my skin. Something hit the wall against my head, and when I turned to look back into the room, the light had turned on, and the phone that had once been on the nightstand had slammed into the wall. “Grant!” I cried, turning to find my husband behind me with his hand behind my head. “Grant, let me go!” “This is all your fault, you know,” he replied, his tone as smooth as a pane of glass. “You told me to go kill myself, so I did.” He pulled me back from the mirror by the knots in my hair so I could face him. I grabbed for anything I could, but my fingers merely met wallpaper. “Garrett! Garrett help!” “It was as easy as driving under the overpass on I-25 right into that 18-wheeler.” My knees buckled and I hit the floor. The phone. I scrambled for it, but he kicked it away from my hand. “I’m sorry, Grant! I’m so, so, so sorry!” “I really made you that miserable?” He kicked me. “I never hit you. Never told you I hated you. Always did everything for you.” He grabbed me by my face, pinching my cheeks in so hard I couldn’t talk. He had such large hands, and I had lost so much weight. There was no way I could fight back. “No wonder you can’t look at yourself. You’re horrifying. I hope you really soak in every single second of suffering. That’s how every moment I spent with you felt.” He spun me around and shoved my face into the shattered mirror again, cutting my cheeks and my bottom lip. The metallic bitterness of blood dribbled across my tongue and then down my nightgown. “I hope I eat you alive.” The mirror. I turned and grabbed the mirror from the wall, spinning with as much force as I could to slam the glass into the side of his head. The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, the glass slicing open the left side of his face. As soon as the glass hit his skin, time froze. All at once, it was not the glass of the mirror that dashed across his face, but the glass from his car’s windshield. The headlights of the big rig bleached his face out and his muscles contorted from the force. And then we were back in the empty room. The mirror’s frame danced across the floor as it slid into the corner. He looked at me, his smile swimming with blood. He lunged. “Grant!” I pleaded. “Grant, stop!” We danced around the room, the broken glass on the floor cutting open my bare feet. I grabbed a piece and wielded it at him. “I’m going to follow you every waking moment, Claire. You won’t be able to look at your face ever again without seeing yourself as I saw you in the end. As the bitch that told me to take my life.” “I was wrong, Grant. I was confused !” “You weren’t confused , Claire. You were hateful. You hated yourself and couldn’t stand the ugly bitch you had become, inside and out, and so you took it out on everyone else.” He came at me again, and I lunged at him with the same ferocity. My arm jutted toward him, glass in hand, skin burning from the deep laceration that was forming there from gripping the shard so hard. But I moved past him. I moved my arms under his and I wrapped my arms around him as tightly as I could. I embraced him. “I’m sorry Garrett,” I cried, tears mingling with blood as they trailed through my cuts, stinging them with their salt. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. My own hurt was never an excuse to hurt you in the way I did. We weren’t the perfect couple, and we tried. But I can’t let you hurt me anymore either.” I raised the piece of glass as his arms tightened around me, pushing every bit of air out of my lungs, and I drove it into my eye. * * * My body shook. Not shook, necessarily, but rattled back and forth. As I emerged from a fog, something pressed into my face, so heavy I couldn’t sit up. “I need you to call ahead to Denver General, let the surgeon know we’ve got a self-harm suicide coming in with severe head trauma.” I didn’t recognize them. “Oh, thank God! Hey, hey! She’s breathing!” Grant. No. Not Grant. Garrett. Someone squeezed my hand. “Garrett?” I asked. My throat felt like I had swallowed sandpaper. “Jesus, Claire,” he replied in the darkness, his voice shaky with sobbing. “Why’d you go and do something so damn stupid?” “I’m gonna make you a promise, Garrett,” I croaked, attempting to turn my head. A hand promptly stopped me from doing so. “I screwed up our lives. I shattered our whole family. I shouldn’t have yelled at Grant so much.” “It wasn’t all your fault, Claire. Grant threw shit at you, too. Don’t forget—” “It’s okay. None of it matters anymore. I’m going to fix this shattered life. He doesn’t have a hold on me. I’ll never see his reflection – or mine – ever again.”


The city street looked like nothing more than narrow alley from the balcony of Cynthia’s seventh story apartment. Her legs, dangling off the precipice, quivered in fright and anticipation. The adrenaline was building in her chest, and she could feel her heart thumping ever more violently. She felt the tears well up in her eyes as she thought about all she was leaving behind. But she wasn’t crying because of nostalgia, no. Cynthia was crying because she had seen the evil of the world. She knew what hid in the darkest corners of the loneliest roads. She had seen the purest of evil in what seemed to be the holiest of men. Whether it was her stepfather who abused her and her mother when she was only twelve, but would attend church every Sunday and pretend he was right in his soul. Or maybe her real father, who walked out on her at the age of two after he cheated on her mother with her preschool teacher. And her seemingly best friend Marie, who ended up leaving Cynthia chasing her coat tails trying to maintain their friendship even after Marie had lost herself to a heroin addiction. Or perhaps it was Joseph. Her shoulder to cry on. Her friend that picked her up at two o’clock in the morning after she blacked out drunk, who then proceeded to take advantage of her in her state when he got her back to her apartment. But maybe the one that stung most of all, was the evil Cynthia saw in herself. In the wake of all her trauma, Cynthia had grown cold. Remorse was an old friend she kicked to the curb like the weekend’s garbage. Cynthia had closed herself off. Nothing mattered to her anymore. Not her family, nor her so called “friends” that remained by her side, but didn’t care enough to try and help her battle her depression. Cynthia realized that life wasn’t worth it. She had nothing left to look forward to. All she had was darkness to look back on. So, Cynthia stood up on the balcony railing, looking at the street below. It was three o’clock in the morning. The sidewalks were barren. The streets were void of any passing cars. The street lamps cast flickering shadows across the sidewalk below as the limbs of a willow tree swayed gently in the breeze. Tears from Cynthia’s face glinted in the moonlight. Her bloodshot eyes and burning, red face visible even in the dimness. Cynthia held one foot out, balancing still on the railing with the other. A spike of excitement burst into her chest, taking her breath and causing her to momentarily lose her balance. This was it for her. The world had won. She had played its twisted game and lost. And this was her finale. Cynthia leaned forward, closed her eyes, and fell. She felt nothing. It was as if she were sitting still. There was no sense of falling. There was no feeling of her body plastering itself to the walkway below. There was only a feeling of weightlessness and a slight breeze across her face. She then felt herself being lifted upward. She felt her feet plant firmly back on the balcony. She opened her eyes and froze. In front of her stood a figure so bright she could not look at it directly. It’s presence was frightening, yet soothing. The figure was the epitome of everything pure in the world. The figure spoke only a few words to her. “Your time is not yet, child. Go and do my work.” The figure then laid its hand on Cynthia’s shoulder, a feeling of relief and calm washing over her immediately, and disappeared. Cynthia broke down crying on her balcony. The words of the figure still ringing in her ears. Afterword: This is my first post on this subreddit, and I'd appreciate feedback. Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments.


They all think I did it. They all think I killed my best friend. I didn’t, though. However many times I plead innocent, they don’t believe me. They think I am lying. I’m not, though. Even though I was the last person to see Natalie Park alive, I did not kill her. They say I’m crazy. They say I’m deranged. They say I deserve my own padded cell.

Why would I kill my own best friend? “Avena.” I look up at the sound of my name. My sister, Magnolia, stands in front of me.

“Lets go. You’ve got a trial.” I want to curl up in bed and cocoon myself in a blanket. I don’t want to feel the cold, hard eyes of the jurors on me. The judge’s judgement as to what I’ve become. “I don’t feel well.” I try to lie. “I think I’m coming down with something.” Lia looks at me, clearly not deceived. “You’re always coming down with something on court days.” I sigh and pull myself out of bed. I throw on a blue dress and some blue flats. I pin my blonde hair up in a bun, and straighten my glasses. “Are you ready to go?” Lia asks. I draw in a long breath. “Yes.” She leads me out to her car, a blue Corolla. I open the passenger door and climb inside. Lia squeezes my leg. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. You’ve got a great lawyer.” I sigh.

She looks at me, her blue eyes piercing into me. “You didn’t do it. If they can’t see from every angle, every suspect, then they are not great at their jobs.” “But what if they do find me guilty? I didn’t do it, so what? I’d get, oh, I don’t know, fifty years in prison for nothing?” “Life.” Lia says silently. I put my face in my hands. “I’m doomed.” ******* Lia and I walked up the marble steps to the courthouse. We pushed open the large fancy doors and walked inside, her heels clicking against the cold stone floor. We enter the elevator, and the rumbling as it ascends along with the easy listening music make me feel like I need to throw up. Nervousness could be a factor, too. We enter the courtroom and I take my special defendant seat. My palms are sweating,and my shoes all of a sudden feel too tight. The prosecutor starts the opening statement. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Zachary Richard Smith. I am here today to prosecute on behalf of the family of Natalie Park for the murder of their daughter. I will call three witnesses to the stand. One, Mary Anne Park, will testify. Two, William Grant will testify. And third, Vera Wells. “At the conclusion of the case, we will ask you to convict the defendant, Avena Richards, of the crime as charged. Thank you. “First, I would like to call to the stand, Mary Anne Park.” Mary Anne, Natalie’s big sister, approaches the stand. She never liked me much, and she was there on the last night. She starts, “Thank you. I was at a party with the defendant and my sister the night she went missing. The defendant and her had been fighting. They had both been drinking. My sister left the party with-” She pointed at me with a sneer on her face. “ Her .” I instantly recoiled, my shoulders scrunching. My lawyer, Dean Stewart, approached the stand. “Your honor, I have a few questions.” “Objection, your honor!” Mr. Smith said. “Overruled.” The judge said. “Mr. Stewart, continue with your questioning.” Mr. Stewart faced Mary Anne. “Miss Park, did you try to stop those two from leaving the party?” Mary Anne turned red. “N-no, sir.” “Even though they had both been drinking, you did not try to stop them from getting into a car and driving away?” “Objection, your honor!” Mr. Smith said. “Overruled.” The judge said. Mary Anne became very interested in her dress. Her answer was only a squeak. “No.” The jury mumbled among themselves silently. “Thank you.” Mr. Stewart said, his point clearly made. “No further questioning.” “Thank you, Miss Park.” Mr. Smith said. “I would now like to call to the stand William Grant.” Will walked up to the stand. His blonde hair seemed paler, so it wasn’t exactly blonde, but more like a grey white. His blue eyes also seemed leeched of their color. He clearly hadn’t slept well last night. He sighs. He clearly does not want to be on the stand. His parents probably pressured him into it. “Hi. I was at the party, and to agree with Mary Anne, they did fight. But it was over something really stupid and girly, like, um,” He scratched his chin. “Oh! It was that they wore the same perfume, and they were accusing each other of doing it on purpose. By the time they left the party, they were giggling and it was like none of it had ever happened.” “Any questions?” The judge asked.

There were none, because this testimony had aided both sides. It proved that we had fought that night, but it also proved that by the time we left, we weren’t mad at each other. “I’d like to call Vera Wells to the stand, please.” Uhg. The popular girl. In our high school group, she was the most popular. She had the nicest hair, clothes and accessories- but she was also the brattiest. That tended to happen to people who were born with silver spoons in their mouths. Vera made her way to the stand, sashaying, trying to show off her Miss Me jeans and Gucci belt. “Hi. I was at the party the night, like, that Nat went missing. Avena and, like, Nat were totally fine! I never saw them arguing, and when they, like, left, I left at, like, the same time. Avena, like, brought Nat home. I saw Nat, like, getting out of the car and walking up her front steps.” A tremor passes through the courtroom.

“Any questions?” The judge asked. “A few, your honor.” Mr. Smith said. He approached the stand.

“Miss Wells,” He started, “What time of night did you see the defendant drop Natalie Park off at her residence?” “Maybe, um, ten or ten thirty?” The courtroom was silent for about ten seconds, the only sound was pens scraping on legal pads. “Thank you. No further questions.” Mr Smith said. Vera returned to her seat. “I will now start the closing statement. We know that Natalie Park and Avena Richards did argue that night. However, they were friendly again with each other by the end of the night. Avena Richards dropped Natalie Park off at her house, where she was never heard from again. However, as Avena had Natalie in the car with her, she was still the person who last saw Miss Park. Therefore, I ask for a guilty verdict. Thank you.” Mr Stewart stands. “I will now start the closing statement by defense. While Miss Richards was the last person to see Miss Park, she was witnessed going into her home. Miss Richards drove away, leaving Miss Park at her residence. Which she shares with her family.” He sneaks a glance at Mary Anne, then continues. “Therefore, I ask for a non-guilty verdict.” “Thank you.” The judge, Judge Miller says. She continues, “I will now conversate with the jury to get a verdict for Miss Avena Richards.” And they go into a closed session. Lia walks over to join me. “It’s gonna be okay, Ave. It’s gonna be okay.” Although it sounded more like she was reassuring herself, and not me. I started to sweat, and my feet tapped against the cold stone floor. Minutes ticked by, feeling like several hours. The clock on the wall felt menacing, its white face glaring down at me. Finally, after what felt like hours, Judge Miller and the jury presided. “We have reached a verdict. We find the defendant, Avena Richards, innocent as charged. Thank you.” At first, I didn't understand. I was so ready to be hauled off in handcuffs. I looked at Lia, and she was grinning so wide I thought her smile was going to break the confines of her face. Court was dismissed, and I ran and hugged Lia.

I’m innocent I’m innocent I’m innocent. Me and Lia were so excited, we went to ice cream afterwards. I could almost forget the dirty look Mary Anne Park was giving me. Almost. ******* I walked up the steps to my house. It was a week after the trial, and life was somewhat back to normal. No one whispered about me in the halls anymore at school. People were sitting with me at lunch again. I was about to open the door when I noticed an envelope wedged between the screen door and the door. I pried it open and pulled out the paper inside. I knew it could have been for Lia, but I opened it anyway. Avena Richards, you are next. Definitely for me, then. I somehow got the meaning that You are next didn’t mean You are next to recieve a great prize! or You are next to get a free pass to Disneyland! I didn’t know what it meant. I looked behind me and along the street. It was barren and empty. I quickly went inside and slammed the door. My breaths were ragged and quick. What did it mean? I went to my room and did homework. I sighed, and no matter how many times I reread the same paragraph in my textbook, it would not stick in my brain. You are next. I shuddered and closed the textbook. No reading tonight, apparently.

Instead I opened my laptop and searched Natalie Park . Of course, all the local news headlines came up. Natalie Park, 17, Goes Missing Remains of Natalie Park, Missing Local Girl, Found Trial Held for Suspect of Natalie Park’s Murder Avena Richards Found Innocent For Murder Of Natalie Park And so many others. I could keep scrolling this webpage forever, but I hear a knock on the door, so I close the tab and go out to the main room. I opened the door. “Hello?” A small envelope fell at my feet. I stuck my head out the door and looked up and down our street again. Empty. I picked up the envelope and opened it. I’m watching you. It was all I could do not to scream. Who? Who was watching me? Why? I turned around and went inside the house, slamming and locking the door. I closed all the shutters and locked the back door. About an hour later, I heard someone trying the door. The knob jiggled, then the person knocked. I crept over and looked through the peephole, and I released a huge breath. It was only Lia. “Why did you have the door locked?” She asked once she was inside. “And why are all the shutters drawn?” “I have a headache,” I lied. “I must have accidentally turned the lock on my way in.” Lia didn’t look convinced, but she said, “Okay. You go get some rest, then.” I slinked back to my room, pretending to have a headache. There, I found an email in my inbox from someone titled “You Know Who”. Closing the shutters and locking the doors does absolutely nothing. You’re next. I looked frantically around my room. What? I didn’t know who! I lied down, trying to just relax to calm my shaking nerves. I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to shattering glass as a rock was thrown through my window. I sat bolt upright. What was that? Someone landed on my rug with a thud. Broken glass crunched underneath them. Their shoes made outlines on the carpet. The person walks toward me. They wore a black hoodie, and black leggings. Black high tops adorned their feet. They pulled their hood back.

The face I was looking at shocked me. Mary Anne Park. “Wh-what do you w-want?” I asked, stuttering through my fear. “You. Gone.” Mary Anne replied. If I could only reach my phone, I thought. I could call 911 or get this on video. My fingers crept to my phone on my bedside table. Mary Anne noticed, unfortunately. She grabbed my phone and threw it out the window, into the night. “Nuh-uh-uh.” She said. “None of that.” I took a deep breath, then screamed, “LIA! LIA! MAGNOLIA! HELP!” Mary Anne looked shocked for a second, then she regained her posture and said, “Quiet!” I listened intently for the slightest sound of footsteps walking down the hall. Nothing.

“LIA! LIA, HELP! IT’S AN EMERGENCEEEEEEYYYY!” I shouted. “That’s enough!” Mary Anne said, pulling a small black bar with a wider end out of her pocket. A taser. She was leaning toward me to touch the electricity to my neck when my door burst open. “What’s the problem, Ave?” And then she saw Mary Anne. “Get away from her!” Mary Anne turned, obviously surprised by my sister’s words.

“I said, GET AWAY FROM MY LITTLE SISTER!” Lia shouted and tackled Mary Anne. They rolled around, Mary Anne’s taser flickering on and off in an attempt to electrocute Lia. Lia finally got Mary Anne pinned, and she straddled her on the ground. Then, Lia pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed 911. “Hello? Yes, I have a home intruder…” ******** One month later… I walked down the stairs, on my way to my biology class. The sun streamed bright, and I had to put up my hand to protect my eyes. That night, Mary Anne Park had been hauled away from me and Lia’s house in handcuffs. Two weeks later, she was found guilty of breaking and entering, and even worse, the murder of Natalie Park. She had been sentenced to life in prison. We had been assured that she would not be bothering us anymore. I reached the bottom of the steps and almost ran into someone. He had thick, black glasses, and short blonde hair in a crew cut.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I said, recomposing myself. I was about to continue on my way when he looked at me and said, “You’re Avena Richards?” “Who wants to know?” “Ben Sullivan. I’m new here.” He held out his hand to shake. I readjusted

my textbooks in my arms so I had a free hand. “Did you want to maybe...hang out sometime?” He asked nervously. I smiled almost as bright as the sun. “Sure.” Maybe things were starting to look up.


June 13th, 1988 I stand alone, frozen in the moment of my life I knew I would regret forever. Will you regret something if you actively participate in it?  I have asked myself this question millions of times, each different time like a different lens I look at my life in. Another color, another life, another identity, or another girl. When she first smiled at me, she was electric, her eyes an icy flame asking to be fanned. The words on every wall surrounding me, repeating themselves infinitely. July 11th, 1979 If only people asked me what I was thinking so they could unravel me. I want to know who I am, or at least why I am. I pick myself up and walk over to the window my parents bought the house for. My mother had always fantasized about a bay window, looking out at the lake. A thousand secrets are consumed by that lake. Lakes have always been nosy. I venture over to my room, hoping to reread one of the novels that have made me a whole person. I have read some too many times to count. After a few rereads, the words so freshly woven lose their power and their meaning, After that, both you and the book become trapped in a cycle of codependency. Searching for the words that have shaped everything, your art, your mind, and your soul. All you can hear are those words, echoing in the mind that gave you permission to interpret and dissect them the first time around. I see a girl walking towards the cherry red house. She beams and knocks on the door.  With nothing better to do, I open it for her. "Hello. I'm Charly." She waves. "Salutations. I am Sage." I return. And then I wonder if I should be returning or delivering. "Your house is my favorite house. It is the crimson of my heart. My favorite shade." She gushes but then composes herself. Dear reader, are you ready for my dearest, most special mistake? "Why don't you come in? You can see inside." I utter quickly. She accepts and walks in.  Her hair is almost down to her waist. "How are you lucky enough to live here?" She inquires. "Oh. Um, I." For a moment I am mortified. How do say this without bragging? Mom says I should be less arrogant. "I skipped a few grades, and still got all A's, so my parents wanted to reward me." "How old are you?" She further interrogates. "I'm thirteen. What about you?" "Same." I hear a boy call her name. "I'm sorry. I have to go." She darts off.  I wonder in the soliloquy that is my mind if I will ever really figure out why she adored him so greatly. I sit at the bay window, staring at the curtains, meditating inside myself. My mother comes up behind me. "You said you wouldn't fuss dear. No worrying."  She tells me, almost as if she's attempting to train me. Maybe it's to be like her or at least to be like who she wishes she were. "Some kids are jumping off the dock. maybe you should go with them. It would be so amazing to jump into that crystal clear, freezing lake." My mother strongly encourages me to listen to her, but she makes it incredibly difficult when she is constantly proving herself to be unreliable. Nevertheless, I cave into her desires, like I always do.  It sometimes pains both me and her to see me in a swimsuit. My scrawny, boyish form disappoints her exceedingly.  When I am feeling with great contempt for my family, which is most of the time, I use odd words they don't understand. I once told my mother she was the definition of the word morosis. She just smiled and thanked me. I told my father the word petrichor was the new slang for cool the kids were using. He says it all the time now. And yet I venture onto the dock, with an expectation of disappointment. When I look from afar, I see a girl with flaxen hair down to her waist talking to a boy. He has already taken the plunge, but she is afraid. He is urging her to come in. He grabs her foot, and she screams. I run towards her, just to see if she's alright, and she isn't. Fighting for air, she obviously can't swim. He is drowning too, pulling her down with him, mocking her. While she fights to get out, I pull her up. But something hits him. And everything freezes. I buoy must have hit him. He sinks down, but both of us were too frozen, too weak to save him. I scream in horror. We make a fire, kindling the burning embers. "Why did you come if you can't swim?" I inquire. "Because he scared me." She responds quietly. "My friend set us up.   Thought we could be a match. I told her he was cruel, but she didn't care. And I'm a pleaser." I can hear the tears in her eyes, but the darkness masks her face. "What are we going to do?" I ask. She shrugs. July 28th, 1979 The corpse of Billy DuVall was found that day, and Charly and I wondered what to do. Our parents asked us if we'd seen anything, but we denied it, saying we were hanging out together. Our alibi was weak, but at least we had an alibi. Unlike Kari Jamison, who I still think was doing drugs with her boyfriend Adam. Kari was questioned, but they came up with nothing. And Charly and I made a blood oath to never rat each other out. I still have the scars. The summer passed, our lives grew apart and went on. That was until Charly Richard shot her self two days ago. And all these years I've lived with this alone, with nothing but my pen to govern my soul. I bid this life farewell.