Rain drenched the city. A man in a trench coat and baseball cap, but no umbrella, walked across the slick city streets against the flow of the crowd. Joel’s teeth chattered as he looked at all the faces walking towards him, shadowed by their black umbrellas. He took several deep breaths.

When he came to an alleyway between two tall buildings, he quickly turned away from the crowds and walked into the alley. He leaned against the brick wall, closed his eyes, and took some deep breaths.

“You okay?” asked a gravelly voice.

Joel opened his eyes with a start. Against the brick wall opposite him was an elderly man sitting on the ground in the corner formed by the dumpster and the building. The stranger was huddled under a black, plastic garbage bag. He was shivering violently, water dripping from his grizzled grey beard, and he looked up at Joel with deep, brown eyes. Thunder rolled above them, Joel relaxed.

“I struggle with crowds,” Joel said. Then he put his hands in his coat pockets and stepped over to the stranger. “Do you have a dry place to stay?”

The stranger bit his lip in thought, and looked around on the ground as if the answer were there somewhere. Then he looked back up at Joel and said, “I don’t know. I got lost, and then it started raining. I thought it would be best to wait out the rain here.”

Joel offered the stranger his hand. “Come with me,” he said, “and you can wait out the storm in my dry apartment.” The stranger looked at Joel a moment, then took his hand and stood, leaving his plastic garbage bag behind.

The two men walked out of the alley in silence, and walked back up the street the way Joel had come. They continued silently into Joel’s building, and up the five flights of stairs to his floor.

“I’m here,” Joel finally said. They stopped in front of a wooden door with the brass numbers 535. He fished out his keys and unlocked the door. The stranger looked around curiously as they entered and Joel locked the door behind them.

The entryway was small and led to the living room. There was a black leather sofa with some worn patches, and a lamp in the corner next to the back windows overlooking the residents of the building across the street. A short Ikea bookcase spanned the length of the floor underneath the windows. On top of that a dozen or so framed pictures of people. A framed folded American flag was sitting among the pictures. The bottom shelf was full of thick, colorful books with cartoon animals and characters on the spines, and in another corner was a wicker basket filled with children’s toys. All over the walls were more framed pictures of the same people, all the way to the entryway where the two men stood.

“Welcome,” Joel said. He took off his trench coat, put it on a hanger from the coat closet, and walked into the bathroom. He hung it up on one of three bars he had rigged to span the width of his bathtub from the shower curtain to the wall. His trench coat then dripped into the tub. His baseball cap he hung on a metal peg at the back of the tub. When he returned to his guest, the stranger was dripping all over the floor as he stared at one of the pictures in the entryway.

“Here, let me take your coat, and I’ll hang it up,” Joel said, grabbing another hanger. He hung up the stranger’s coat next to his own. Before returning to the entryway, he went into his room and opened his closet. He grabbed some jeans, a T-Shirt, a worn leather belt, and a pair of white underwear. When he came back, the stranger was still looking at the pictures on the wall in the entryway.

“Recognize someone?” Joel asked.

The stranger squinted a little looking at the picture and said, “Not sure. This your family?”

“Yessir,” Joel said, shifting the clothes in his arms so he could point to each person in the most recent family photo.

“This is my dad,” he said. “He was a big cowboy, and my mom, she passed away about four years ago. This here is me, I’m the oldest, and then my two little sisters. Janessa, who is in Dallas working as a graphic designer for an advertising agency, and Rema, who is in LA pursuing a dream of being a screenwriter.” The stranger nodded approvingly, still looking at the photo. Joel smiled.

“Here, I brought you some dry clothes,” Joel said. The stranger finally turned and looked at Joel, who handed him the pile. “These belonged to an old roommate of mine, and I just haven’t gotten rid of them yet. But I think they might be just about your size. Don’t worry, the whitey-tighties are clean. I-uh-I just took them out of the bag. My roommate left those too.” The stranger lifted the greying underwear and examined it doubtfully. Joel cleared his throat.

“You can change in the bathroom. Feel free to use whatever towel you find to dry off. And when you’re done, go ahead and have a seat in the dining room over there.” He pointed toward a doorway on the other side of the living room. The stranger nodded. “Meanwhile, I will dry off in my bedroom, and then I’ll make some soup for us both to enjoy and to help warm us up.” The stranger gave a weak smile, and then turned and entered the bathroom.

A few moments later, all the wet clothes were hanging in the bathroom, dripping into the tub, and both men were in the kitchen/dining room while Joel stirred a pot filled with two cans of Progresso Beef Pot Roast with Country Vegetables. The stranger looked around the kitchen. The linoleum was old and coming up in a couple corners. The appliances were also not recent additions. On the counter sat a bright red panini maker, a blender, and a small basket of fresh fruit--apples, bananas, and oranges. Hanging from the oven handle was a brightly colored hand towel with a barn and a rooster on it. “Nice towel,” the stranger said while Joel stirred the soup. Joel looked at the towel and smiled.

“Yeah, that’s a special towel,” he said. “It’s from the home I grew up in. Like I said, my dad was a big cowboy fan, and he loved ranches and farms and the agricultural life. So much of our home décor reflected that.”

“So your dad was a rancher, or farmer?”

“No, he was a brilliant mechanical engineer actually. The cowboy thing was more of a hobby, or a break from his daily grind, that our whole family partook in. My sisters and I all got riding lessons, and more than one family vacation was spent traveling to Texas for the state fair.”

“Well, they do know how to do it there in Texas,” the stranger said.

Joel nodded as he turned the soup off.

“My dad also liked old World War II films,” Joel said, getting two bowls from a cupboard and setting them on the table. “My sisters and I can still quote lines and scenes from ‘The Great Escape,’ ‘Midway,’ ‘The Dirty Dozen’ and a plethora of others.”

The stranger nodded again. “It sounds like I would have liked your father.”

Joel smiled, putting glasses in front of the bowls. “Yeah, I think you two would have gotten along very well.”

“Is that flag for your father?” the stranger asked, pointed towards the bookshelf in the living room. “That? No, that’s mine,” Joel said. “All those war movies apparently had an effect on me, and I ended up joining the marines when I was old enough.” Joel placed spoons on the table. “That flag flew over the base I was stationed at in Afghanistan on September 11th of the year I was there. My parents had it framed after I got home.”

“Well, thank you for your service,” the stranger said. Joel just smiled awkwardly and nodded.

“I usually eat this soup with some slices of bread with butter on them, would you like any?” Joel asked.

“Yeah, that sounds really good,” said the stranger perking up a little. Joel smiled and opened the fridge. He pulled out a half loaf of whole wheat bread and some butter.

“So, where is your father now?” the stranger asked. “Is he retired or something?” Joel put the bread and butter on the table.

“Or something,” Joel said. He turned and went to the silverware drawer again, pulling out a knife.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” The stranger said as Joel put the knife on the table. Then the stranger reached over and put his hand on Joel’s. His deep brown eyes staring up at Joel.

“He will always be there with you, even if you can’t see him,” the stranger said. “I know that for a fact.” Joel smiled a sad smile.

“Thank you,” he said, walking back to the stove. “He’s not actually dead, but for all intents and purposes, he is gone.” Joel grabbed a cork hot pad from beside the stove, and then picked up the pot and returned to the table.

“You know, it’s kind of funny,” Joel said, putting down the cork hot pad and setting the pot on it. “We often talk about that. How people who have passed on to the next life are somehow with us still.” He sat down across from the stranger. “But we rarely talk about those who have not passed on to the next life physically, but mentally they aren’t the same person any more. It’s like the person they were is dead, and a stranger has taken over their body.”

The stranger nodded knowingly. “In many ways, that’s harder than just saying goodbye,” he said.

Joel looked at the stranger without a word. Then he scooted his chair in more and asked,

“Do you mind if we say grace?”

“It’s your home, do as you please,” the stranger said. They both bowed their heads, and Joel began.

“Father in Heaven, we thank thee for this warm food, and for the chance we have to enjoy it together. Thank you for the safety we both have received tonight. We ask thee to bless this food, and please watch over my guest here. Continue to bless him with safety and health. Amen.”

The stranger looked up at him. “Thank you,” he said. Joel smiled as he ladled some soup into their bowls.

“Beef stew is my dad’s favorite, you know,” Joel said, buttering a slice of bread and handing it to the stranger.

“A good beef stew is hard to beat,” said the stranger, dipping his bread into the stew. “There’s just something about meat, potatoes, and carrots that helps remind a man of where he came from. That there was once a day when such dishes were a staple of everyday life.”

“Yeah, that’s one reason my dad liked cowboys,” Joel said with a mouthful of bread. He swallowed. “He said that was a time when,” Joel made his voice deeper and sound like a movie announcer, “men were men, they knew what integrity was, and they knew the joy of a body aching with a full day’s hard labor.” Joel coughed and drank some water. The stranger chuckled a little.

“What does he do with himself now, in his ‘or something’?” The stranger asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Joel said. “I know he likes where he’s at, but he has always had this wanderlust, like a wild mustang that has been corralled. And sometimes he just needs some time away from it all.”

The stranger nodded his characteristic nod. “I know that feeling,” he said, dipping a second piece of buttered bread into his bowl.

“His engineering background has made it so that this mustang seems to understand every corral it is put into, and seems to find a way out no matter what,” Joel said between bites of soup.

The stranger paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. Then he set the spoon back into his bowl. He looked up at Joel.

“That is a serious call there,” the stranger said. “You gotta respect when that call comes. If you keep him locked up too tightly, he’ll most likely die from the panic of it all.”

“Oh, there’s no disrespecting that call,” Joel said, eating the last spoonful of soup in his bowl. “He will get out no matter what we do. So, when he does, I go find him, we spend some time together, and I take him back until the next time the call comes. That's why I’m here.”

“Here in the city? This apartment?” the stranger asked.

“All of it,” Joel replied. “My dad’s old enough he needed some extra help. I had just started being a part-time dad, and was in a position to easily move closer to him to offer that extra help. And my sisters could stay put with their families and careers.”

The stranger nodded as he wiped out his empty bowl with a piece of bread. Then he gave Joel a quizzical look. “Part-time dad?”

Joel looked down and started scraping gravy from his bowl. “Yeah, after years of programs, drugs, and therapies, my PTSD was much better, but I still have some triggers that won’t go away.”

“Like crowds?” asked the stranger.

Joel nodded. “Yeah, like crowds. So, right now the best solution is I live separately, and my wife and kids come visit me regularly.” There was no more gravy in Joel’s bowl, but he kept scraping at it. “I have my robots I tinker with, and a check from Uncle Sam each month -- I’m considered 100% disabled -- and I meet up with my dad every so often. It’s not what I planned, it’s not the ideal, but it’s what I got.” Joel finally looked up at the stranger, who was staring at him. “And it’s a lot better than it could have been.”

Joel stuck his spoon in his mouth and pulled it out clean of any gravy that might have still been there. Then he dropped it into his glass bowl with a clank.

“Well, I am full, and much warmer now,” Joel said. “How about you?”

The stranger blinked his eyes, cleared his throat, and looked down at his empty bowl. “Uh-um, yeah, yeah. I’m done. That was delicious. Thank you for your hospitality tonight.”

Joel looked at the stranger earnestly. “It was my pleasure,” he said with a smile. Then he grabbed his bowl and stood up. He walked to the sink and put his dishes in.

“I know a shelter nearby that you can stay at for the night,” Joel said, returning to the table. “Because I doubt you want to crash on my sofa.”

“Oh, no,” the stranger said. “These old bones aren’t what they used to be, and a real bed would be incredible.” The stranger stood up and walked to the front door while Joel finished clearing the table. When Joel joined him, the stranger was pulling on his grey rattlesnake skin boots and Joel had a black garbage bag in hand.

“I’m going to put your wet clothes in here for transportation purposes,” he told the stranger. “And then the ladies at the shelter will take care of them from there, if that’s alright with you.” The stranger nodded. “And go ahead and keep these clothes.” Joel said, disappearing into the bathroom. He returned moments later with a much fuller plastic bag.

Joel led the stranger to the parking garage where his orange manual transmission 1994 Honda Accord was parked. In no time they were out on the road. The rain was just a drizzle now, but traffic was still slow.

They traveled in silence once again. Each lost in thought. The stranger picked at his hands. Joel sighed deeply as he maneuvered through the streets. Eventually, they drove past a sign that read, “Forest Village Lifecare Community,” and Joel pulled into the parking lot behind the sign. They both got out of the car. The stranger looked at the large white buildings and neatly trimmed lawns.

“Whoa,” he said. “This is the nicest shelter I’ve ever seen in my life.” Joel smiled with a soft laugh. “Come on, I’ll show you to Julie.”

They walked through a pair of sliding glass doors, and met a woman standing at a white desk. She was in her late 40’s and obviously dyed her hair red. She smiled when she saw them walking toward her.

“Evening Julie,” Joel said.

“Well, hello again, Joel,” she responded.

“I was wondering if you might have some room here tonight for my friend,” Joel indicated the stranger, who smiled sheepishly.

Julie smiled a toothy grin. “I think we can work something out for him,” she said. Then she turned and called down a side hallway, “Jim! Can you come escort our guest? I believe room 275 is currently vacant.” A man about Joel’s age, but with a much larger chest and biceps, appeared out of the hall. He looked at the stranger and smiled kindly.

“Follow me, sir,” he said. The stranger quickly turned to Joel, and grabbed Joel’s hands.

“Thank you for all the care you have given me tonight,” he said. “I will never forget it.” Joel smiled and nodded as his eyes began to well up. Then Jim led the stranger out of the lobby and down the hall.

Joel sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve as he watched the stranger and Jim get into the elevator. The stranger smiled and waved at Joel as the doors closed. Joel waved back with a smile, a tear rolling down his cheek.

“Bye,” Joel said softly. “Dad.”


There was a screech echoing through the air with a ferocity that surely no mortal had heard, much more like the sound of a thousand demons crying out in pain all at once than anything else it might otherwise have been. Andrew stood still, frightened. He had never experienced such an ear-splitting sound in his short nine years of life and he almost certain never would again. His older brother, Braydon, had assured him for repeated years that this night was the one night humans could count on demons and vampires and werewolves and everything evil to roam the world after dark. Perhaps he had finally strayed too far from his older brother, left the protection of his guardian for precisely long that a demon was swooping down to fly away with him. Slowly, Andrew turned to look behind himself, first his head turning, his eyes catching a small rush of costumed people rushing forward from the sidewalk. Intrigued—curious—Andrew allowed his torso and then his full body to turn around. With a sigh of relief, Andrew realized there was no monster behind him. There was nothing more than a group of people gathering, huddling around together on the road, the bright lights of a car shining on them, parked nearby. Shrugging his shoulders and turning back around, Andrew began to skip to the house he had been heading toward. It was the house with the huge waving ghost in the front yard, and a couple of scary-looking statues with flashing lights illuminating their twisted faces. Andrew wasn’t afraid though, because one of the other kids who he had bumped into at the house he had just left had told him this house was handing out full-sized candy bars ! He began to half skip, half run toward the house, excited at the prospect of getting one single bar all to himself, or maybe, just maybe the nice old man who lived there would be enthralled by his Spider-Man costume and give him—dare he think it?—two bars all to himself.

Of course, if he got two, he’d give one to Braydon, because he knew Braydon hadn’t wanted to take him out trick-or-treating again. His older brother had told him this was the last year they’d go out together, so Andrew wanted to make the most of it. Next year, Braydon had told him, he’d have to go out with his friends from school instead of out with his big brother. Andrew had to make this year the best year yet! Andrew swallowed a soft yelp as he rounded the corner leading up to the front porch of the house. There, hidden behind a bush, was yet another statue, this one of a very tall, imposing figure wearing a hockey mask, a bright, shiny blade in his hands. Not quite looking up fully, Andrew looked through his eyebrows and up into the dirty mask, staring into the black eyes shadowed behind it, waiting. The flashes of white light that pulsed from time to time as if a silent storm was rolling in made it appear as though the statue was moving, but the eyes never blinked, never even moved. Shaking his head finally, Andrew let out a small chuckle, realizing that this too must be a statue. Turning, he hurried up to the porch and knocked on the screen door. Barely a moment passed before a jovial old man with graying hair and thick, black-rimmed glasses opened the door, a giant bowl of full candy bars easily visible in his hands. Andrew’s eyes grew wider as he stared into the orange plastic bowl. They were all there: all the big names in candy, all the chocolates and chocolate peanut-butters and chocolate crunches! They were all there! Oh, which one to ask for? Would he have a choice? Did it even matter? This was a full bar of chocolate! “Hello?” The old man seemed confused. Opening the screen door, the man stepped out onto the porch, still clutching the bowl in his hand, arm wrapped about it, holding it close. “Hello? Is there anyone here?” “Me, sir!” Andrew called out. “Trick or treat!” The man looked right over him though, not even looking down at him, not even acknowledging him. Andrew was nearly four feet tall! The man should be able to see him. He wasn’t that small. “Here I am, sir! Down here!” Andrew called out again. “Hmmph. Guess the trick’s on me,” the man said before turning back and heading into his house, the door closing behind him. “What?” Andrew found himself asking aloud. He reached out and knocked on the door again, certain the man had simply failed to see him. This time the old man opened the door with a hint of annoyance, and no sign of the candy bowl. Looking out through the screen, again passing right over Andrew, the old man called out, “That’s enough of that! Stop trying to play tricks on me!” With a slam, the door was closed again. Andrew furrowed his brow and stared for a good couple of minutes at the door, hoping the man would return, but eventually he gave up, dreams of a full bar of chocolate dashed by the rude old codger. Shoulders slumped, Andrew headed back down the path away from the house, ignoring the menacing statues and ghostly decorations surrounding him. Maybe he wouldn’t go trick or treating with his friends next year. Maybe he wouldn’t go trick or treating ever again. Kicking his shoe on the sidewalk, he turned slowly toward the next house on the block, looking down at the cream-colored pavement as he walked. He carefully avoided stepping on any of the cracks in the sidewalk for fear of breaking his mother’s back—something else Braydon had assured him was necessary, particularly on Halloween—and decided he’d try again. Looking up as he reached the next driveway, he noticed the house lights were off. He quirked his head to the side, confused, because although he hadn’t really acknowledged it as he went to the scarily decorated home, he had been certain this house had been lit up too. Another moment, and he realized none of the houses nearby were lit up anymore, not even the house with the old man. Up and down the street, there wasn’t even a sign of life. No kids, no costumes, no people, and no candy. Just darkness, broken by the street lamps. Houses in shadow, much more gray and eerie than they had been moments before. A small wave of panic began to wash over Andrew as he looked up and down the street. Braydon! Where was Braydon? He could feel his own lips quivering and his eyes starting to water a little as he realized he was alone. He’d never been alone outside before, not this far from home. “Braydon!” he cried out. “Braydon, where are you?” There was no answer. But a light across the street went on. The brightness of the porch lamp drew Andrew’s attention immediately and he looked up to see the front door of the house open. A kind-looking woman with deep mocha skin and long, braided hair stepped out onto the porch. “Come here, little one,” she called out to him. There was something soothing about her voice, something that Andrew instantly trusted, and so he wiped his tears. Looking both ways before he stepped into the street on the off chance a car might be coming, Andrew rushed across and over to her porch. There, she awaited him, her arms wide. “Come, little one, do not despair. Everything will be alright.” As she wrapped her arm around Andrew, suddenly he felt very safe again. He looked up into her cinnamon eyes and smiled. Reaching down, the woman wiped away the last of his tears. “Oh, dear child, this must all be very confusing for you. But do not worry. Time is endless.” “Wha…?” Andrew stopped himself for a moment. Now that she mentioned it, he really was confused. “What’s going on?” “You are dying.” There was a truth in the woman’s words, but Andrew couldn’t quite understand what she was trying to tell him. Of course he knew what death was. He’d lost a hamster and a couple of gold fish and, well, his grandfather, too, but he thought death was a lot scarier than this. “Shouldn’t I be afraid?” “Oh, no, child.” The woman’s face lit up with a bright smile. “People have had me wrong for ages. Always running around holding some large blade, dressing in moody robes, snatching souls and the like. Or worse. Some gave me ugly jackal heads. In the end, I am never quite what they expect. But then, dying is not quite what they expect either. Death is all about second chances, my child, but you first need to learn what went wrong.” “What did I do?” The question crossed Andrew’s lips without hesitation. He knew it had to be something he had done wrong. As he looked up into the woman’s eyes, he could see his own red and blue and black costumed face reflected in the blackness of her eyes, and then he remembered. Before he could give that memory much thought, much less give voice to what he recalled, he saw the woman nodding. “Yes, my child, that is it. But see, in this case, your life is not yet over. There is more yet for you to do, a long life to live, and so you must return with the knowledge of what you have done wrong.” “How?” “You will know.” She released him from her warm grasp and took a couple of steps backward, placing a hand upon his head. “Never forget this chance you have been given.” “Who are you?” The woman threw her head back and let out a hearty, friendly laugh. “Oh, child, I have been called many things. Thousands of years ago they called me Osiris. Some call me Death. Others Thanatos. So many names. These days, I prefer a nice, short name. Just call me Siri.” “Thank you, Siri,” Andrew said, smiling, feeling a warmth flowing through himself. “Wake up, buddy, please, wake up!” It was Braydon’s voice calling to him, and suddenly Andrew found himself in his brother’s arms. There was a group of people standing around him, a few on their phones, all of them looking down at him with concern in their eyes. The car… The car with the bright lights was there too, and Andrew suddenly remembered with clarity what had happened and threw his arms around Braydon’s neck. “I’m sorry, Bray! I didn’t mean to! I shouldn’t have run off like that! I just wanted to go get the candy bar!” “It’s okay, buddy,” Braydon said with a smile. There were tears running down his cheeks, his green eyes filled with joy. He pulled off Andrew’s mask and mussed up his hair. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you coming, I’m so sorry.” Andrew turned and saw a man, older than Braydon but definitely not as old as the old man he had seen at the scary house. He had a pale complexion, his face wrought with concern. “I should have been paying more attention,” Andrew said, looking away and into his brother’s chest. “I’m sorry, mister.” “Let’s just get you checked out, okay?” the man said. Andrew nodded, but he knew he would be okay. The kind woman—Siri—had told him so. He knew what he needed to remember. There was only one more thing he wanted. “Can we go trick or treating again next year, Bray? I promise to be good.” “You bet, buddy. You bet.”


It wasn’t supposed to go like this, I was never meant to leave. I'll take you back to where it all started -- to me and my twin brother. We were as close as any siblings could be. There were never any secrets between us. Because we were born into the royal family, interaction with the villagers was unheard of. From a young age, I knew I wanted to be a warrior, fighting alongside people who I could call my equals. Ethan’s destiny, however, was decided for him at a young age. The first male to be born into the family would be the next ruler to take over from my father. Ethan always had something to complain about -- how I had so much freedom to fight and do things a princess shouldn't. But they focused so much on him that they had no time to bother me. Mother and I had an arrangement that if I finished all my tasks and lessons for the day, she would allow me to get one on one combat lessons. On my 5th birthday, they gifted me Trooper, my horse, and he's been my escape from the chaos in my family ever since. My favourite part of the day was when I finished my lesson. I jumped on Tropper, and just go off into the forest. Trooper has been my horse since before I can remember. Every day we went for a ride, and upon returning I pampered him with treats and a wash. The wind in my face, my brown silky hair flowing behind me, I urged Tropper to move quicker. Birds were chirping as they flew from tree to tree and squirrels clambered up trees, grasping their nuts and vigorously eating them down to nothing. To the side of me, there was a blur of green, as I inhaled the moss and grass, which smelt even better than my mother’s fresh bread. I felt connected with the nature around me, my horse galloping and leaping through the air, picking up speed to find our favourite place in the whole entire kingdom. Even better my ride with Tropper was a place I liked to call my secret garden. It was a space enclosed by willow trees, where overgrown shrubs decorated the entire area, and flowers peaked up in every growth of grass - colours so vibrant, I wished I could hold onto them. A little river lay by the side, with rocks and water flowing down the current. I dipped my feet in the cold water whenever it was hot out. The best thing to do was to lay on the blades of grass, feeling the life all around me, grasping at the green, and breathing in the rich smells-- of recently fallen rain, the earth below me or the newly spurting flowers. The pine trees had a sweet smell and the animals jumping around me peaked Trouper’s curiosity. This was my special place, where I went when I was mad, or just aggravated. Sometimes I went here just to be calm with nothing but myself, Trooper and the nature that enveloped me. I did say that Ethan and I had no secrets, and though he had no clue of my secret garden’s existence, it wasn’t really a secret -- more like a slight withdrawal of information. At least that’s what I tell myself. The forest was where I most felt I belonged. Not amongst the people, or in the castle, but in nature, where I could do what I wished, with nothing holding me back. Nothing but a curfew.

As I emerged from the trees, I was greeted by my brother, with a very serious look painted on his face. “Mia,” Ethan said with a condescending tone. “You can't just go off for two hours, now that I’m in charge around here, and you have your responsibilities. We need to rely on each other,” he sighed a little disappointed. “Sorry, I just got caught up in all of it. If anything you should be happy I wasn't gone for longer,” I chirped. He didn't seem to be pleased with my remark. He prepared a speech.  “So what's the big rush anyway, you look a little grumpy '' I said in a silly voice. “Well, if you're up for it, I have a job for you-”

“Yes, yes I will go, please,” I begged. “I can do your trading thingy, finally! I'm so glad you are in charge now, I can go out and visit the other kingdoms by myself.” I basically shouted with joy, jumping up and down on the spot, like my energy tank just automatically refilled to 100%. “Ok, I’m glad you’re up to it, but you will be going alone. So i need to know you will be okay, otherwise dad will kill me. '' he pleaded. By that time I was nodding my head at him and walking off with a grin spread all across my face. “I have a guy up in Thesal Kingdom and he told me he had some weapons for trade. I need you to go negotiate with him. And be nice- I don't need you to end up in a fight with him. Are we clear?!” he demanded.

“Crystal”, I smirked. “When do I leave?” I said a little too energetically and a bit too excited. “Now,” he laughed, as my gaze followed his hand pointing at the gear I needed, and the money for the trade. Ethan told me that I'm looking for a Mr Walker, an oldish guy with a younger son who might be doing the trade for him. Apparently, he was known around Thesal Kingdom and I could ask anyone for his whereabouts. I know that my brother told me to be cautious, but I was too excited, the thrill of riding in the rain, the smell of fresh grass, and the wet filled my nose with something, you could just not put a price on. It was just me and Trooper, us against the world. I thought we were invincible. As I saw faint lights in the distance, I knew we weren't far from our destination. I slowed Trooper down to a trot. There was no big entrance sign saying “Welcome to Thesal Kingdom”, just a kingdom surrounded by forest. If I wasn't in admiration of the nature-filled land they nurtured, I would have seen how vulnerable they are to attacks. A patrol of soldiers could be a better line of defence. They would even see the enemies coming, not with all the trees blocking their sight of view. As I entered from the greenery around the kingdom, I saw a bustling area, with people all around selling and buying goods. It was so much more chaotic than I thought. Making my way through the crowd I asked a woman where I could find a Mr Walker. She looked at me dead in the eyes before pointing to a little hut in the distance. Standing tall and sturdy I approached the hut with Tropper’ss leash in hand. Knocking on the wooden door, I heard heavy footsteps from inside, slowly coming to answer it. As the door was creaking open, I felt a light tap on my back. “Hello, how may I help you?” said a boy as if it was a rehearsed line. In front of me stood a boy, of my age, and just a head taller, brown scruffy hair and sea blue eyes. I was about to respond when I realised there was someone answering the door for me as well. I turned to see what I guessed to be Mr Walker looking impatiently up at me. He was small! A couple of inches smaller, with a long mane of hair and an overgrown beard. “Oh, sorry. I'm here to do a trade on behalf of King Ethan of Udais I said, almost cautious of their reactions. Mr Walker nodded at the boy as instructed for him to deal with me.  “Hey, I’m Landon, Walker. Sorry my dad was in a bad mood --he doesn't like doing handoffs or trades, so I usually do it for him. Right this way are all our inventory, so just pick the ones you like and pay up, I guess” he said a little nervously and uncomfortably. I couldn't believe when he said he was Landon Walker, I mean I didn't see any resemblance between his father and him. “You can loosen up, I’m not going to hurt you,” I said playfully, as he meekishly giggled. “My name is Amelia, but you can call me Mia if you want,” I said with confidence. In the weapons room, there were swords, bows and arrows of all kinds, and small daggers, easy to conceal under clothing. My instructions were clear-- to get enough weapons, but not to go on a shopping spree with all the gold he gave me to trade with. There was this one sword that just called to me, and I knew I had to get it, hoping Ethan wouldn't get too mad. After my great trade, Landon walked me out, only to find us in a rainstorm. Stuttering he managed to utter “If you don't want to ride back in this weather, you can stay overnight in our house.”  “Oh no, I don't want to burden you or your father. Anyway, I made my way here in the rain, what's the big deal?” I said. Grabbing Troopers leash, a sudden bolt of lighting lit up the sky sending Trooper hysterical. As I tried to calm him down, Landon reoffered to let me stay, and I agreed. The sun painted the sky a caramel colour, and as I sneaked out of the house, trying not to make a sound, I made my way to Trooper. As I packed my bags full of the weapons I had traded for, I mounted Trooper. Positioning myself on his back, I turned at a noise behind me only to realise it was Landon.

“Leaving so soon?” he said.

“Yeah I should be getting back soon, otherwise my brother will be sending a whole battalion out to find me” I laughed.

“Your brother is King Ethan, so you're the princess. Oh I’m so sorry, should I bow or something” he spoke with true concern.

“No, don't worry. I don't even act like royalty, because I guess I don't want my life to be like that. You see, I want to become a warrior, and fight almost everyone who doesn't recognise me and tend to my every need like my mother wants.” I said. “Your kingdom does not seem to be well protected, maybe I could help with that. But I really must go.” I said in quite a rush.

“That would be nice, I'll send a letter to you if any more trades come up. You know you can come here whenever you want to just I guess explore somewhere new. But you're probably busy “I'm not that busy, I will hold you to that promised letter and a free pass to come here. I would like that very much.” I said.

I came back so delighted that it was such a successful trip. I could not believe I hadn’t done this before. I stormed into my brother's room to tell him of my adventure only to find him in his usual brooding state sitting on his bed, lost in his thoughts. “Helloooooo, anyone home” I shouted at him waving my hand in front of his face. He took my hand and lowered it  “I need to tell you something, it's my grand plan. I will rebuild Udais and I need your help” he said with all seriousness. I thought he was joking, but clearly, he wasn’t.  “Umm, okay, then what is your grand plan?” I sat on his bed while he explained the whole thing to me. Ethan told me of how he hated how our parents forced him into leadership, and how they oppressed not only him but everyone in the whole kingdom. I had an urge to defend our parents, but I didn’t want to end up upsetting him. His plan was based on his rage, and his destructive tendencies. He plans to burn everything to the ground, all houses and places in which his parents treasure so much, and rebuild the kingdom from its ashes. Like a phoenix, it is reborn once it burns to ashes to emerge better than before. His plan came from a place that hit home in his heart. I knew from basically the beginning of when he started his plan that I couldn’t let him do this, and I tried to point out to him that I would tell our parents, but he seemed to believe I was bluffing. As I left his room, cautious of his every move, I made sure he didn’t think I would tell our parents. Then I ran to their room to tell them of Ethan’s plan. I knew my mother had concerns about putting him in power and was looking for one little slip up to remove him and put me in his place. I rushed into their room to tell them of Ethan’s plan. They knew exactly what to do. It was like they were waiting for this day their entire lives, a reason Ethan would be unfit to rule. That was the first time I really understood what was going to happen, and I couldn't believe that I just outed and ruined my brother. Before I knew it, my parents had dragged me to the council of 5, 5 people appointed to give punishment to fit a crime one has done.

“In this special case, we would like longer to look over the case. Meanwhile King Ethan- um, just Ethan, should be obtained and locked up in the castle's dungeon.” “Mia, please talk to me,” my mother begged as I tried to shrug her off of me and walked away. I wanted so bad to just run away, forget ever betraying my brother.  “Amelia, talk to me right now” she demanded. I jumped, scared of this sudden force, which I had never seen this face on my mother before.  “What is there to talk about? Huh!” I said with a little too much force.

“I'm sorry you had a bad day. We all have, but we need to start talking about your place in the kingdom now that you are next in line” she explained. Anger surged through me, and I nearly exploded in frustration. Instead, I ran off, and she didn't follow me. I slowed down as I neared my destination, the royal jewels, the gold and silver sparkled against the sunlight, the gems a certain glare I had never seen. In the middle, propped on a glass-encased stool stood the crown. Admiring it, I wondered what it would mean to walk into my brother's place, how he must have felt all those years, where I was just free to do as I pleased. The great honour of ruling Udais, but at what cost. At the cost of my freedom, my happiness, my dreams? Do I do what I must for the sake of this kingdom, or do I go to Thesal Kingdom, I fantasize about that every day. Leading an army, going places no one would recognise me. I could start a whole new life there, no judgement, free of the burdens of leadership, free of the duties I must perform. Giving up the crown is easy, but when I think about what that actually means, the consequences that would come with it. It came. The letter. I could start a whole new life there.


Slowly drifting, eyes are closing, the state of lucidity has come upon me once more. This nightly occurrence of which I have no control, yet more control than most will ever know. This world I create of my own accord, living vividly in the creations of those before. The pieces I choose to take, are that which is taken for granted every day, It saddens me to know this must end, for when the clock hits 8 I must rise for the day. The sun shines through my window, it’s harsh rays landing directly upon my face. Is it morning already? It can’t be! There wasn’t enough time! I curse the sun for being such a reliable alarm clock. If only I had a few more minutes... Most people experience this type of feeling when waking from a good dream. To me, it’s all the more powerful. I control my dreams. I choose the scenery, the people, and anything you could imagine. If I want to fly, so be it. Hell, If I want to live inside a Van Gogh painting, I will. I love the feeling, the control, and the beauty, but most of all the peace. Once I close my eyes there are no limits, deaths, accidents, or mishaps. In fact, quite the contrary. My Mother, Father, and Brother all perished in a car accident that left me in a coma for two years. Before the coma, life was anything but peaceful. My father, the typical abusive drunk, and my mother, what a weak woman she was, were in a constant battle. My brother and I were often left to fend for ourselves. It may sound sinister, but that crash may have been the best thing to ever happen to me. While in my deepest, comatose slumber, I recreated my family. I imagined my mother to be strong and loving, and my father a powerful and kind man. I lived like this for two years, the most peaceful years of my life. It was when I awoke that the true nightmare began. The wonderful family I had grown accustomed to disappeared and were replaced. I traveled to many homes, each with problems of their own. I battled through a vicious cycle of foster homes, some more dysfunctional than my original. Who could live up to the expectations of a dream? Group homes became my guide to adulthood. Here I am 22, and haven’t amounted to anything. I am alone in this institution. My every waking hour is spent waiting to go back to sleep. They say I have lost touch with reality. They are blind, they lack the ability to see what I see. I tried for years to get back to the alternate universe. Eventually returning only to find I was on limited time. Every day the same blasted sun wakes me, reminding me that this nightmare is my reality. This world I never asked to be part of. A world filled with hate and greed. Living in my own creations is far more appealing. I long for the beautiful world without pain or suffering. I crave the ability to walk alongside those forgotten. This is my world, and I won’t be leaving here again. The medicine I have secretly stockpiled for weeks will now deliver me to the land in which I am free! I’m slowly drifting, eyes are closing, the state of lucidity has come upon me once more. This nightly occurrence which I have no control, yet more control than most will ever know. This world I create of my own accord, living vividly in the creations of those before. The pieces I choose to take, are that which is taken for granted every day, To once again see my mother’s face, to be held and told it will all be okay.


La Cuillère D'or was no stranger to couples. In fact, it welcomed them with open arms, a delighted handshake, a flourish of the violin, and two delicate flutes of champagne. After all, nothing makes a person feel more at home—and loosens their wallet—quite like a light buzz and a dreamy classical number. The authentic French dining experience was a highly sought-after commodity, especially for the romantically entangled, and nobody knew that better than the staff of La Cuillère D'or, or The Golden Spoon as their more phonetically challenged guests called it. This particular couple was different, however. While they did fit La Cuillère D'or’s target demographic, they were not part of its usual clientele. They were not a part of each other’s usual clientele at this point either. A night out on the town at a fine French restaurant meant little more to either of them than a Band-Aid to an amputee. But then again, perhaps there was a certain naïve romance in the idea. The man in question—a civil engineer with a swaggering gait and wit to match—wore a gray blazer, matching pants, and a clean white shirt, a fashionable cobalt blue tie around his neck. His firm, calloused hands toyed obsessively with the cuffs of his sleeves, like a butterfly trying to fight its way out of a cocoon. Though he was built like a truck, the man had a naturally kind-looking face, ensconced though it was in a well-kept beard of curly brown hair. The dark-haired woman across the table from him—an elementary school teacher with an eye for flash and a heart for substance—sported a stylish navy-blue swing dress with a slim black belt at the waist, complete with a pair of silver heels. Around her neck was a small silver chain necklace, though it often spent its time twisted around her fingers instead. She had spent much of her time at the table either nibbling on the mesclun salad she had ordered or looking through the menu from behind her glasses, reading through the same four items ad nauseam. Her gentle eyes and comforting smile belied her tight grip and sharp jawline. If he was a bear, she was a panther. “And for you, madame?” their server said, meeting the woman’s eyes. “I suppose I will have…” Gwen glanced back at the menu, biting her lower lip. “…the lobster bisque, please. Thank you, Jean,” she said, handing him her menu with a smile that could kill a man at forty yards. “The pleasure is mine.” Jean, his cheeks flushed as could be, gave a slight bow and retreated to the kitchen. He failed to notice Gwen’s empty champagne flute before his exodus. Though the dining room was overflowing with elegant music and the sounds of good-natured laughter, this table remained silent. With no menu to distract her anymore, Gwen glanced around the room, her fingers clasped tightly around her necklace, hoping for something to spring to mind ex nihilo. She was quickly running out of places to look when Tyler’s robust voice tentatively broke through her panic. “So… how are things at the school?” he asked. She hadn’t expected it, but even now, his voice slowed the beat of her heart. There was a warmth to it that she couldn’t place, like he meant everything he said with the entirety of his being. “Oh, great,” she replied. “We had a bit of a hiccup on our field trip this week, but we’ve been making good progress with the kids overall. They’re a wonderful group. We’re studying the Civil War right now.” Tyler breathed an internal sigh of relief. He knew the opening was going to be the hardest part of the evening, but it was nice to know they could still have a purely mundane conversation, though it hardly felt mundane when Gwen said it. “Any problem kids this year?” “Not as many as there were last year, thank God . Those kids made my kindergarten days look peaceful. ” Gwen shook her head, exhaustion leaking into her voice. “I don’t think I could do that again.” “I don’t think anyone could go through dealing with those little monsters again. Didn’t you say one of them glued another kid’s head to a desk?” Gwen put her head in her hands, muffling her voice. “Oh, gosh, don’t remind me.” “I mean, how does that even happen? Why did he do it? What glue did he use?” Gwen laughed loudly as Tyler looked on and smiled. It had been a long time since he’d seen her like this. Too long. “I don’t know, Gorilla Glue maybe?” she replied with intermittent chuckles. “Whatever it was, I’m sure it would make a killing on the infomercial circuit.” Tyler rubbed his thumb and forefingers together greedily. “Introducing,” he said in a mocking tone, “for the first time ever, a limited-time offer of Little Timmy’s Face-Melting Adhesive! Just three easy payments of $10.99!” “Shut up, Tyler!” she said, trying and failing to suppress another fit of giggling. Tyler found her failure to do so even more amusing and joined her in mirth. Gwen wiped a tear from her eye and collected herself. “Yeah, fourth graders are weird sometimes. They think differently from us in a way. I remember one time Stephen was talking—" “What was the hiccup?” “Sorry?” “The hiccup. You said there was a hiccup on the field trip.” “Oh, nothing, really,” Gwen said, looking down at what little remained of her salad. “We were at the zoo, and this boy Johnny got separated from the group. After about five minutes, Stephen—Mr. Jacobs, rather, and I noticed we were missing a head and decided to backtrack. I was so scared someone had taken Johnny or that he’d fallen into a habitat, but I found him right next to the otter enclosure. He didn’t even notice we’d left. Said he just wanted to keep watching them. Mr. Jacobs was counting heads every two minutes for the rest of the trip.”

“Wow, that sounds terrifying,” Tyler said, pulling at his cuffs. “Good thing he had the best teacher around to make sure he was okay.” Gwen rubbed the back of her head. “I’m not sure I was all that…” “Now that I think about it, this Johnny kid sounds like a certain someone whenever we bump into squirrels at the park,” he said, glancing out of the corner of his eye. “A meteor could hit the planet, and you’d still be watching those little guys.” He chuckled. “What? They’re cute!” she said defensively. “I’m a sucker for the vertically challenged, apparently.” “Yeah, no kidding.” The air of amusement in Tyler’s voice diminished. A grin remained on his face, but it did not reach his eyes as it had moments ago. “Had a guy like that on this bridge job a while back, actually.” “Like what? Short?” “No, no. Oblivious.” “Oh, right.” Gwen pushed a strand of hair out of her face. “We’d be in meetings, going over survey reports and all that, and this guy—Aaron was his name—can’t even be bothered to listen,” Tyler said, shaking his head. “He’s just playing Clash of Clans on his phone and staring out the window, contributing nothing. And he still got paid the same as us who all had to work overtime on that job, staying late into the night and barely getting any sleep to pick up his slack. Infuriating, right?” “Absolutely outrageous,” she said dryly. Great. Another scintillating work story. How original. “Exactly!” he said, his hand gestures growing more exaggerated. “We let him know, too, hoo boy . But see, here’s the thing. Rumor was that Mick—he’s our supervisor. I think you guys met at that one barbeque we had at Eric’s for Thanksgiving. Tall guy, thick beard, always wears his phone on his hip like a gunslinger?” “Sounds sorta familiar.” Gwen rested her chin on her hand and looked just over Tyler’s shoulder to the couple behind him. They were holding hands. When was the last time we did that? Was it…? Wow, was the last time really the Fourth of July? That’s— “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, the word on the street was that Mick was ‘close friends’ with this punk’s dad .” Tyler took a final sip of champagne from his now empty flute. “And this guy was no joke, this ‘friend’ was some bigshot suit in the local government who promised to include Mick in his cabinet or something whenever he runs for mayor.” “Wow,” she muttered. When was the last time he touched me, even? It must have been recently, right? It must have been, especially given the competition. Knowing him, there’s no way he’s not worried about— “I know. Crazy.” Tyler sighed. “So, this guy—who couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a map—gums up the whole project, complains the entire time, barely contributes anything, and eventually just leaves without a word. I thought somebody else on the team must have killed him or something out of sheer annoyance. Ned in particular seemed pretty pissed at him, and a guy like him has the stones to do it too. Not like anyone would’ve ratted him out if he actually did shoot the worthless sack of shit.” “Tyler! ” she snapped. The curse had woken her from her haze. She glanced around at the other guests, praying they hadn’t overheard. All of them seemed unaffected by Tyler’s lack of decorum. Seemed. He chuckled nervously, his palms raised as if to deflect any and all responsibility for what had slipped from his mouth. “I’m kidding, Gwen! Relax! Nobody killed anybody, okay? We found out later he quit, citing a ‘toxic work environment.’ That’s it.” Gwen did not look satisfied with the story’s conclusion. Tyler cleared his throat and continued: “Mick chewed us out too, although that only made us think he was in bed with Daddy Warbucks more than we already did. Never saw the poor bastard again after that. Swear to God. I hear he’s actually doing pretty well for himself now.” She closed her eyes and rubbed the creases of her forehead between her thumb and forefinger with disdain. “Can we talk about something else? Gosh, you’re so… rude , sometimes.” Tyler watched her intently for a moment until a little bemused grin poked through his placid exterior. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry; I forgot that my hyper-stressful job that lets us eat out at places like this isn’t entertaining enough for you.” His voice dripped with resentment, barely masked by his steady tone of voice. Anyone else would have missed it. “It’s not about your work, Tyler,” Gwen said, enunciating each word. “It’s the fact that you always just complain, complain, complain whenever we’re together. It’s annoying.” “Not true.” Gwen scoffed. “Y’know, I wanted to have a pleasant dinner with you tonight. I really did. Just a quiet night out with my boyfriend, maybe talk about a movie or something. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t come out to hear you bitch about your job for the millionth time.” Tyler sat quietly as Gwen spoke, shaking his head. “Apparently, that was too much to ask…” she muttered under her breath. She picked at the last bit of her salad. Tyler’s ears perked up as the obfuscated words crashed against him. The tie around his throat felt tighter and tighter every second. “I tried, Gwen. I really did. I just wish you would extend the same courtesy to me. But you only hear what you want to hear. You only see what you want to see,” he said. His hands emerged from his lap and gestured to the extravagant room around them. “Why do you think we’re here tonight, huh?” he continued. “Why do you think we spent the whole drive here listening to the Spice Girls? Why do you think I wore this tie? It’s not because I love Italian or because I just adore 90’s pop or because I’m a big fan of the Windsor Knot. Tonight was like this—I was like this—because it’s what you wanted, because it’s what you like.” “Right, because God forbid you look even a little presentable,” she spat. “If it weren’t for me, you’d always look like you just stumbled half-naked out of a dive bar.” He clenched his teeth, more aware of the serpentine cloth coiled around his neck than ever. He loosened it with a powerful tug, glaring at Gwen. If she wanted to do this here, he wasn’t going to pretend anymore. She shot back with daggers of her own. Her fingers hadn’t approached her necklace in minutes, choosing instead to dig into her palms. Her lips twisted into a cruel sneer, but she didn’t utter a word. Tyler spoke up in her stead, his voice maintaining the same restrained contempt it had held before. “If that’s what you really think, maybe I’ll just quit. I mean, I certainly don’t need the money, and you, swimming in a metric ton of gold doubloons as you are, definitely don’t. “I’m looking at a promotion with better pay right now, but that doesn’t really matter. I could’ve turned this job into a city manager position someday, but, no, you’re right. I should go straight to Mick’s office tomorrow morning and say ‘Y’know, I would’ve loved that promotion, but my girlfriend thinks my high-paying job and all my friends make me a big meanie. So, I must resign effective immediately. Sorry, Boss.’ Would that make you happy, Gwen?” Her cheeks were as red as the lobster in the meal she’d ordered. At this point, Gwen knew the other guests had overheard their spat, but she didn’t care. All that mattered now was winning. She had tolerated his provocation before, but not this time. “No, what would make me happy is having a boyfriend who isn’t completely self-absorbed! Who appreciates and understands what I do! Who doesn’t spend what little time he spends with me talking about his disgusting friends!” Her chest heaved as she lashed out at the man across the table. “You have the unmitigated gall to say that I’m the selfish one when you never ask about me or how I’m doing or what I want for the future? When you refuse to be seen with me romantically in public? You’re just a petulant, self-centered child!” “Please, you’re the one who doesn’t appreciate anything.” “That’s bull, and you know it.” “You take everything I do for granted!” “I want to support you, Tyler!” “Keep telling yourself that.” “But you make it difficult to do that when every word out of your mouth is negative! It’s suffocating! You’re suffocating!” “You want to support me? Is that what you’re doing? Telling me that the way I dress makes you embarrassed to be seen with me is supporting me? Taking my credit card behind my back to go buy gifts for yourself, that’s supporting me? Getting drunk off your ass and gushing about how amazing Stephen Jacobs is is supporting me?” The color drained from Gwen’s face. Did I really do that? She felt like she was going to throw up, but she steeled herself. True or not, Tyler had only himself to blame. “I knew this was a waste of time. You’re so far gone—" “Answer the question.” “—that you can’t even see how hard I’ve tried to make this work. You only see what you want to see.” “Answer the question, Gwen.” “I’ve put up with more of your crap than anyone I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something. You’re lucky I only ordered the bisque.” Gwen stood from her chair, her lip quivering. All eyes in the restaurant locked onto her, at least those that hadn’t been observing already. Tyler stood to match her. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just dodge the question! Make me the bad guy! Classic Gwen move!” “I hope I never see you again!” she screamed. “You read my mind!” Tyler shouted. Gwen leaned across the table. “In case that skull of yours is too full of your own bloated ego to understand, allow me to dumb it down for you: we’re done. Sayonara, asshole.” Gwen turned her back on the man she once thought she loved and stormed toward the door. Hushed gasps and conspiratorial whispers followed her retreat. Tyler clenched his fists, sweat pooling in the grooves of his palm. His shoulders shook with barely contained tremors. “Thanks for the help, teach! Have fun shopping at Walmart!” She turned, incensed. The man standing across the room was a total stranger now. Strands of his once prim and proper hair were dangling in front of his face, covered in sweat. His handsome face was twisted in a mask of abject hatred for the woman he once would have traveled the world for. Gwen’s face looked much the same. A barb of her own failed to manifest in that moment. Perhaps it was the eyes of the crowd or her overwhelming embarrassment. Perhaps it was the memories flooding her mind in droves. Perhaps it was the tie she’d bought for Tyler that now dangled limply from his neck. Whatever it was, Gwen could not bring herself to attack anymore, and though she didn’t know it, nor could Tyler. The pair stared at one another for a moment from across that room, eyes glimmering with a maelstrom of conflicting emotion. For but an instant, each understood the other for the first time in a long time. No more words would pass between them. No texts, no calls, no emails. No more would Gwen run her fingers through his hair. No more would Tyler wrap his hand around hers. No, this moment was the end for the two of them. In that place called La Cuillère D'or, something died, and no one was sad to see it go, save the two who put it in the ground.


I didn't think he would do it. I looked into his eyes, and he looked back with a sort of acceptance. he was holding himself up over the edge. As the hand opened and he began to fell I saw a moment where he mouthed my name, and his eyes conveyed something to me. He fell, and he fell. At one point he would die, but neither him nor me new when. This was the perfect death for him. Dropped into a pit of his deepest passion. His death put me in a deep depression. Everyone expected it of me when they heard what had happened. But they did not expect the actions I would take and what I would achieve out of my downward spiral. Some might say that I tryed to follow him in his descent. Only I knew what I had seen in his eyes that day. With my arms over my head I sat by a table. Nowhere special. noone special. People have allways passed by, some with more significance than others, like passing anecdotes of varying importance. At first I wished for someone to pull me out and free me, but as I sat there by that table, with my arms covering me from the blandness of my world I felt nothing. I felt so little that I was at first shocked by my apathy, but I learnt to surpress that as well. In the bag next to me I had a weapon. It was waiting for me, longing for my hand to grip at it, to caress it. I let my arm fall towards the bag. I kept my eyes closed. I breathed slowly. I reached down and pulled it out. With my eyes shut I pushed the table away. I began to dance. my fingers grasped hard around my weapon, and my moves were as random and as gracefull as the feelings I had repressed. I counted my steps. The hallway was familiar to me, yet I was not certain of where I was going. I never did know anything, i just knew what I didn't feel and what was denied to me. I would grasp it. I would take this one chance. She never saw me as that kind of person. at night when the wind blew and we heard the wild animals in the distance, and the cool breeze of the night welcomed us I allways saw in her eyes and her soul that she was content, and I knew that was her failure. Or was It mine? It depends on what you see as important in life. "What are you thinking?" She would ask me. This question again. I would smile, and say "you" or something similar. I loved her. I tried to love her. I stuck with her for she was what I needed. I was what she needed. We had our different reasons, but we were allways on the same path. the cold began to take us. Yet she continued to smile. As she fell asleep I went inside. I saw our son. He lay on the sofa, sleeping silently with not a worry on his face. I cried that night. Whenever I saw her smile, his kindness or the happyness they expressed i felt a deep sadness. But I did not let it show. It would only give away what would happen. One night the old man visited us. I saw that same look in his eyes. the one he gave me before. The one I allways saw. I held my weapon again that night and I danced with what I hid.


Much like the song goes, “My Eyes Adored You,” from the first instant we met. Though your smile was breathtaking, your hair cascading, it was your eyes as deep and beautiful as the night sky that first captured my heart. To me, you were gorgeous in every way, but I was not the only one to notice. Other lovers offered better options, I understood that the last thing you would want or need was any further obsession from an underprivileged plebeian. So I kept my distance and though best to simply admire you like priceless art, with respect and from afar. In time I learned your name, gave you mine, exchanged pleasantries, slowly and carefully a connection began to sprout. In the beginning, your expression said it all though it was obvious you tried to hide it. My tall stature, intimidating build, and booming voice were more than reminiscent of some terrible beast your parents told you stories of as a child; but we talked often, grew as individuals, began to understand each other and eventually the traces of fear faded from your eyes. Being your friend has been one of the brightest and most wondrous parts of my life. Spending time, just in your company, has brightened my most dreary days. Doing so I’ve learned your dreams, your fears, cheered on your accomplishments, held you during sorrow, and listened whenever you needed me too. Few other words can even begin to convey what you’ve meant in my life, but now I doubt I'll have any other chance. I know you must have noticed it all by now: the twitches, the trembling, my constant lack of appetite and the need for a washroom that you so love to jest at. It's all becoming more and more difficult to keep my condition hidden from your curious eyes. The doctor's diagnosis is grim and they say my time is running short. They can’t save me but, difficult though it was, I’ve learned to accept it. I was told it’d best to “Get my affairs in order while I still have the strength.” Everything else was so simple until I began writing you this letter. I’ve never had the “Strength” to tell you in person how I feel, but now I must while I have the energy to type these words. A part of me hopes you’ll never read this and we’ll end this as normally as possible, simply fading from each other’s lives. Every other fiber of my being wishes for nothing more than to tell you everything in the hope you might respond in kind. I guess writing this is as close as I’ll come to the latter. Now there are no other options, and the “Difficult” has given way to the “Necessary”. I don't honestly know what to expect next. The doctor’s estimate is coming to an end and I can feel myself fading every day. The Great Eternal Mystery faces me head-on and all I can do is wait as it inches closer. I’m not afraid, the fear ended long ago. All that is left is Sorrow and Joy; sorrow that I will never hear your laugh or gaze into those beautiful starry eyes ever again, and joy from knowing that you made me feel so happy that the idea of losing you could cause me so much pain. There’s not much more I can say, and even less that I’ll be able to write. My strength is quickly fading and the pen grows weary. I regret that this is how I must leave you, but allow me to make one last request. Do not cry when I am gone, I like to think you are far too strong for tears. I ask instead you find someone new and brighten their life the same way you brightened mine. Remember me when you can, but don't dwell on death. Life is meant to be enjoyed to the fullest and shared with loved ones. When your time comes, ill be waiting for you on the other side, waiting to hear a lifetime of stories and to gaze into those beautiful eyes again. I Love You with all my heart and I thank you for a friendship worth more than I deserved.


“Maybe it’s a WITSEC family,” said Kevin, Jimmy’s friend from two doors down. Jimmy shook his head. “A wit what?” “You know. Witness protection? Run by the government? You haven’t seen the movies?” “Movies?” “The one with Steve Martin is fuh-nee! Maybe he’s in there.” Kevin pointed at the house in question. They watched from the curb across the street, leaning on the fire plug. Jimmy pulled his hood over his knit cap. “I don’t think Steve Martin... Why would he need…?” “He played a guy the mob was after, ‘cause he snitched.” “Oh, you mean…” “Yeah. Or like 'Jimmy the Weasel'. Your namesake, right?” “I don’t think so…” “Another wise guy. The Feds relocated him with a new identity after he sang like a bird in court.” Jimmy had never heard Kevin talk like this. “Ever hear of 'Jimmy the Weasel'?” “Never. I guess we travel in different circles…” “Movies, my friend. I’ve seen them all. Anyway, you saw toys. If kids live there, we could make friends and find out if their dad is a hitman.” “With friends like that…” Before today, Jimmy had thought a ‘hitman’ was the disk jockey on the radio. They stared at the house. Nothing moved. Smoke poured from the chimney and hung in the dusky air. It smelled like fall. “You haven’t seen anyone?" Jimmy shook his head. "They could have been out during school.” “No. And their car hasn’t moved. I stuck an acorn under the back tire and it’s still there. In one piece.” “Clever. I don’t get it.” Jimmy didn’t either. He’d watched the house since last week when the movers unloaded their truck, in the dead of night. Along with the boxes, tons of boxes, there were toys. Toys go with kids. Right? “No new kids at school.” “Maybe they’re too young?” “Even so, or if they were home-schooled, wouldn’t they venture outside? Not once?” “You’d think.” The house had been empty for months. His parents, Charlie and Sally, didn’t want squatters. Jimmy doubted these were squatters. Do squatters use moving trucks? Or get deliveries? While they sat there, an unmarked truck stopped in front of the mystery house. The driver got out, pulled a large package from the back and ran it up to the front porch. “That’s the third truck since we sat here.” “A steady stream. Unmarked.” “Redecorating is a…” “Oh! Did I tell you the lights in the basement are on all night? Way passed bedtime.” “Does Mommy let you stay up after dark?” “No, man. Cut it out. I’m talking about super late. After midnight.” “In the creepy, spidery basement?”  “I snuck out and tried to see through the curtains. Just moving shadows. And laughter.” “A party?” “Every night?” Kevin shrugged. Nothing added up. “What about the back yard? They have a dog?” “You’ve seen the fence. Too high to look over. There’s something moving back there. You can hear it. Or them?” “But no barking? Weird.” They planned to meet later, in the alley behind the mystery house. ~ Jimmy showed up and found Kevin huddled against the cold. “I thought you weren’t coming. Mommy wouldn’t let you out?” “You said ten. It’s ten now.” “Yeah, well…” “So what’s the plan?” “I heard something through the fence.” “Like I told you.” “Right. There’s a knot in the wood over here. You have a tool?” “A screw driver.” Kevin led the way. “Hold the flashlight.” “Let me.” “It’s my screw driver…” Kevin held the light while Jimmy placed the tool against the wood and hit it squarely with the heel of his hand. The knot popped out. “That was easy. Let me look.” Kevin put his eye to the hole for a moment. “Whoa! What’s that?” He jumped back. “What?” “It was just dark. Then I realized a big dark eye was watching me.” “You’re kidding. Let me.” Jimmy leaned up to the hole. “Wow! What’s that?” Kevin pushed Jimmy aside. “What?” He stepped back again and shook his head. “Did you see it?” “Yeah, the weird red light?” Jimmy nodded. “Floating. What’s in there?” They both tried looking again and pushed at each other. From behind them, a man spoke, “Don’t you kids have school tomorrow?” The boys looked at the man and screamed. Kevin bolted. The man collared Jimmy. He squirmed as the man held him against the fence. “Let me go!” “Calm down, kiddo. I have a question.” Jimmy settled. He looked for Kevin. “Your friend had a previous engagement.” “I didn’t do anything, mister!”  “I’m curious. Would you call yourself a thief? Or a burglar? Or better, what would the police call you?” The seriousness of his situation sank in. “Uhm, I’m curious too. I wouldn’t steal anything, sir. I just wanted…” “So, curious. What are you curious about?” “Who lives here? Do you live here?” “I’ll ask the questions. Where I come from, you’re called nosey. Did you check the name on the mailbox?” Jimmy thought. “No… But I didn’t mean to…” “You never heard of minding your own business?” “Wait! Are you gonna kill me?” “Oh, ho, ho! Of course not. Why would I do that?” “Aren’t you in witsec? A hit man or something?” “I move around. But I’m not in witsec.” “I saw a red light.” “Oh, don’t mind him. That’s just Rudolph.” “Rud… the… reindeer? But…” Jimmy flashed on who stood before him. All those deliveries made sense now. The man laughed. “I couldn’t very well leave him at the North Pole.” “But… you don’t look like…” He held up his hand. “Shhh! Let’s avoid names. I’m in my civvies. Can you imagine my cleaner’s bill, if I always dressed like I do in publicity pix?” “So you’re not in witsec?” “I’m not on the lam, if that’s what you mean. My relocations are caused more by wise guys... uhm, curious boys, like you.” “What are you gonna do to me?” “Do? You mean put you on a list? Check it twice?” Jimmy nodded hopefully. The man chuckled. “What if you do me a favor?” Jimmy didn’t expect that. He nodded. “I need your help ensuring no one knows who lives here. How can you help me?” They each touched their chins and thought. Jimmy lit up. “I’ve got it!” ~ Jimmy’s father, Charlie, came home from work the next evening. He embraced Sally, who greeted him with a warm kiss. She started laughing. He smiled. “What’s up?” “You won’t believe what Jimmy told me today.” “What’s that scamp up to now?” “He swore me to secrecy and said he’s been watching that house next door. And found out… are you ready?” Charlie nodded. “He says, Santa Claus lives there.” He cracked up. “You’re right. I don’t believe it. Our son still believes in Santa? That’s crazy. How old is he?” “I know. Who would ever expect that? Right?” “Kind of embarrassing…” They both laughed and held each other. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad someone is living there. But I’m positive his name isn’t Santa.” “He’s so cute.”


If you were a sailor, a real one, would you rather die on the open ocean, in an immense storm, tossed around by waves bigger than houses, fighting stoically against the fiercest of mother nature’s outbursts, dying the death of a man, they would one day make a movie about? Or would you rather sit on a quiet little stream, and sink due to an unnoticed, tiny lack in your sloop’s bottom and drown because the cabin door was jammed? Martin would certainly take the latter, and if he had the luxury of free choice, would order the day on the stream to be sunny, pleasantly warm but not too hot and his favorite, mellow song, leisurely pouring out of the radio. How he hated excitement and clamor and the feeling of unsteadiness, wasn’t easy to express. Why in god’s name had he become a sailor then and not a clerk at a bank or a porter or a librarian? Because Martin had grown up under the impression that certain things were desirable and desirability, in a general sense, was more important than personal happiness. He was, after all, a man. And men were sailors or boxers or at least the clerk’s boss at the bank. He hadn’t the athleticism to prevail in a boxing ring and not the administrative cunning to be a leading figure in business and so it had been the open sea. When enlisting, he had felt sick and when entering the ship for the first time, he had thrown up, three times on deck, in violent pursuit of the railing. This had made him the universal laughing stock at first, and once they had all realised that his soul was pure, he had become everybody’s little brother, that deserved to be teased in a loving way but sheltered and protected from any real harm. His first three weeks on sea had been hell and worse than that. He had believed to die everyday but when this constant sensation had reached its pinnacle, and he had actually believed, in his heart, that he would die from his misery, it had suddenly vanished, from one moment to the next. This, not in any way foreseen, change of his constitution, had thrown him into a fit of exultation that had caused him to hit his head and drop overboard. Unconscious and half drowned he had been fished up and revived by resounding laughter, sniffing salt and liquor. The day was as beautiful as one could imagine it. A clear blue sky, sprinkled here and there with snow white clouds. The sea was a calm, vast, blue carpet, the ripples made by the ship, the only perceptible movement, stirring the surface. Martin was leaning on the railing. The time at sea had made his skin richly tan and his black hair fell in one impenetrable mass down to his shoulders. He was almost alone on deck, everybody else dozing in their cabins, because the day was an off-day. But since his newly found strength and tolerance for the conditions at sea, which had not wavered, only increased since the unexpected onset, he spent as much time as possible gazing at the horizon, thinking of all the secrets and romances and unseen places that lay hidden beyond. He would write a book. He was collecting more than enough material, being surrounded by the ocean and the people who were mad enough to make it their home. Everyday he saw something that would make a good sentence or a good passage or sometimes a good entire book. He always noted ideas and instances down on his hand sized notebook, which he carried around at all times. ‘Little poet’ had his peers called him. Most of them were charmingly unfamiliar with any type of literature. But some of the crew, like lost wanderers, were surprisingly well read. Tim Bucky for example, a short but broad fellow with a bald head and little, round spectacles who was responsible for some part of the machinery. He was a long established part of the crew and the contrary of what you would expect him to be at first glance. With his scrutinizing eyes, the rapid way of moving his short, thick body, his low and hurried way to speak, you’d always expect him to be part of some conspiracy. But when you sat down with him to speak and he began telling about his two sons, the love for his wife, the way he broke down every time he had to leave them or how much he enjoyed poetry and classic prose, it was impossible to not perceive his company as an enriching experience. One evening Martin and Tim had pulled up two chairs to the railing and were watching the sun sink down behind the ocean line. They had talked extensively about the craft of writing, disagreeing vigorously about what postmodernism had done to it. They ended up agreeing to disagree, Martin passionately disavowing anything postmodern, with a youthful generalization, while Tim, cool headedly granted postmodernism its raison d'etre. Tim had read more, knew more, found Martin’s agitation amusing but was in no way patronizing and instead wanted to give Martin every opportunity to test his standpoint against another one, refine his arguments and broaden his horizon. Tim was, and had been, assuming the role of Martin’s benevolent big brother and Martin, though prone to become heated in argument and discussion, knew that and checked himself multiple times in the course of the evening. “I can’t wait to get home.” Tim said after they had finished their discussion. “I have been gone for too long. Missed too much. Billy is probably becoming taller than me now.” he smiled melancholy when he said it. “You miss them a lot, don’t you?” Martin asked, knowing the answer but wanting to give Tim another opportunity to talk about it because talking was therapy and on the ocean among none but rough men, there weren’t many chances to talk and less chances to talk about your pain. “I miss them more than I could express in a dozen books.” Tim replied. Then he turned his head and said “But I got you to take care of now.” Martin laughed. “We’ll be home soon.” he said and Tim, for a moment, seemed relieved that someone else had spoken these words. Martin was sure that they were on Tim’s mind at all times. He nodded and then repeated dreamily “Yeah, we’ll be home soon.” and then he went on “Martin, I don’t know if this was my last voyage.” And though Martin was in no way surprised to hear Tim say it, it nonetheless stung. He knew that his life was on a ship for years to come and he also knew that in these years, Tim’s presence, as a friend and a mentor, would have been a great comfort. “I’ll come and visit you, every time I am on land.” Martin said. “You have to.” Tim said. You’d like my boys and Mary as well. She is an amazing cook.” They shook hands upon that and said good night. They were roused, like everybody else on the ship, with the first violent shiver, in the middle of the night, that a foreboding wave sent through it, from bottom to chimney. Nobody thought anything of it. A wave on the ocean, what was there to fear, what was there to even think? The second wave, stronger than the first one, making things drop, made them sit up. Far removed, still, from anything resembling concern, some of them cracked jokes and laid back down, demonstratively turning around, as if to show the ocean that he had to bring more to make them so much as notice. But he brought more and they lifted the blinds of the portholes and found the ocean in a commotion that promised to become vicious. Seasoned sailors have seen storms and terrible storms but always, even for the most experienced of them, a boisterous ocean is a frightening sight, and those of them who have truly seen many storms, who have nothing left to prove, to themselves or their peers, admit their fear. It was the first time Martin saw waves this high or rain this hard or heard the wind howl that loud. You had the feeling that all forces of nature had conspired against them and now brought the onslaught. It would get bad, was the general tenor. The equivalent of “Brace for impact.” on a plane, except that impact on the ocean lasted longer. Nervous glances were exchanged. Some attempts to still joke around were soon choked and muted by the booming thunder and with every increasingly lonely joke that soon ceased to be voiced entirely, the sea became a bit more violent. Martin’s old fear of the ocean was revived. He felt like he had felt on his first day. And suddenly no desire was bigger than to be on solid ground, in a warm bed or in the arms of his mother. He had felt home and welcome on the ocean for a short two months. This feeling had abandoned him now. He was the unwelcome visitor and the ocean finally made that clear. Why was he here? The question was raging inside his head. Why wasn’t he in a bank at his job as a clerk? The ship was lifted high up and came crashing down. The oldest ones, the roghest ones, the ones in the crew you wanted to have by your side in a fight for your life, had turned pale and mute. Where there had been the universal, mocking denial of any danger, was silence. Many of them sat with glassy eyes. The panic took full control of Martin. There was no escape. Utterly trapped they were in their floating, iron cell and all they could do was pray. Where was Tim? Tim’s presence would help. He wanted to ask Tim if he had seen such a storm before. If he was confident they would survive. He wanted to hear a story about his children or his wife, wanted to hear him say that he couldn’t wait to see them soon. Tim was surely confident right now, Martin believed. He would be concerned but reasonably so. Were they sinking? Were they taking water? Hadn’t they lain higher before the storm? Like a maniac, Martin hastened to one of the portholes. He only saw heaving foam, striking against the glass as if in an attempt to burst it open. “I see you Martin.” the ocean said. “You can’t hide and there is no way to go and watch me break your little ship in half.” Martin shuddered. Why did people go to sea? Were they mad? Why had nobody told him about this? He suddenly felt anger arising in him against the captain and the ship comapnie’s office. They had made him sign a waiver. They had known it and hadn’t cared. The bored secretary who had asked him in, when he had been nervous and fidgety, had known about the awaiting doom and now lay on her couch, in front of the TV, safe and sound. He felt the hot tears on his cheeks. He wanted to be with Tim right now. They were ordered to stay inside their cabins and Tim, Martin knew, was employed down at the machines. At the height of his emotional racket he succumbed. He stopped fighting. He seized to resist. He sunk down on his bunk. His two cabin mates had been quiet this whole time. Ronny had started his seafaring life together with Martin, had signed up on the same day, had stepped on deck, for the first time, on the same day. He had suffered at first but not nearly as violently as Martin. Toby was a bit older but not a veteran. He was fearless however, had nothing to lose back at home, had become one with the ship, one with sea and gave the impression, at all times, that he was fine with death. There is no comfort to be found in the presence of a person like this, should he be the calmest man on earth, in the most dangerous situation. Martin lay there, the ship tossed around by waves as big as houses, a storm they would one day make a movie about. He held on when he was about to fall, shook all over when the ship made signs of capsizing. It was the worst storm any of them had ever seen, and later they would all say, even the captain, that they could not believe the ship was still floating. It all lasted five hours. The storm abated almost as suddenly as it had come. They all noticed it at the same time. It was a careful opening of the blinds, a timid look outside. A first smile and then a nervous laugh. No one trusted it at first. They had the universal idea that the storm played a trick on them. Wanted to grant them a little hope before crushing them finally and entirely. But when the first ray of morning sunlight pierced the pitch black sky, they all drew a deep breath and the tight grips on the crosses and bibles and bunk-beds loosened. Martin awoke, as from a trance. He sat up, breathed deeply, covered his face in his palms. He was shaking but it was the tension leaving him. It was the last nervous tremble and the weakness that follows a great relief. He wanted to sleep. He had never been this exhausted before. He first realized that Toby had moved when the other sat down on Martin’s bunk beside him. In an unexpected gesture, Toby lay a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I almost shit my pants as well.” he said half jokingly but with the intent to offer some sincerity. “I am not made for this.” Martin said but he laughed and Toby laughed and Ronny laughed as well. “Nobody is made for this sort of thing.” Ronny said. There was the unspoken, unnamed and greatly increased unity between three men who had, together, come uncomfortably close to an early death. Who had seen the certainty of sinking into the endless depths of the ocean pass over each other’s faces “I thought I would be ready for anything out here.” Toby said. “I really did. But I don’t think I am.” Martin regarded his cabin mate, thoughtfully. “Does something to you.” Ronny said and they all agreed. They knew that they had been inaugurated in a seafaring man’s secret. And they would certainly never forget their first and in any of their lives, most violent storm. Years later, Martin would feel the tingling sensation that had, by force, been stamped into his memory, of being lifted up by the waves, the way a feather would be lifted up by a gust of wind.


So I posted this to r/nosleep a few days ago, and if you aren't familiar with that subreddit here's the basic idea; every story is assumed to be true, kind of like role-play meets found footage movie. The problem is, that doesn't allow for anyone to critique your story, since it's not a story it's a true event. So if I could get some constructive criticism or reviews or anything at all from you guys it would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading. This may not be your typical r/nosleep story, but it’s the only place where I thought anyone would believe me, or at least pretend to believe me. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter. I don’t have a lot of options left and I just needed to tell someone. I just………. fuck it. I guess I should start at the beginning. Please bear with me here…. I don’t exactly know where to begin, but right here is as good a spot as any. I’m 23. I come from a bit of a rough background. My parents worked their asses off to provide everything my brother and I could want for, but every boy has a knack for finding trouble, and that rings especially true in my family. My older brother was an oxy addict and a drug dealer. And I mean a weight mover, not a corner pusher. He got clean the November after I graduated high school. My parents tried their best to hide it, but they were heartbroken with disappointment. I never went down that road. Sure, I messed around with drugs, but a few run-ins with the police that could have led to my arrest and an overdose scare set me straight. No, my issues were different. I struggled with depression and anxiety my whole life. Shit, I almost killed myself and wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for a friend who unknowingly intervened that night. So I know what it feels like to look up and not see the light at the end of the tunnel. So did she though. But I guess I’m getting ahead of myself. She was my girlfriend. She was a recovered addict also, and she’d been down before too. I guess that’s why we worked so well together. We’d both been so low that we couldn’t see the way out anymore. But somehow we found our way. And found each other. She had dealt with depression and anxiety her whole life as well. We understood one another; we really just got each other. We lived in this little studio apartment together. It was tiny but it was all we could afford. It didn’t matter though; in our minds we were rich as long as we had each other. I worked nights bouncing at this bar downtown, and she worked there as a bartender. Maybe a bar isn’t the best place of employment for people of our background, but as weird as it was it just worked. Kind of a metaphor for us really. During the day I went to community college so I could learn how to run my own bar one day. And she worked retail all day to pay for my classes, even though she hated it. But that’s just how she was. She was self-less, thoughtful, and passionate. I loved her. God, I loved her so fucking much. We had a great gig working at that bar. We got to spend all night together, spend an hour after closing with our best friends, and then go home and really spend the night together. Not many couples can do that. There was this customer though. He started coming in a year ago. He was nice enough, quiet type. I didn’t really ever think much of him. He would only order drinks from my girlfriend, but it didn’t bother me. It was kind of cute actually; he was 21 and shy and had a bit of a crush. I kind of felt bad for him in a way, always alone, never really talking to anyone. When he did talk he was nice enough. Well-spoken, seemed pretty smart. Things started getting weird though. After a while, I would catch him giving dirty looks to me, as if he was jealous or something. There was something about these looks though. His eyes were so full of hate. This guy must have had a serious problem with me. But I let it slide, she asked me not to make a thing out of it. Later though, she told me he started giving those looks to other customers, anyone who tried flirting with her, which if you know anything about a babe tending bar that’s pretty much every patron. Still, I didn’t make a thing out of it. Until one day, someone was getting a little too fresh with her. This guy, he quietly asked the customer to stop, but the customer wouldn’t listen. Had a few too many drinks I guess. Anyway, this guy, he just snapped, and smashed a beer bottle right on his nose, knocking him to the ground. The customer falls down with blood just gushing from his broken nose, and the guy jumps on him, punching him over and over again right in his already fucked up beak. I rush over to pull him off, but he put up a fight and I ended up breaking the rules a bit and catching him on the chin with a hook hard enough to send him reeling back. I swear to god the customer he was beating looked like fucking Voldemort his nose was such a mess. I called an ambulance for the guy, and started to ask for the cops but my girl interrupted. She begged me not too, said that he was just defending her. So we kicked him out and told him never to come back. Meanwhile he just smiled, staring with those hate filled eyes. I fucking hated those eyes. The next morning I left her sleeping peacefully and headed off to class. She started work a few hours after me, and I knew how much she loved her sleep. I can still see her now, lying there without a care in the world, naked and beautiful. I just wish that was how I could remember her. I came home that afternoon to find our apartment exactly as I left it, including her still in bed. Except it wasn’t exactly as I left it. There was blood everywhere. I never knew there was so much blood in a person, but I swear man it was fucking everywhere. She was tied to the bed posts with our own fucking sheets. Her legs were splayed open by the restraints, the bedding between them soaked with blood. Christ, how was there so much blood? Her eyes had been gouged, pushed into her skull by thumbs. Her nipples had been bit off, her tongue bitten out, and according to the police the motherfucker must have ate them because they couldn’t find those….. those pieces of her…. they couldn’t find them anywhere. The autopsy said she drowned on the blood from her own severed tongue. It was a mercy, the doctor said. She was already dead for most of the rape. He had fucking raped her, tortured and killed her, raped her some more, then had a fucking coffee. That was the only evidence they could find. The sick fucker had made himself a pot of coffee and drank it in our bedroom, with her ravaged body as company. I don’t remember much after seeing her. I called the cops, gave them a statement when they arrived. They asked if I knew anything, and I told them. I don’t know how but I just knew it was that creep from the bar. I gave the police his description and let them do their job. Turns out they weren’t very good at their job. The police found the guy that same night, at our bar. He was drinking a beer, quiet and alone as usual. They tried bringing him in for questioning and he went calmly. Only he never made it to the precinct. They found the bodies of two cops in their cruiser a couple blocks away. Their throats had been opened, fucking torn out like deer that fell prey to a wolf. I couldn’t sleep that night. My boss let me crash at the bar, but I stayed up all night drinking. There were a couple of cops outside in case he came back, but it wasn’t any comfort. There was no way I could sleep. It’s kind of fucked up in a way, because if I had been able to sleep I would’ve met the same fate as my girlfriend. He came back. It was 3AM and I was almost halfway through a bottle of Irish when that sick fuck walked in the back door. He had the smallest hint of a smile on his lips and such malice in his eyes. I’ll never forget those eyes. If I were a better man I would have killed him right there with my bare hands, but I was drunk and all I could do was run outside and bang on the squad car window. Thank god those cops were more useful than the last two. He came out the front door as they were running in, and they managed to wrestle him to the ground. They were smarter too, because they didn’t even try to take him in. They just cuffed him, keeping their guns trained on him while they waited for backup. Once they got him back to the precinct, the guy admitted to everything. I don’t know how he could speak so emotionless, yet have such hate flow from his eyes. He told them how he watched our apartment building, waiting for me to leave. I’ll never forgive myself, because I left the fucking door unlocked. All he had to do was walk right in. I fucking hate myself. He described in gross detail, with that little fucking smile and flat detached voice, how he tied her up and how she screamed as he raped her. How he pushed his thumbs into her eyes sockets because she wouldn’t look him in the eyes. How she tasted of iron as he chewed her. How she wouldn’t stop whimpering my name, so he bit her tongue out. How she gurgled, the blood flowing out faster than she could swallow, slowly drowning. How she fell limp, and no matter how hard he fucked her lifeless body he couldn’t cum without her putting up a fight. How he put a pot of coffee on while he cleaned himself up, then sat drinking it for half an hour while gazing upon her pallid corpse. The trial began months later. He pled insanity and they bought it hook, line, and sinker. He was sentenced to a cushy psychiatric rehabilitation center. Too good for scum like him. How could they not see how he played them? It was obvious. I saw it, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him living a long, comfortable life in that place. No. I don’t believe in God but I prayed that there is a hell, so he can burn for eternity for what he did to my baby. Even that is too good for him. I still knew a few of my brother’s old contacts from his dealing days. It took me a couple weeks, but I got in touch with the right people and they hooked me up well. Snub nose .38, serial numbers grinded off. The gangster special. This cozy psyche ward didn’t even have metal detectors. Lucky me. I interrupted his session with the therapist. Some fat old man, eating up whatever lies this fucker was feeding him. I walked in there, hammer cocked, my mind thinking of everything I wanted to say to this piece of shit. But I couldn’t say a damn thing. My heart was in my throat, but I had come too far to go back now. With tear filled eyes, I stared into his, still so full of rage. To the very end he had that little fucking smile on his face. I pulled the triggered and watched his brains decorate the sterile white wall behind him like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting. It was beautiful. I can hear the cops pulling up now. I knew they would find me here, where it all began. I’ve been sitting here typing this up, drinking my Irish. I just needed to tell someone, to get it off my chest. I need my story to be known. But I’m running out of time. I don’t know what’s coming next but I’ve ceased to feel any fear. Either I’ll see my baby again, or I’ll watch that fucker burn for eternity. Or nothing. I’ve felt far too much in this dreadful life and nothing would be pleasant in its own kind of way. It doesn’t matter. It’s funny how calm you are in the end, that quiet acceptance of your fate. I keep thinking how alive these cops will feel when they’re staring down the barrel of a gun, adrenaline coursing through their veins. They won’t be hurt though. It’s not their time. But it is mine. Thank you for reading.