A Halfling on the Stairs. A Guard Against the Sea. Names. Gammond Brandyford, a red-haired halfling of the Aevalorn Parishes, leaned wearily against the side of the cliff to catch his breath. He held out his oil lantern to peer over the edge of the stairs and saw nothing but a gaping void of darkness. “Guard rails!” he panted, placing the lantern on the stair beside him. His chest heaved. “It’s the least you dwarves could do!” “Bah! Rails be for children !” Vongur gruffly retorted. An amulet of a cranky dwarf’s head made from copper, silver, and bronze, Vongur was suspended by an iron chain around Gammond’s neck. Vongur looked up at Gammond from his chest. “Don’t be such a ninny!” “ Ninny ?” Gammond reeled. “You don’t even have lungs … or legs , you old coot! Look at me! I’m doing all the work here!” “Aye, smallfoot !” Vongur snarled. Its animated metallic face stretched and moved when it spoke. “And at the top of the stairs await the Eyes of Hevroth Bloodgrog ! Two sparkly jewels, each the size of your wee fists!” “Crickets, they’d best be worth it!” Gammond breathed. Withdrawing a cloth from his leather satchel, he wiped the sweat from his face. He wore brown pants and a green vest over a long-sleeved white shirt, all soiled with sweat. Gammond’s sleeves were rolled up, and his calves and feet were bare. “You know, when you mentioned stairs , this isn’t what I pictured!” “Opportunity!” Vongur said with flourishing bravado. “It ain’t often one goes wanderin’ near the Ruins of Bhanboldihr . Hevroth’s sanctuary’s a cradle of memory . There I will learn my Clan Name an’ prove, once an’ for all, that I was a dwarf !” “But you are a dwarf!” groaned Gammond. He tucked the cloth back into his satchel. He lifted the lantern and retook the stairs. “I don’t get how learning a surname will change anything.” “Aye, but I’d finally know ,” Vongur whispered, his eyes trailing longingly up the stairs. Then Vongur growled, “An’ it’s a Clan , you carrot-haired dolt! Not a last name!” “ Pshsh ,” Gammond chided. “The sanctuary’s a connection to me dwarven past, befores I was turned into … this ,” Vongur said wistfully. Holding the lantern, Gammond climbed the steps by crawling them; his form was too small to take each step one by one. “Well. Do try hard to remember this moment. This and all of the other kind things I’ve done for you over the years.” “Blazin’ Hells!” Vongur roared. His metallic beard bristled. “I’m the one cursed to hang ‘round your miserable, scrawny neck!” Gammond worked the stairs, and his breath came quick and sharp. “Keep talking, and I’ll just leave you up here!” “Scoundrel!” Vongur breathed. Eventually, Gammond reached the top of the stairs to enter the sanctuary. It was an open space carved into the side of a cliff. An eight-foot-tall bronze statue of a dwarf wielding a blacksmith’s hammer stood sturdy and imposing, its empty black eyes gazed out over the churning sea; its left arm was a stump. Behind it was an ornamental maple tree with bright purple leaves as tall as the statue, and behind the tree, an enormous door built into the side of the mount, maybe fifteen feet in height, crafted from gold, copper, and iron. “Great Green,” Gammond breathed. He rolled over on his back at the landing, winded. At that moment, he appreciated the shallow gusts of sea breeze cooling him down. “Halflings were … not meant … to scale mountains.” “Get up! Get up! We’re here!” “Can’t … I … rest ?” Gammond moaned and forced himself to sit up. Vongur raged. “Get t’ your feet, lad, an’ go to the bronze!” “Ugh,” Gammond moaned. Rolling his eyes with exhaustion, he wobbled to his feet and tottered to the statue. Once there, he discovered it sat in the middle of a copper ring engraved with ancient Dwarven runes. The ring was aged in a teal patina. Vongur was quick to spot the copper ring and the runes. “Hold me up!” Vongur demanded. “Uh, a moment,” Gammond pleaded as he rested his hands on his knees. “The stairs. Very steep. Burning. Legs. Lungs.” “Ugh!” Vongur winced, disgusted. “T’was just a wee jaunt up a minor hill. Barely a mountain.” “ Barely … a mountain?!” Gammond asked incredulously. “Next time … I’ll tie you … to a bird .” “Behold!” Vongur proclaimed, peering at the bronze statue of the dwarf. “Hevroth Bloodgrog! Master Builder! Seein’ it now makes me heart skip a beat.” Gammond panted and glanced side-eyed at the massive, stout statue, gasping for air. Vongur proudly explained that Hevroth was a legendary dwarf, the earthly son of a Goddess, Berronar Truesilver. Hevroth constructed Bhanboldihr with his bare hands, and when his creation was threatened by landslides, he cut off his arm to hold up the mountain.

Gammond panted and regarded the bronze skeptically. “You know what I don’t see? Eyes . Gems as big as my fists.” “Okay, okay, enough breathin’ ! Show me them runes!” Vongur barked. Groaning, Gammond retook his legs, gripped the iron chain, and suspended the amulet over the copper rim. Walking to his left to circle the statue, Vongur read the dwarven script aloud: Witness ye one of timeless lore He who delved the mountain’s core; The dwarf who saved us with his limb A master of iron, steel, and gems; Whereas thine eyes naught meant to see Within his awaits the fire of memory; Should ye wake Berronar’s son Bestow a task that must be done.

Gammond adjusted his satchel on his shoulder and circled the towering statue. It stood solid, unwavering, seemingly challenging the sea and prepared to fend off the erosion it’d bring. Head to foot, it was almost three times Gammond’s size. “Great Hevroth!” Vongur yelled. “ Awake , son of Berronar!” But the statue did nothing. Gammond touched the side of the statue. It felt cold, and hollow like all bronze statues. “Hevroth!” Vongur commanded again, this time with more Dwarven gusto. “Awake!” And still, the bronze remained motionless. Coming around to its front, Gammond looked up at its black, empty eyes. “Ah,” he said, and Gammond grappled the statue's arm and began to climb it. “What?!” gasped Vongur. “ Sacrilege !” “Pipe down,” Gammond said, busily grasping the statue’s right arm and pulling himself up to its shoulder. “He’s been here a while. I’m sure he doesn’t mind.” “You irreverent, thievin’ teetotaller!” Vongur sneered. He bared its teeth under his thick beard. “You get off of ‘em! If ye leaves so much as a scratch-” Gammond groaned. “It’s a bronze statue. And I’m barefoot!” Vongur reconsidered and growled, “Er, if ye leaves so much as a scuff or an unsightly blemish , you craven coward, I’ll-” “Look!” Gammond insisted, holding the amulet near the statue’s ear. There, the lip of a spout had been fashioned alongside its head, leading to a small hole no bigger than Gammond’s finger. Sitting on the statue’s shoulder, Gammond released Vongur to rest against his chest and riffled through his satchel. Vongur was puzzled by the spout. “Er, maybe it’s a ways to clean its innards?” Gammond smirked, finding what he was after. “Nope.” “Um, a ways to pour in some brains ?” Vongur suggested. “Na-ah,” Gammond replied, retrieving his flint stone and a sealed decanter of lantern oil. “A whisperin’ hole!” Vongur exclaimed. Vongur pursed his lips and whispered, “Awake, Son of Berronar!” “Hmmm,” Gammond said, popping the wax seal of the decanter. He poured the oil into the spout. “Close.” “Smokin’ Snakes!” Vongur exclaimed. “No! Oh no, you don’t! You ain’t gonna set fire -” “Oh, I am,” Gammond gleefully giggled and then struck the flint over and over until it sparked. The oil in the spout ignited, and a stream of flame ran through the opening and into the statue’s head. “Gaaahhh!” cried Vongur helplessly. The amulet was awash in horror. The bronze eyes of Hevroth Bloodgrog burned with fire, and the statue animated and lurched forward, sending Gammond sprawling to the ground outside of the circle. Flame coursed through its eyes, its nostrils, and its lips. Firelight glowed in its arms like strained, muscular veins. Suddenly, a ball of fire exploded out of its hammer and it roared with a bellowing howl. “Stop!” Gammond squealed, trying to command the statue. He flipped over to his back and inched away from the statue. The bronze of Hevroth looked at its flaming hammer and then menacingly at Gammond. “Dig!” It took a booming step forward. “Dance?!” Gammond pleaded. Growling, the statue lifted its hammer high to squash the halfling like a bug. “Give it a task!” Gammond screamed at Vongur. “Tell it to open the door! The big door!” The giant flaming hammer came crashing down and smashed into the earth, causing what felt like a minor earthquake. Gammond narrowly rolled out of the way and held Vongur up to the statue, and screamed, “Tell it!” “Open the door!” barked Vongur. Taking another heavy step forward, the bronze lifted its hammer and prepared to strike again with a mighty backswing. “In Dwarvish !” Gammond moaned. “Oh!” Vongur exclaimed and then shouted the command to open the door in the Dwarvish language. Pausing, the golem gripped the handle of its huge hammer and glared at Gammond. “Again! Say it again!” Gammond pleaded, scrambling to back himself away from the statue while Vongur repeated the command. Righting itself, the statue lowered its hammer, turned, and approached the tall golden doors built into the side of the mountain. The ground shook with its every step. “It worked!” Gammond screamed, hopping up on his feet. “You did it, Vongur!” Caught up in the moment, Vongur smugly said, “Ah-ha! I knew that’s how the contraption worked!” Lumbering to the tall gold doors, Hevroth grasped their handles and effortlessly swung them wide. They creaked and groaned, and centuries of dust burst from its seam to take to the air. When the doors were fully open, a ten-foot-tall book extended from the chamber on a sliding plinth. Its task completed, the golem solemnly marched back to its circle to await further instruction.

“The Memories of Bhanboldihr!” Vongur breathed. Gammond stood and rubbed his shoulders, sore from being tossed to the ground. He squinted from the pain. Mountain climbing, he thought, in the middle of the night! He could do with a nap, a hot tea, and breakfast, second breakfast, come to think of it. Brushing himself off, Gammond was taken aback by the enormous tome. “Okay, that’s the biggest book I’ve ever seen, but what’s that? Under it?” “The Eyes!” Vongur whispered. Below the book, affixed to the plinth, were two pink, transparent gems. They were indeed the size of Gammond’s fist, but more appropriately, they would fit snugly into the empty eye sockets of the golem. “Huh,” Gammond grumbled. “Smart Dwarves. Keeping them behind the door makes ‘em harder to steal.” “Blazin’ Hells! What’re you waitin’ for? Go to it!” Vongur demanded.

Gammond walked cautiously past the glowering statue, half expecting it to try and hit him again. He went beyond the tall maple tree and to the book. He had to climb the plinth and stand on its edge to see the writing on the book's pages; the design of the plinth seemed to suggest standing on it was appropriate. Removing Vongur from around his neck, Gammond held the amulet out to read the Dwarven text. “Gurgrot, Gurmont,” Vongur read aloud. “It’s a list of Bhanboldihr families. Husbands, wives, births, offspring. Arranged by first names!” “Who’re we looking for?” Gammond asked. “Thurmin, my father!” Releasing the amulet, Gammond reached over with both hands and grasped a page. Tugging, he pulled at one page and wrestled with its size and weight. When pulling didn’t work, he climbed up into the book itself and pushed the page over with both hands. Jumping back on the plinth, he held out Vongur. “Gurvok, Gurvom,” Vongur read from the top of the page. Gammond turned Vongur around to face him. “Oh come on!” “You keep turnin ’ them pages, you snivlin’ scalawag,” Vongur seethed. Three hours later, weak and exhausted, Gammond strained to push one final page over in the book. Vongur read from the book, and exclaimed, “There is it! Thurmin … Copperhand ! Lived … sixteen hundred years ago! Wife Murisa, yes, Daughters Helgana, Lotheda … a son, Vongur ! Yes! My … my Clan Name is Copperhand !” “Marvelous,” Gammond huffed, throwing his back into the book's spine. He gazed sleepily out over the sea to the breaking sunrise. Had they really been here all night? “I … I’m a dwarf ,” Vongur sniffed, his thousand-year pursuit of self-identity concluded. The amulet was incapable of crying but frequently tried. “A Copperhand .” Gammond yawned. He stretched and mumbled, “Sixteen hundred years. I wonder if you’ve any living relatives-” Gammond’s eyes bulged, and he threw his hand over his mouth. “YES!” Vongur roared. He snarled, looked side to side, and bellowed, “We’ll make for the Dwarven Kingdoms! We’ll journey to the Stonereach and-” Jumping down off of the plinth, Gammond withdrew his thieving tools and examined the gems nested there. Carefully, he stuck a pick behind one and pried it from the stone. It fell easily into his hand. Aghast, Vongur hissed, “ Burglar !” “Oh no,” Gammond assured him, pocketing the gem. “Not listening. We had a deal. It’s sacrilege for you, but it’s food and a year’s worth of lodging for me.” “Put it back!” growled Vongur. Gammond ignored him, turned, and headed back to the stairs. “Tell ‘em to close the door.” Vongur grumbled, “No! You’ve seen it now, we both have! This place is sacred . Y’can’t take Hevroth’s Eyes!” “Hey! I left one !” Gammond grumbled, extending the amulet. “That works for most. Listen, if you don’t want to expose that oversized book to the elements, tell him to close the door!” Vongur muttered the command in Dwarvish, and the golem wandered to the door, grasped both handles, and shut it closed. “Sleep,” Gammond groaned, heading to the stairs. He snatched up the lantern. “A tavern. A warm meal. A bed. Tea. That’s what’s next, and not Stonereach, Mister Copperhand.” Vongur grumbled and shouted. “I tolds you it ain’t a surname, y’ damned smallfoot !”


Larry was surrounded by flames. Air burned his lungs when he tried to breathe. A heavy wooden beam lay across his legs, pinning him to the floor. He managed to lift the beam just enough to pull his legs out, but all he could see around him was fire and smoke. He couldn’t tell where the windows were, or the door. He wasn’t sure if Gwen was trapped with him, or if she had escaped. He woke sweating and panting, sitting up in the hospital bed. A nurse came and increased the IV drip, sending additional morphine into his system to relieve the pain and calm him down. He relaxed back onto the pillows, awake and remembering. Gwen appeared by his side and led him out of the house. He wondered where she was, why she wasn’t in his room, visiting, waiting for him to be awake and lucid. But he didn’t wonder for long. He could feel the right side of his face under the bandages wrapped around his head. Melted, scarred flesh. An eyeless socket. Half a nose. With only one eye and half a face, he could never look at her the same way again. She would never be able to look at him the same way again, either. Looks were far less important than character, and he knew she knew that. But this went beyond just looks. She would see a monster. A wuss. Someone she needed to pull from the burning house. Not her hale, hearty, hero. He was still breathing, but his life was over. At least his life with Gwen. The only life he wanted to live. His eye closed and he went limp, drifting back into sleep. And nightmares. This time he tried to wave her off when she came to his rescue. But when he opened his mouth, flames shot out. Flames erupted from his right eye as well. That did the trick. She screamed and ran through the fire, just to get away from Larry, the Monster. He laughed a bitter laugh and tried to hug the flames. But they laughed back and danced out of his reach. And just like that he was outside the house, being extinguished, rolled in a blanket, and put on a gurney. Too drugged to wake up, the nightmare repeated. This time he felt his face melting, his eyeball dripping down his cheek. So he pulled the beam down onto his legs and lay down to die in the fire. But the fire ate the beam, wrapped around him, and carried him to the ambulance. He couldn’t wake up, but he thrashed and tried to scream. Only a strange guttural sound emitted from the mummy in the hospital bed. The nurse must have given him more of the drug; he felt like his sleep was the still, dark water of a lake, and he was drowning in it. When his body landed at the bottom of the lake of sleep, sending gouts of mud towards the surface, turning them into bursts of flame, he slid through the lake bottom and into his house again. The beam collapsed, pinning him down. Then it flew back up, and dropped again and again. The flames caressed his body, slid him out from under the beam each time it fell. His face melted, sliding down the flames to form skates on his feet. On those skates of fire, he rolled out of the house and into the ambulance, setting it on fire. He rode the smoke of the burning ambulance to the hospital, landing right back here in this cloistered room. Morphine kept him asleep, unaware of his actual pain and resting. Or at least resting as much as the feverish nightmares allowed. A second IV provided nutrition and fluids to keep him hydrated. The nurse could have told him he slept (and dreamed) five days in a row, but he didn’t ask. When he did wake up, at last, he asked for ice chips to wet his lips and his throat before he could talk. The nurse was happy to provide them and encouraged Larry. She told him he was on the road to recovery. When he asked when the bandages might be removed, she brought the doctor in to talk to him. “Hello, Mr. Lancome. I’m Doctor Vasquez. I know you might not feel like it yet, but you are lucky to be alive.” Most of his head was still wrapped in bandages, but there was an opening for his remaining eye. He stared at the doctor. She wore a white lab coat over purple scrubs. A nurse’s cap, or at least that’s what Larry assumed it was, kept her abundant auburn curls under control. He looked away from her brilliantly-colored hair immediately. Those auburn curls reminded him too much of fire. Sparkling green eyes above a pert little nose echoed the generous smile her wide mouth, sans lipstick, offered. Nothing about her reminded him of Gwen, except that infectious smile. He felt better because of it, somehow brighter and with more hope. “Where’s Gwen?” he croaked. “What’s that?” the doctor asked, stepping closer in order to hear his weakened voice. “Where’s Gwen?” “She’s here,” the doctor nodded. “She’s …” “Don’t let her see me like this. Please.” The doctor gave him a funny look. “Do you want to wait? Until the bandages come off? She’s been asking about you.” “No, Doctor …” Larry couldn’t quite read her nametag. “Doctor Vasquez,” she offered, nodding. “Gwen has been asking about you, too.” “I don’t want to let her see me like this. And I definitely don’t want her to see me after the bandages are off.” Larry shook his head. “I don’t think she’d want to see me, or at least see my melted, one-eyed face.” “Let’s give it some time,” Doctor Wilson suggested. “And once the burns are healed, you might want to think about plastic surgery. I’m afraid we can’t yet give you a second real eye, but an artificial one or a dashing eye patch can do wonders for your look. Trust me, Mr. Lancome, we’ve dealt with far worse. You are very fortunate to be alive, and to have escaped that fire with all four limbs burned, but still functioning.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “This is a tough one, doctor. I can see why you wanted a consult.” Dr. Branson sat across the conference table from Dr. Vasquez. Both were well aware of the physical condition of each other’s patients. “I’m glad you see my dilemma, James. Do you have any advice to offer, in addition to commiserating with me? What do you think of her mental state?” “I think she’s in a good place, Shirley. But we can never be sure of that, can we?” “Not absolutely sure, doctors, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a pretty good idea of how things will go.” Drs. Vasquez and Branson had invited Dr. Harrison, one of the staff psychologists, to join them. She was very experienced with burn victims, and also well aware of the two patients being discussed. “I concur with you, Dr. Branson, about your patient and her mental state. How do you feel about your patient, Dr. Vasquez?” “He insists that he doesn’t want her to see him. But I think it would be good for him.” “Does he know she’s a patient? And her condition?” “Not yet. That’s part of the reason I think it would be good for him to see her.” “What are the chances he’ll sue the hospital if we do this and he doesn’t see it as the best thing for his recovery?” “He’s more likely to blame himself than us,” Dr. Harrison posited. “I don’t think he would sue, but I can’t guarantee that.” “If it comes to a lawsuit,” Dr. Vasquez added, “I’m pretty certain I could argue that it was my medical decision that it would be good for him.” “That wouldn’t help with the publicity,” Dr. Branson shook his head. “I’m afraid I think it’s a bad idea overall. But if you want to do it, I think my patient will handle it well.” “So it’s all up to me, after all? Some consult this is turning out to be.” “It is up to you Dr. Vasquez. But the consult shows you are considering options, and seeking other opinions. You aren’t saying you disagree with the idea are you, Dr. Branson?” “I am not disagreeing with the idea. If Dr. Vasquez wants to pursue it, I’m in.” Dr. Harrison flipped through the charts in front of her. The other two waited patiently. Finally, she closed the files and looked up. “As you are Mr. Lancome’s attending, and since Dr. Branson has no objection, I leave it to you, Dr. Vasquez. I’ll support your decision, no matter which way you go.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The bandages were off. Larry relished the feel of fresh air on his face, but the right side felt weird. He held the mirror in his left hand, looking at his face. It wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be, but he wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. The doctor was right about one thing - the eye patch looked more dashing than frightening. “There’s someone here to see you, Mr. Lancome. If you’re done admiring your rugged new look.” Dr. Vasquez smiled at Larry. Drs. Branson and Harrison stood at the side of his room, looking at him with curiosity. “Gwen?” Dr. Vasquez called over her shoulder. “No! I don’t want her to see me like this. I told you that.” Larry bowed his head and covered it with his hands, dropping the mirror into his lap, face up. “I was afraid of this,” Gwen said in a quavering voice, crying as she stopped just inside the room. Dr. Branson took her elbow, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and helped steer her closer to Larry’s bed. “I’m ugly. He doesn’t want to see me. Nobody wants to see me.” Gwen bowed her own head, now that she stood at Larry’s bedside. Larry gasped, and Gwen turned away, giving Dr. Branson a pleading look. “Take me back to my room, please. I need to be alone.” “Gwen?” Larry looked up. “Please don’t leave. I’ve been waiting for weeks to see you. To thank you for saving me from that fire. For loving me; at least until now. Nobody can love me now.” “You’re so wrong, Larr Bear. I can never not love you.” “I think you’ll change your mind when you look at me,” Larry argued.” “It’s not your looks I love, silly. It’s your heart and your mind and your soul. Your very character.” Gwen sobbed once. “But when you see me like this, you’ll run. You won’t want to; you’re better than that. But you’ll recoil from what you see.” “But I’ve seen you, Gwen, and I don’t want to run. I do want to turn my back, so you won’t see me. But I don’t want to run. You’re my soulmate, my heart, my mind, my everything. Until you see me.” Larry paused. “But I want you to see me. You need to know, so you can move on.” Larry lifted his head and lowered his hands. “Look at me, Gwen.” Dr. Branson lifted Gwen’s chin with his hand and gave her a questioning look. She gave him a haunted look of her own, then nodded, and turned. Larry looked at her marred face and her flowered eye patch. His one good eye teared up, and he opened his arms, motioning her to come in for a hug. Gwen looked from his open arms and beckoning hands to his melted face and the black eye patch. Her own good eye teared up, and she fell into his arms. “You’re the most beautiful woman this eye has ever seen,” Larry hugged her. “And you’re the most beautiful liar, Larr Bear. But I love you. I love you so much.” “You saved me,” was Larry’s answer. “You saved me when I met you, you saved me when you said yes to my proposal and you saved me from the fire.” “We saved each other,” Gwen responded. “You saved me when we met, when you asked me to marry you, and when you came out of that fire alive, with your arms around me to keep most of the flames away.” The doctors smiled and nodded. Gwen broke from the hug and stood back up. “Rumor has it I could have some plastic surgery to make things look a little better,” Larry offered, still tentative. “I will if you will,” Gwen agreed with a smile. Then she laid down on his hospital bed carefully, and they embraced again. The doctor’s left the room, agreeing this had been the right thing to do, and praising Dr. Vasquez for her courage.


A pad of paper on the dashboard. Three tally-lines through the middle. Stopwatch counting down from twenty-seven minutes.            The man gets out of his car and shuts the door behind him. He mutters a quick goodbye to the passenger and walks head down towards the white light of the gas station. The bell chimes. Lemon freshener and the smell of sweet breads. Clerk in the back aisle lost in his music. A remix of Counting Stars . Something to get the limbs moving and brain-wires firing. Something to get through the graveyard shift. Another clerk stands behind the counter stiff and tall. His name is on display: Hi, I’m Alan . Alan looks like he’s just smoked a pack and he’s trying to hide it. His gaze juvenile and directed out of the storefront window to the man’s wagon. It’s a fresh-set of wheels: a Ford Thunderbird with a white band through the black middle-exterior, a ride-or-die sticker plastered on the hood, and a two-spoke steering wheel with iron horns poking out the ends. Alan’s gawking at the ride. That, or the goth chick in the passenger seat. She’s re-applying her gun-bore black lipstick in the rear-view mirror, tugging on the sleepy strap of her red bra. She crosses her legs. Artisan: the man’s teeth. Product: torn fishnets. She’s looking. The man winks at his passenger. Back to Alan. He manually closes his gaped mouth and musses back his curly thick hair. “Sweet ride, boss,” he says. “Sure is.” The man smiles. His hand runs to the back of his jeans where his pocket watch lies. A silver-plated antique crested with a leering skull. It’s minutes count by twenty-three and the man knows the number without even looking. He knows by instinct, how a junkie knows what hit will get them snoring or screaming. “Let me get a pack of these.” He picks up two boxes of PleasureMax from the counter and slides them to Alan. “And a packet of Marlboros. Give me the mint ones. I’m feeling alive tonight.” “Yes, boss.” The man looks to the other worker who still hasn’t looked up. He’s mouthing words down the stick-end of the mop, probably onstage in the Royal Albert with his crush in the front row. “Here you are,” says Alan. He slides the cigarettes to the man and inputs the price into the machine. “That’ll be thirty-six fifty, boss.” The man pulls out a Bad Mofo wallet – the same one Jules Winnfield stakes his life on in Pulp Fiction – and hands over a fifty. Alan takes the bill, opens up the register and begins picking change. The man is surveying the space how a robber might square up a storefront before the big hit. Three aisles in the middle of the room, each to their own with cheap confectionary and cheaper food. The backwall is where Ryan Tedder mouths his heart out, right in front of the chillers and their cooled drinks and frozen lollies. “Here you are,” says Alan, reaching over with the change. The man loads the money into his wallet but falters. He smiles, slowly shaking his head. “Be a good kid,” he says. “Toss in a stick of gum, would you.” “Sure, boss.” He begins tapping in the numbers on his screen. “No no. On the house,” the man says with a wink.            Alan catches his hand before confirming the sale. It’s the third time he’s been asked to give something away for free. The first was a drunk with a rat-tail moustache. He’d been sniffing around for another drink. Alan said no. He’s a good worker. He follows the ten commandments of working in a gas station. Number one: thou shalt not give freebies to those intoxicated. No matter how intoxicated.

The second time was a woman with a face you’d find in Vogue and a body for the catwalk. She was itching for an unfair cashback. Alan said no. Commandment two clearly states: thou shalt not give freebies to those extremely good looking. No matter how good looking.            But this man just asked for a stick of gum. It’s no alcohol or an unethical amount of money. Just a stick of gum. And no commandment mentioned anything about people like this. People with sick rides. Or maybe it was just how the man looked at Alan. There was something about his eyes. They were wild, searching. But they’ve settled now. They’re staring. Alan catches his breath.            He hands the stick of gum over the counter.            The man smiles and points up to the sky.            “Thanks. I feel something lucky coming your way, kid. You’ve got someone looking out for you.” He snatches the gum and his hand searches for the pocket watch.            Twenty-one minutes and counting.            He walks away and leaves the store with a dismissive goodbye wave. The bell rings and Alan watches the man lope back to his car. He finally breathes out.            The man gets into his car and pops a stick of Ice into his mouth.            “Are we leaving yet?” asks the girl.            “Not yet. We’ve still got twenty minutes to kill.”            He looks at her smiling. She smiles back. A 1988 Grand Jeep Wagoneer shoots down the US-89 North. Behind the wheel is the man with a bottle, slugging back shots with one arm out of the window. Next to him is another fella with a notebook. Its spine is splayed and the left page is tomorrows shopping list: ground beef, tinned corn, anti-bacterial wipes… the usual. On the right page are quotes from late stoics.            The drinker wipes his mouth and cranks up the radio. Tears blur his vision. He falls into Fleetwood Mac’s comforting words about how there will be no more crying and how the sun will always be shining. But right now, there is no sun, only the iron moon as it watches from six hours high. He offers his drink to Hollis who refuses with a passive hand gesture.            “Lookee here, Doug,” says Hollis, pointing at his notebook. “ Choose not to be harmed — and you won’t feel harmed. Don’t feel harmed — and you haven’t been. Marcus Aurelius said it first – king of stoicism.” He taps his head. “It’s all up here. It’s what your mind makes of it. If you choose not to feel heartbroken, it takes the weight off you.”            Doug sails back a mouthful and wipes his face with the heel of his hand. “But I was heartbroken. I didn’t choose to feel this way. You think I chose to be binned off outside of an Arby’s? Hell, Hollis, there were families watching. Kids were there. I lost my composure in front of everyone . And the songbirds are singing… I love you, I love you…”

Hollis watches the speedometer needle climb into the one-thirties.            “Oh, Doug, I wish you’d give me that bottle.”            Hollis values his friends more than he does his own life. Even when said friend smells like the ass-end of a wine house and happens to be manning a four-wheeled motorised vehicle of death. But Hollis didn’t know what he had gotten himself into when he stepped inside of the car. Doug swung around his apartment a little past twelve in the AM and blared down on the horn until the whole complex was awake. Hollis, sensing the fraying lifeline of his friend, brought with him his book of knowledge and got into the car without spotting the half-emptied bottle of bug’s juice. The next moment they were hopping states in search of new love and new life. At least Doug was. Hollis was to be up at six the next morning for the paper mill. But the time just hit 2:52 a.m. and getting up in three hours was looking less and less likely.            “What the hell does this Marcus Orealis know about love anyway,” says Doug, looking Hollis straight in the face.            “Eyes on the road!”            The car shakes and swerves back on track.            “I mean, he never met Amy. He never saw how beautiful she was. He never saw her in that pink little cardigan… that pretty pink little cardigan she wears and her two little rabbity teeth. Those cute little teeth…” he wipes his tears. Hollis sinks back into his seat, clutching the cord of his seatbelt.            “Think about it, Doug. If you don’t slow down, you won’t see any pink cardigan again for the rest of your life. You’ll be dead , Doug. And I will be, too. Please tell me you can hear me.”            “I’m dead inside , Hollis. I’m rotting. I’ve been eaten goddamn alive. Just let me be and let me drive.” He turns up the radio and floods the car with wavering vocals and gentle guitar.            Hollis searches through the long line of quotes. “ Those things that hurt, instruct. Benjy Franklin. It’s a lesson, Doug. All a lesson.” He shouts over the radio, unknowing whether these words are being received. “She was just a… a bad teacher, is all. Or maybe the best one you ever had.”            “I’m not ready to learn again. I’m too old for learning. I should know every damn thing by now.”            He squeezes the wheel and wishes he could pull it from its hinges, wishes that he could fly into the sky and that the unending weight he feels inside his body would lift.            What he doesn’t know is that a gas station lies two minutes ahead of them. And that stood in the middle of the road beneath the luminescent glow of the, Buy One Get One Free Slim Jim sign, is a figure coated in black with a sun-chalk light falling over his face. The man pulls his lips away from the girl. She still holds his face in her hands.            “Is it time already?” she asks.            He pulls the stopwatch out from his pocket and looks into the glass. “Just under two minutes,” he says. Both of them look to the piece of paper on the dashboard. Three straight lines waiting to be crossed out.            “Fine,” she says. “I’ll wait here.”            “I won’t be long. You can come in if you want.”            “You know I don’t like what you do.”            “That’s ok, honey. You just wait here.”            He steps outside and shrugs his arms, balling his hands and pressing them into his spine until his back cracks. A pair of headlights gleam in the distant. They’re boiling through the black faster than expected. He turns back to the girl. She’s watching him. He winks at her before walking out onto the road. “Pull over there,” says Hollis, pointing to the gas station in the near distance. “I need to take a leak. Please, Doug, I’m gonna piss myself.”            “And I need a woman who won’t leave me.” His tone has shifted from despair to hopelessness. “I need… something. A sign, you know. Maybe someone to tell me, hey Doug, it’s gonna be alright. ”            “ Hey, Doug . It’s gonna be real fine and dandy until I piss all over your leather.”            A glancing figure moves through the darkness. Hollis catches it, tracing the shape with his finger. “You see that, Doug? Something went into the road.”            Doug hasn’t seen anything for the past three kilometres. The straight road is providence to his blindness. Blind with tears and all the other hard-hewn feelings. His eyes glisten like two coins at the bottom of a well.            “Uh, Doug, slow it down now. I ain’t kiddin’ around. I think someone’s in the road. Slow it – SLOW IT DOWN!”            The headlights rear over the body of a man. He’s stood centred in the road with his arms stretched in front of him.            The bug’s juice is gnawing at Doug’s brain and has taken his limbic nervous system for a hike. It won’t be returning for several working days. In the split-second Hollis has, he drops his book of knowledge and throw s himself into the driver’s seat, knocking Doug to the door and sending the wheel into a left spin.            And before the eternal darkness, Hollis sees the man’s face. The headlight brings shadows under his eyes, brings shadows to his grin. Not just a grin, but a leer. Staring, finding.            The car spins and sails headlong into the storefront window. The man ducks under a sloping lintel and brushes debris from the collar of his jacket. Dust-stacks choke the air and motes of grit soon part before the walking figure. The three shelves fold into one broken mass where the face of the car has been compressed. One body slopes out from the broken windshield. Miraculously, somehow rested on the remains of their lap, is a whole notebook. The man steps over this body and picks up the book. He looks through it, smirks, and stuff it into his back pocket. He pokes the body with his foot.            They died on impact.            The man pulls the tallied paper from his jacket and strikes out two lines. He walks further through the shop and finds the singing clerk flattened, leaking red into the spiderwebbed glass of the shattered chillers. The man strikes out the final line.

           “You,” says a voice.            The man turns and sees Alan cramped behind the counter among fallen cartons of cigarettes and spilled alcohol. His face is splashed with dust, hair matted to his face. Eyes shimmering, unwavering. The boy is in shock.            The man smiles. “So you’re the lucky one. Seems you do have someone looking down on you, after all.” Someone coughs behind him. Both turn to the drunk. He’s wrestling his seatbelt, his face a cut and bloodied mess. The man looks at his paper. “It seems I made a mistake. There’s two survivors, not just one. But it’s been fated that there can only be one now.” He looks to Alan who clings nervously to the countertop, slowly swaying, twitching. Then to the drunk who still wrangles his seatbelt and spies the dead mess of his friend. Here comes the whimpering, the regret.            “Alan,” says the man. He pulls out a silver coin from his jacket. One side has the tail of a serpent, the other is the skull of a goat. “I want you to call it. This is for your life.”            Alan doesn’t move. He doesn’t register the words.            “ Alan .”            “Huh?”            “Heads or tails.”            “Heads?”            The man nods and tosses the coin. Alan watches it glide through the air and land into the man’s palm. He spins it, flattening it onto the back of his hand. The man peaks at the coin and nods again. He struts over the debris and pulls out his wallet, untangles a five-dollar bill and slaps it onto the counter. “For the gum earlier.”            Alan doesn’t speak. He avoids the man’s finding eyes. His mind switches between heads and tails, tails and heads. It still hasn’t processed entirely: the car that scathed by his body, the dead co-worker flat-pressed against the wall, and the fleeting cry of Marcus Aurelius before the final collision. He watches the man leave the shop and walk through the unlit lot. There’s choking. Alan finds the sound. The drunk in the driver’s seat is choking. He’s still fighting the seatbelt, the black snake shape that tugs against his throat. He’s been choking for a while, face bruising like the paint palette of The Starry Night.            Alan hops the counter and he scampers to the drunk and tugs on the seatbelt creating a gap to breathe and the man fights and scratches but soon acquiesces and inhales breath and breath after –            He hasn’t moved an inch. Alan watches from the counter. Muscles corded. His bones spun from steel, an immovable weight. He watches the man fight and worm and choke out his last breath. A trinity of lives crossed out.            An engine growls outside. He finds the two taillights that beam carmine and light the darkness in a molten eb. The car jerks forward and starts down the road. The girl holds the stopwatch as the man finds his keys.            “It’s done,” she says. “Zero.”            “Then our work is done. Where next?”            “A residence, 42 Oak Street. Someone forgot to turn off the gas.” The man looks one last time into the store. “Look what I found.” He opens the notebook and turns to the page of quotes.            “What is it?”            “I cannot escape death, but at least I can escape the fear of it.”

They look at each other and giggle. He holds out his hand and she grabs on. “Let’s go,” he says. The car starts and peels onto the road before the engine rips and they streamline through the dark, kicking a storm of dust into the air and lighting the bumper sticker above the exhaust.            When Death knocks, you answer.


NOW The elevator doors part, propelling Benjamin and Alice into the hallway, both loaded down with grocery bags. They each lean to one side under the weight. "You didn't forget the rice, did you?" Alice asks. Ben just grunts and points with his chin at one bag in particular. The one holding the rice. Alice beams, her grin a spontaneous burst of sunshine, and they exchange a glance of understanding, acknowledging neighbours with casual head bobs as they pass. Living in these flats, running into people is as common as daylight. The homes are neatly in a row, each one connected to the next by the shared balcony. As they walk to their door, the vibe of their small community is friendly, warm. But today isn't just another Saturday. There's a tension in the air, a sense of something waiting for them, right behind their door. As they reach it, Ben sets his bags down. The one with the rice slips out of his hand as he fumbles for the key in his pocket. It's all so normal. A weekend shopping trip, the same as so many others. At least, that's what they believe. As Benjamin's hand closes around the key, Alice's voice shatters the peace. "Evan!"

Benjamin spins around to face his wife, her worry mirrored in his eyes. "What is it?" Alice's lips move, but no words come out. Fear and confusion play across her face. She points, her hand shaking, at the door opposite theirs. His eyes move along the invisible line her finger draws. And the moment his sight aligns with the object of her indication, a bone-chilling revelation shakes him to his core. Little Evan, their six-year-old neighbour, is sitting on the patch of floor where the shoe rack usually sits. His cherubic cheeks, delicate arms, and pristine white singlet are besmirched with a crimson hue. Even from their vantage point, the unmistakable scent of iron wafts through the air, its metallic presence a harbinger of the unspeakable—a child drenched in blood.

TWO HOURS AGO Thank heavens they had arrived at CKS Supermarket while the morning was still young, allowing them to secure a prime parking spot with relative ease. The vast expanse of the supermarket echoed their good fortune, as the early hour had kept the number of shoppers to a minimum. With a swift motion, Benjamin snatched a shopping trolley while Alice, clutching her phone, took the lead, consulting the meticulously compiled list of necessary purchases she had crafted earlier. Together, they meandered through the aisles, diligently collecting each item on their agenda. Feeling no need to rush, they opted for a leisurely pace, relishing the unhurried nature of their quest. "Let's make our way to the rice section," Alice suggested. "Alright," Benjamin replied, dutifully steering the trolley as Alice forged ahead. In the midst of their stride, their heads turned in unison towards the sound of a woman's voice emanating from close proximity. "Hello, Alice," the voice called out, revealing itself to be none other than Ain, a familiar face from their neighbourhood. "Ain!" Alice exclaimed. "You're here too?" "Yes!" Ain responded, moving in closer, her face alive with an unstoppable desire for juicy tidbits. Recognizing Ain's familiar gaze, Alice wasted no time. She gestured discreetly to Benjamin, silently requesting a moment of solitude, before joining Ain's side. Now face to face, Ain wasted no time diving into the heart of the matter. "So, spill the beans, Alice. What's the deal with Clara and Fabian? I saw your message in our WhatsApp group this morning, but I was too swamped to reply." "Well, they're at it again, just like always." Ain clicked her tongue. "I wish there was more we could do to help them. Have you ever tried prying into their affairs?" "No way, Ain. I prefer not to meddle in other people's business." "You're right," Ain concurred, her tone filled with empathy. "Word has it that Fabian is quite the jealous type. Forever suspicious of Clara. Poor, poor Clara." "Indeed! And let's not forget about Evan. He's only five, yet he's subjected to his parents' ceaseless quarrels." Ain tsked once more, shaking her head in dismay. "I hope that little boy is coping well at preschool." "Yes, absolutely," Alice agreed. "I wish—" "Darling, which one?" Benjamin interjected, his impatience palpable as he pointed towards a tower of rice bags nearby. "Ah, excuse me, Ain," Alice apologised, momentarily breaking away from their conversation. "No worries," Ain replied graciously, understanding the demands of their shopping expedition. Alice swiftly rejoined her husband, and together they resumed their individual quests through the supermarket aisles, leaving behind the enigmatic troubles of Clara and Fabian, at least for the moment. THREE HOURS AGO The oppressive heat and humidity had persisted for weeks, and today was no exception. The scorching sun beat down mercilessly, reducing a mere stroll from their residence to the car into a sweat-drenched endeavour for Alice and Benjamin. Yet, amidst the stifling conditions, nature revealed its own compensations. Tecoma trees stood proudly along the periphery of the flat complex, their branches adorned with what seemed like an endless array of blossoms. Each tree boasted flowers of the same species, yet their hues varied from vibrant yellow to delicate pink, from pure white to regal purple. The sight was nothing short of spectacular, a testament to the resilience of life in the face of blistering temperatures. Alice and Benjamin found solace in the enchanting spectacle as they made their way towards their vehicle. For a fleeting moment, the oppressive heat yielded to the captivating beauty of the trees. As they neared their car, they chanced upon the Siew couple, their heads tilted back, captivated by the same view. Alice noticed that their three children frolicked beneath one of the tecoma trees, joyfully collecting fallen flowers and casting them skyward, revelling in a playful shower of petals. "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Siew!" Alice greeted with warmth. "Hello! Heading out?" Mrs. Siew inquired. "Yes, just off to purchase some groceries." Mrs. Siew nodded her head in response, but then her eyes transformed into slits and her entire demeanour switched into a gossip-ready mode. She leaned forward, asking, "So, your home is right across from Clara's, correct?" "Yes, that's correct." "Are you in a hurry? Let's chat for a while." "Absolutely." Mr. Siew and Benjamin exchanged knowing glances, fully aware of their wives' predilection for indulging in a bit of gossip whenever their paths crossed. With a shared understanding, they meandered toward the nearest bench, affording their wives the privacy to engage in their customary tête-à-tête. "They're at it again, aren't they?" Mrs. Siew began. "Oh my goodness, yes. I wonder when they'll ever cease." "Did you manage to catch any of the commotion?" "I couldn't make out the words, but there was shouting and banging of things." "I'm curious about the source of their troubles. I've been told Fabian is quite the possessive type, really territorial." "Exactly. After all—" Alice was about to elaborate further when Benjamin cleared his throat, emitting a deliberate sound to signal that it was time to depart. "I suppose I should—" "Of course," Mrs. Siew interjected, offering a warm smile. "Carry on, then." SIX HOURS AGO When Alice woke, the other side of the bed was bare. Ben had no doubt gone out for his usual run. It was Saturday and she could afford a few extra minutes tucked away in the cocoon of her cosy sheets. Peace reigned in these quiet morning moments, all hers to enjoy. She found her phone and began her routine - first Facebook, then Instagram. A steady stream of images and words to keep her entertained, to share a smile, a thumbs up, a word of encouragement. It was an easy thing, to show kindness to others.

Stretching out her legs, she opened WhatsApp. Thirty-five unread messages waited for her. One by one, she gave them her attention, sending off replies where needed. Her peace was shattered when the noises started. A loud clank, like a pot being dropped, then the all-too-familiar sound of a man's voice raised in anger. The thin walls of her apartment left nothing to the imagination. The woman's voice soon joined in, a clear sign that Clara and Fabian were at it again. Alice wondered, not for the first time, if they could ever find a peaceful moment together. Alice wasn't troubled by it, not really. It was just part of life in the building. A common topic of conversation among the women in their Block F Sisterhood WhatsApp group. She shared the latest update with them: "OMG, those two just woke up the entire block." The replies were quick and full of laughter. Alice wished she could stay and chat, but the clock was nearing 8:00 am. Ben would be back soon, and she wanted to have breakfast ready for him. Wrapping herself in a towel, she made her way to the bathroom. The sounds of Clara and Fabian arguing followed her, louder than ever. She tried to make out what they were arguing about, but it was useless. Instead, she chose to drown them out with a playlist from Spotify, focusing on brushing her teeth and washing her face. Her next stop was the kitchen, where she found the cupboards were almost empty. They were low on just about everything. A trip to the grocery store was inevitable, but that was a problem for later. For now, she had breakfast to make and a day to start. And despite the drama from the apartment next door, it was a good morning. Alice was determined to keep it that way. EIGHT HOURS AGO The world was quiet, still mostly asleep under a thin blanket of predawn light. The moon clung to the sky, its glow washing the land in soft lavender tones. The only sounds were the early birds and far-off roosters breaking through the silence. One could be excused for wanting to stay curled up in bed, to let the morning laziness take over. But for Benjamin, that wasn't an option. He had made a pact with his crew, his running mates, his brothers in the Gallop Gang . They'd come together the year before, brought together by their shared passion for running and the shared address in Ken Hwa Flat Complex. Stepping towards the roadside, where a stretch of pavement awaited, Benjamin observed the presence of Siew, Baharuddin, and Rudy, already engaged in their pre-run stretches. "Hey, Ben!" Rudy called out. "Hey, sorry I'm not late, am I?"

"No, we're just warming up," Siew assured him. The quartet completed their stretches, preparing their bodies for the impending exertion. And then, like a pack of untamed beasts, they embarked on their run, each step pounding the pavement, their breath intermingling with the rhythm of their own hearts. Lost in the harmonious solitude of their companionship, they left the world behind. After an hour of hard work, the four men took a breather, huddling around a hefty, mushroom-inspired cement patio table. With eager gulps, they drained their water bottles and wiped the sweat from their faces. "So, Ben," Baharuddin began. "How's your neighbour?" "Which one?" Benjamin responded. "Oh, you know," Baharuddin gestured, his fingers playing out the movements of two endlessly talking mouths in midair. "The ongoing saga." "Still at each other's throats, as usual." Siew cleared his throat, leaning in. "Clara bears some responsibility, in my opinion. She can be quite cynical, don't you think?" "Yeah," Rudy chimed in. "I don't envy Fabian. It's a challenging prospect, handling a wife like that." Benjamin withheld his comment, contemplating the predicament. Then, a realisation struck him, reminded of Rudy's brother who served as a police officer. “Hey, Rudy. Couldn’t we report this to the authorities?” Rudy hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Unfortunately, I've inquired about this before. In most jurisdictions, verbal abuse doesn't constitute a crime. Unless there's physical violence or an imminent threat, the police won't intervene in a marital dispute. Verbal spats, regrettably, fall outside their purview." The quartet exchanged despondent glances, a shared realisation descending upon them. "Well, for now, all we can do is wait and see," Benjamin offered. Baharuddin nodded. "Yes, let's hope it doesn't escalate before we can take any action." "Why don't you all back off and worry about your own damn lives!" A sudden voice pierced the atmosphere, jolting the four men. Their heads swivelled, gazes settling upon the imposing figure of Fabian, towering before them—tall, robust, and muscular. He stared them down, an intensity emanating from his eyes, challenging them to make a move. Caught off guard, the four men dispersed, retreating to the comfort of their individual abodes, each bearing the weight of Fabian's silent provocation. NOW Five cops have huffed and puffed their way into the Fabian house. It has taken a fair bit of boot power and the handy assistance of a Halligan bar to bust the stubborn door. They were quick on the draw, spurred on by a nerve-jangling call from Benjamin about little Evan, all covered in blood, and the door that just wouldn't open. Benjamin, Alice, and a handful of locals watch, wide-eyed and silent, as the cops come out guiding Clara and Fabian, their hands shackled. The blood smeared on them paints a grim picture that has the onlookers rooted to the spot. Peering past the warning tape and barred door, they see a dark red stain seeping into the floor. Lying next to it, a gaunt woman's body is spread out like a gruesome still-life. Three of the cops click away, capturing the horrific scene for their records, getting ready to bag the body. Alice and Benjamin exchange glances, their brows knitting with confusion. They've spent long evenings talking with their neighbours in the Ken Hwa Flat building, thinking they've unravelled every mystery about Clara and Fabian. But they're wrong. They never knew about Evan's lifelong silence. They remain clueless about who's dead, what really happened, and why it all took place. But that's not their concern now. Their main worry is comforting Evan, whose sobs have hardly stopped since they found him curled up on the floor. Soon, a kind-hearted cop waves them over to the sobbing boy. "Got any idea what happened?" the cop asks, gentle and understanding. "Officer," Benjamin replies, his voice heavy with worry, "this little fella can't speak." "Know anyone who could connect with him?" the cop asks. Benjamin and Alice stop to think, then Alice's face lights up. She nods, saying, "I think I know just the person." *** After around thirty minutes pass, the Siew family emerges from the elevator with a sense of urgency. Alice's gaze is fixed on Zi Hao, the eldest child, who tightly holds a notebook and pencil. Alice can't quite grasp the purpose of these objects, but her instincts tell her they hold the key to effectively communicating with Evan in the near future. Without wasting any time, a police officer engages Zi Hao in a conversation, their voices muffled by the distance between them and Alice. Zi Hao, always obedient, nods in compliance, showing his willingness to follow the officer's instructions. Soon after, the police officer approaches Alice, who cradles the blood-stained Evan in her arms, and says, "Ma'am, it's time." Alice gently taps Evan's shoulder, indicating the officer and Zi Hao. However, Evan seems to resist, as if desperately clinging to Alice for protection. His innocent expression reveals a deep need for comfort. "Ma'am," the police officer interjects, his tone insistent. "You're welcome to come with us." "Very well, sir. Maybe we can continue our conversation at my home," Alice suggests, her voice filled with a glimmer of hope. The police officer silently nods, acknowledging Alice's proposal. *** The Siews and Benjamin huddle in the living room, quiet as church mice, while Alice, Evan, Zi Hao, and a police officer claim the dining table. A hush swells throughout the house, the echo of a tragic event hanging like a heavy coat on each person. And in this stillness, every word from the officer and Zi Hao rings out clear as a bell. Alice is putting the pieces together about Zi Hao's notebook and pencil, her eyes following the boy’s hand as it moves across the page. Evan's drawings paint an unsettling picture—an iron, a woman scrubbing dishes under the stern eyes of a couple. The truth hits them like a bucket of ice water, making them shiver with guilt for the gossip they've been spreading. The noise they thought was Clara and Fabian fighting was something far more sinister. It was the couple, not at odds, but united in their cruel treatment of a maid hidden within their home, a secret kept even from their closest kin. "Do you know how many times your folks attacked her?" the police officer asks. Zi Hao scribbles the question down so Evan can understand. But Evan just shakes his head, his memory a foggy landscape. "He doesn’t remember, sir," Zi Hao says, then a light bulb moment. "Hold on, let me try something." He draws ten circles, hoping to jog Evan's memory. But Evan shakes his head again. "Guess he doesn't remember," Zi Hao sighs. Then, as if guided by an unseen force, Evan rises from his seat and makes his way towards the kitchen window. The peculiar action puzzles the others, their confusion etched upon their faces. Sensing their bewilderment, Evan raises his hand and directs his finger outward, pointing towards something outside the window. Alice and the police officer follow his indication, their gaze falling upon a tecoma tree resplendent with a multitude of blossoms. Perplexed, they turn to Evan, seeking an explanation for his cryptic gesture. The officer swings around, planning to ask Zi Hao for help, but the boy is already behind them. "What's he saying?" the officer asks. Zi Hao's expression goes solemn. "He's answering your last question, sir," he says, his voice heavy with weight.


Binny and Toody vs. The Monster A Short Story By Maura Morgan My backpack, loaded with books, nearly pulled me over. I hated it. It was uncomfortable on my rail-thin body and dragged on the ground even when it wasn’t filled. Mama said I should use it to help me fit in at school. I laughed when she said that: how could I, a googly, eight-eyed kid with four arms and a trunk for a body and legs with suction-cupped tentacles instead of feet that crawled, more or less—ever fit in at a school filled with humanoids three feet taller than me? I didn’t need to bring books to and from school. With an eidetic memory and the ability to recall anything I’d learned in the blink of an eye, even googly ones, it was just a lame attempt to fit in. I didn’t need to go to school; I only did so because the law of this land required thirteen-year-olds to attend, and I was obligated to follow the custom. Despite the load on my back and the slow pace with which I crawled along the concrete sidewalk, I enjoyed the sunny trek home from the sparsely windowed brick building. The sunshine was the best part of living here. I soaked it in every day. No one ever bothered me; I was too scary looking. Sometimes, I wished I didn’t look scary. My looks made it hard to make friends on this planet. I only met Binny because he was sitting alone in the far reaches of the cafeteria, and no one else, humanoid or alien, would let me sit with them. Binny was my only friend. He was reserved and shy and not the least bit scary. He was a big ball of orange and pink fur, with two short arms and two feet hidden beneath his four-inch fuzzy coat. I’d only been here a month, and already, I was aware of the pros and cons. The humanoids were awful, but the standard of living, according to my dad, was the reason we emigrated. In the old country, as we now refer to our homeland, we were as poor as the mud we crawled on. But here, our presence was valuable. My entire family was tailors: my mother could sew a humanoid suit by hand in half an hour. Of course, four hands and eight eyes helped, but the sticky mucus we secreted from our mouths removed the need for pins. I turned the next corner to the multifamily unit we called home—we occupied the entire building. I came upon one Michael Snead. He held Binny by the ruff of his neck, feet dangling off the ground. He was screaming obscenities right at Binny’s face. With his quiet, even-keeled, and reserved demeanor, Binny was no match for him. I couldn’t even imagine Binny going bat-crap crazy and scaring Snead away with a fit of hysteria. Since I met him, I hadn’t even seen Binny laugh. “You’re nothing but a furry balloon…I bet if I took a pin to you, you’d pop and splutter as you whirled through the air! I’ll have to try it sometime!” Binny tightly closed his eyes and scrunched his face. His fur rippled as his body shook, and he held his short arms against his chest, fingers clutched tightly. Poor Binny. He could not defend himself, even against horrible, weak humanoids. He didn’t need to be on the peaceful planet he came from, so his only defense was an ancient instinct to ball up and flee. I, however, had some offenses and defenses because I was not lucky enough to come from a place that believed harmony was the best path to a fulfilling life. I quietly sidled up to Snead and focused all eight of my googly eyes on him, a trick my father taught me, and I quickly learned unsettled our humanoid neighbors. I employed it whenever I got uncomfortable with two-eyed stares. The best part, which also amused my father, was that I could stare at them with my pupils in different parts of my eyeball. Such talent! My father had exclaimed. “Whatcha’ doin, Snead?” I asked him in a deep grumble, my most threatening voice. He jumped, dislocating both feet from the ground, and dropped Binny, who balled himself up and rolled away as fast as his instinct could take him. “Dad gummit,” Michael said. “There goes my vape money. Had to butt in, didn’t you toad-face?” “The name is Toody, and yes, I did.” I braided my arms defiantly across my chest. “Don’t do it again.” “Or what?” I flicked my forked tongue at him and then spit on the sidewalk, where my saliva foamed and discolored the concrete. Snead clenched his teeth, stuffed his hands in his pocket, and trudged away. I smirked. Snead didn’t need to know my spit was nothing more than sodium bicarbonate mixed with acetic acid. I had an upset stomach for which I’d taken sodium bicarbonate, and beings like me are known to have vinegary saliva on a typical day. As for the discoloration, well, that was from the chocolate candy I’d been sucking on. I found Binny at the elementary school playground three streets away. He was sitting on the seesaw. I dropped my backpack, crawled up the board, and sat sideways on the other end. Despite our different shapes and attributes, the seesaw balanced perfectly. It would only move with intentional movement from either of us. “You okay, Binny?” He sniffled but wouldn’t look at me. “Thanks, Toody,” he said, wiping his nose with his furry hand. “Snead takes my candy money every day. Can’t tell you the last time I had a Snickers.” “You gotta stand up to him, Binny.” I leaned in, and my side of the seesaw went down, landing with a gentle bump.

“How?” Binny complained, spreading his arms. “Look at me. I’m nothing but a blob of pink and orange fur.” I studied him. He was right; at first glance, he seemed nothing more than a giant plushie. A thirteen-year-old girl would love to have him sitting on her bed—if he didn’t move or speak. “Got any specialties?” Binny cocked his head at me and leaned back on the seesaw. I rose in the air, wildly bouncing, nearly falling off, as Binny landed on the dirt. Binny gave a short, quiet laugh, but I felt good, having cheered him up. A short jolt struck me, like what happens when you drag your feet on a carpet in dry weather and then touch someone. “What I mean is, well,” I paused as a description of the word in this context escaped me. Instead, I used an example. “One of my specialties is I’m quiet. You saw me sneak up on Snead. And you saw me spew a nasty spitball. Anything like that?” Binny landed and pushed hard off the ground with his fuzzy, little feet beneath his round, furry body. I landed with a thud and let loose an oof. Binny laughed louder, and I felt the same jolt slightly stronger, like touching metal after dragging your feet. “I can tuck myself and roll away quick.” I slowly nodded, urging him to continue with what I hoped was a longer list, but then he shrugged. “That’s about it.” “Binny,” I said, rubbing my fingers together, my skin tingling. “How often do you laugh?” I leaned in again, and my side of the seesaw went down. I put two hands out to cushion my landing. “Same as everybody,” he said. I doubted him but sensed defensiveness in his voice, so I tempered my words. The last thing I wanted was for him to tuck in and roll because he thought I was threatening him. I’d only known him a month, but given we were two of only a handful of “monsters” in school, we became tight quick. We had lunch, study hall, English, Math, and Thwimba language classes together, and I didn’t recall him ever laughing. He was so mellow, so blasé about everything I started to think his kind couldn’t laugh. “Do you like jokes?” “I love jokes,” Binny said, his eyes brightening. “But my mom and dad don’t allow us to tell them to anyone except family. Mom says they’re dangerous.” “Has anyone ever told you a joke?” Binny shook his head. I didn’t remember ever telling him a joke or anyone else telling him a joke. I couldn’t say I saw him talking to anyone else at school. I realized it was probably because we all thought of Binny as melancholic and unable to laugh.

“Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?” Binny squinched his eyes together and shrugged. “Because the ‘p’ is silent.” Benny let loose with the loudest belly laugh I’d ever heard. In the same instant, electricity blasted through my body and blew me off the seesaw. I landed about ten feet away. I lie on the ground, the wind knocked out of me, staring into the bright sun. I heard Binny land on the ground with a thump, and I stayed where I was until he blocked my view of the local star. “That’s a great specialty, my friend. Let’s try it out.” I offered my hand to him, and he took hold of it with his fuzzy one and helped me up. We wandered through the neighborhood streets. I didn’t tell Binny I was looking for Snead. I didn’t know what Binny had taken away from the little incident on the seesaw. He hadn’t put two and two together, and I was sure he’d ball up and roll all the way home if I told him, not even wanting to try out his specialty. We came upon Snead threatening another kid from school for his money. Binny stopped walking and turned around, ready to ball, but I grabbed his arm. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, I promise. Just go with me on this,” I reassured Binny. Snead turned around and saw us, probably sensing bigger prey. He let the other kid go and turned to us. The other kid ran away and disappeared around the block. “Hey, toad-face. I found out your spit was nothin’ to be afraid of. And I ain’t afraid of your weird eyeballs, so I’m only gonna say this once to you two: hand over your money, or I’ll make cat paté out of you.” “You caught us, Snead,” I said, bowing my head. “Maybe I could make it up to you with a joke?” I glanced at Binny, whose light bulb had suddenly gone off. He started doing a little wiggle and dancing in place. “Naw, nothing will make it up to me except your money.” “How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?” I waited a beat as though allowing Snead to answer. “Ten-tickles!” I braced for what was to come and wasn’t disappointed. Binny gut-busted a laugh, and I flew, landing on a plot of soft green grass. But I didn’t miss Snead as he soared through the air. He landed in a bunch of garbage cans across the street with a deafening thud and ended face-down on the sidewalk. When he looked up, his nose and his face were bloody. I looked at Binny, who was groovin’, bobbing back and forth to an invisible beat, pirouetting on his heels and waving his arms. “Hey, Toody!” Binny shouted, pointing at me. “It’s all fun and games—” “Until Binny belly laughs!”


I. “Your favorite novel is Lolita ?” I don't miss the way her lips tug down disdainfully.

I shrug, speaking around the lollipop in my mouth. “One of many.”

“Right.” The look in her eyes tells me she doesn’t believe me, and it sets me on edge. As a matter of fact, everything about this posh, preppy princess of a girl makes me want to gouge my own eyes out with a soup spoon. She rolls her lip under her teeth before speaking. “Have you ever been down to the lake?” I roll my eyes because everyone has been down to the lake, but her brows furrow in something akin to hurt, and my heart aches.

Yeah, screw this chick.

I nudge my sneaker against the edge of her pinky toe, and her cheeks tint a light shade of pink. I don’t know why. It’s just a shoe. But her reaction prompts a blush of my own, and I curse her internally for making this entire interaction awkward. “I mean, yeah. Why?”

She licks her lips like she’s nervous. I see the gloss on them, something glittery that seems fitting for her personality. My gaze darts to the end of her pink dress. You could not pay me to dress like that, yet she does so willingly.

Her lips lift in the faintest smile. “I’ve never been before.”

“Oh.” I don’t move for a second because what am I supposed to do about that? But then my body moves before my brain does, and for no reason at all, I close the book in my lap and rise to a stand, brushing imaginary dust off the back of my jeans. I extend my hand to her suddenly, and her blush deepens, but she accepts.

I walk a few steps ahead of her because she unnerves me, but it doesn’t take long for her cheerleader gait to catch up to me.

“Do you always dress like this?” I’m just wearing jeans and a white tee, so I don’t know what she means.

“Do you always dress like that ?” My voice comes out too judgmental, and she shrinks back into herself beside me. I wipe a hand down my face. “No, I just meant…Yeah, I dress like this usually. I don’t really like…” My eyes unintentionally dart toward her dress again. “Pink,” I finish.

She moves slightly away from me. “Oh.” Then, as if she is the reason pink exists, she pouts apologetically. “Sorry.”

“What? No.” My patience with her is waning, and I tilt my head to one side. “Why would you apologize for that?” This time, her eyes light with defiance, and it fills me with relief. She’s not fragile, and that makes it a little easier to be myself around her. I’ve been told I’m crass. Probably because I grew up with three brothers. “You said it like it was something I should apologize for.”

I blow out a breath. “Well, don’t. I don’t like pink on me .” As soon as I say it, I feel heat flood my cheeks. Because, what ?

She bites back a smile unsuccessfully. “And on me?”

And this is when my stomach flutters with something I violently want to stamp out. “I have a feeling any color would look good on you,” I say grudgingly. As if it’s some well-kept secret. It isn’t. Everyone can see. I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly. “Why do you want to go to the lake?”

She lifts one shoulder indifferently. “We’re graduating soon, and I’ve already been admitted to my dream school.” Of course she has. “I think I deserve to have some fun before leaving.”

“Not planning on coming back?” I’m not sure why it matters to me.

She licks her lip. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on what’s left for me to come back to here.”

I try to ignore the flurry of movement in my gut at her response. “Is there anything to come back to now?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice sounds far away, and we fall into tense silence as we walk the rest of the way. I can feel her eyes searing into my skin, and it makes my hair stand on end. Why is she staring ? I grimace, and she chuckles lightheartedly. She pokes my tricep with her index finger. “Are you always frowning?”

“I’m not frowning,” I say, frowning.

She puts her fingers on either side of my mouth and lifts, and we both fall into laughter. I shake my head in disbelief, tearing my gaze away from her. You’ve known her three minutes, and you’re laughing. What’s wrong with you, Clara? I clear my throat and pray she can’t see my blush before asking, “Why does it matter if I frown?”

“I don’t know,” she says again. The lake is now in sight, and she speaks more to it than me when she says, “I like seeing you happy.”

“Who says I’m not happy?” I counter. It isn't always appropriate to counter, because not everything someone says is an attack. But I was raised not to trust anyone, so my default is the defensive anyways. “Your frown.” It comes out matter-of-factly. She picks up speed as we near the edge of the water. Then, suddenly, she’s peeling off her dress to reveal a multichromatic bikini underneath it. Her belly button piercing flashes at me, as well as a butterfly tattoo on her neck.

I look away sheepishly. I must stare at the ground for too long, though, because I feel her hand grip my wrist a few beats later. “Come on. Take a swim with me.”

Who are you, Maria Castenada, and how are you convincing me to do all these things ?

“Come on,” she repeats when I’ve said nothing. My blush deepens as I harden my stare at the grass, and that’s when I feel her palm cup my cheek. She turns my face so that I’m looking down into her eyes. They’re a pale, nearly translucent shade of green that communicates everything to me. Why is she looking at me like that? “I don’t mind if you see me in my bikini.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Why don’t you?” Wow . What a day to not think before saying something?

Her smile widens. “Maybe I think you’ll like what you see.”

I swallow, and she chuckles lightly. “Meet me in the water?”

Things are starting to make a lot more sense to me. II.

We don’t speak much in the water, mostly because I lose my head when I swim. You know how some people say they enjoy driving because it gives them space to think? Well, that’s how I feel about swimming.

When I finally climb back onto the deck a while later, Maria has her knees hugged to her chest and is staring off into the distance. She hears me wade toward her and grins, piercing me with a gaze so inviting it knocks me off-kilter. I compensate for my break in composure by splashing water on her, and she laughs. “I wouldn’t tease the girl currently sitting next to your jeans, Clara.”

Which reminds me that I’m in nothing but a t-shirt and panties. She dived into the water before me, and I stripped my jeans off when she was looking away, so there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Now, though… Well, my nipples are hard from the temperature of the water, my shirt is white and, therefore, see-through, and I’m almost certain she’ll see the black lace at the top of my underwear the minute I climb out of the water. So I float around the wooden deck indecisively until Maria narrows her eyes at me. “You’re stalling.”

I release a low laugh, but I was never a good liar. It comes out unconvincing, and she lifts one brow at me. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid I’ll judge you for whatever you’re wearing under the water?”

Does she read minds? I wipe beads of water off my cheeks to mask my blush. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Everyone’s afraid of something.” She moves to the edge of the deck and extends her manicured hand toward me. Her nails are the color of roses. I grab it instinctively and watch her pupils dilate when our skin meets. She runs her tongue along her lower lip. Her voice wavers when she speaks. “I always thought you would bite my head off if I got close enough to talk to you.”

“I would never …bite your head off.” We both laugh at the way the sentence comes out, and she helps me onto the deck. I tug my shirt down, but it’s not oversized, and I know that Maria can see everything.

She nudges my calf with her toes. “So how come you don’t talk to more people at school?”

I force out another laugh. “Uhm…Malcolm usually does most of the talking.”

She wrings water out of her caramel-streaked black hair. “Yeah, I know. No offense, but he could stand to hold his thoughts in a little more.”

I laugh at that. “He’s just spoiled. My mom’s first kid and everything.”

She fixes me with an intense gaze. “Do you feel overshadowed by him?”

I’d expect to find her direct questions off-putting, but I don’t. Instead, I sigh. “Doesn’t everyone feel a little overshadowed by Malcolm when you’re around him?”

She rolls her neck in a stretch. “I just find it funny that anyone could look at him when you’re there too.”

I feel the same sensation as earlier – of something fluttering in my stomach, and I snap. “Why’d you ask me to take you here, Maria?” This. This is the version of me that people see – the version that she was expecting. And for good reason. This must be some sick joke she’s playing, where she gets me to open up just so she can make fun of me. I can’t believe I trusted her.

Her chin wobbles as she speaks, and I make a concerted effort not to notice the smoothness of her skin. “Are you really going to make me say?”

I tear my gaze away from her. It’s easier to look at the water. It’s more predictable than Maria or the conversation we’re having now. “Is this some joke to you?”

She actually scoffs . “Is this how it usually goes for you? People start to show they like you, and you run away from them? Scared you won’t live up to their standards?”

Her tone is mocking, and I force my own into one equally as scorching. “If you’re looking for some sort of detour from your perfect life, look elsewhere.” She throws her head back and laughs so long my attention returns to her. “Why are you laughing about that?”

She collects her dress in her chest, rolling to a stand. “Do you remember when we were in seventh grade, and you were in the band, and they held that ceremony for the eighth-grade graduation? And you still wore glasses and braces, and you looked so unsure of yourself? You were trembling when it came time for the clarinet solo. And I remember because everyone remembers, because whether or not you know it, you were the best musician there.” She’s pointing at me now, and her chest is visibly rising and falling, and her cheeks are flushed. “I was so stupid back then. Because I waited for you to come off stage. Because I wanted to personally congratulate you. God, I thought you were so cool then. And I harbored this stupid , silly little crush on you all this time since, because it wasn’t you I ran into but fucking April Green. And when she saw me, she had that shit-eating grin on her face when she said, ‘I bet you’re waiting for Clara, aren’t you? Everyone sees the way you look at her. You’re in luck, ‘cause I think she’s a lesbian. The two of you can finally live out your wet dreams together.’ And it was cruel. It was one of the cruelest things that anyone has ever said to me, and I crumbled. And I determined I would curate a picture-perfect image of myself from that point on because if fucking April Green could see through me, so could everyone else.” She backs away from me a step, like it’s finally set in that she just confessed all this to me. “Fuck you, Clara McNamara.”

And my body does that thing again where it moves at the speed of light when I stand up and reach for her, pulling her with too much force into my chest, which she collides against with a curse. And I tuck her hair behind her ear and swallow. “Just wait a minute.”

She looks like she’s going to be sick. “Don’t give me false hope.”

“There’s nothing false here.” And I put my hand on her waist like it was always supposed to be there and feel her shiver. “You’re cold.” What a fucking astute observation .

She looks like she’s going to cry.

I’ll come to appreciate the way she wears her heart on her sleeve. Months from now. And I’ll vow to treasure it several years later. “Just wait a minute,” I say again.

She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t move.

“I noticed you, too.” The words fall out before I can stop them. I put my hand on her shoulder to steady myself. “Who could fail to notice Maria Castenada?” I pull on the string of her bikini bottom, rolling it between my fingers gently. “I would feel you staring at me…sometimes, and I would make every effort not to look at you because I knew.” I swallow. “I knew you were someone I would fall for.”

Breath gusts out of her chest like a tsunami. “Don’t fuck with me, Clara.”

“I’m not fucking with you.” It comes out a whisper. “I knew you would fuck me up with how much I would feel for you. If I ever looked back.” I run my thumb along her lower lip. “And now, here you are, and I know I was right about that.”

She blows out a string of curses so unlike herself I startle, but it isn’t shocking enough to stop me from closing the distance between our lips.


“Do you really think you could be happy with me?” I gently put my utensils down, plastic fork on the left, plastic knife on the right, just how he likes it.

“I mean here, forever, just you and me.”

I struggle swallow today’s slop and say,

“Of course Ian, forever and ever just you and me.”

He seems pleased with my response.  He removes my plate from the concrete floor at which we had been sitting.

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better! I’ll be right back with your meds.” I hear him climb the stairs and lock the door behind him. I don’t know why he bothers to lock the door anymore. The chain on my ankle keeps me secure to the wall. After my first escape attempt, the chain was installed. I don’t have too long to wonder, he returns with a box of pill bottles. I don’t fight it anymore. He gives me the pills and I take them willingly. After so long in his basement, I long for the calm, paralyzing, numbness these mystery pills bring. He leaves again, I can smell the apple cinnamon air fresheners he sprays in his house for a split second before he closes the door and I am once again locked in. Soon I will sleep, my only escape.

Sleep doesn’t last long. I hear the door open, close and lock. I feel he hit breath on the back of my neck. His grotesque hands groping me. As usual, he can’t preform his manly duties, so I get the metal pipe. It’s cold. It’s hurts. I leave my body and I am home. I see my daughters face. I wonder how long I’ve been gone. Does she miss me? Does she even remember me?

I wake up sore down there. Ignoring the pain I begin my usual routine. I rub the chain on my ankle against the concrete for hours. The sound feels like my ears might bleed. Maybe one day he will trust me enough to take the chain off, even though he shouldn’t. I know he’s at work today, it’s Tuesday, so I scream for help until my throat burns. I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m dirty. I don’t know when I last showered. Hair matted, greasy. I would break this mirror if I could only reach. Then maybe I could use a shard of glass to stab him. Then what? He’d be angry and I’d be punished or he’d be dead and I’d still be in his basement chained to a wall for God knows how long. After a while of what if’s and self loathing I finally hear his keys jingle.

“Honey, I’m home!”

“ Ian, darling! So happy you’re here!” I say trying to sound genuine.

“It’s your birthday! I’ve got you a surprise!” Is it my birthday, I must’ve forgot. He pulls out a cheap bottle of wine, take out food, and a box of condom and flowers.

“Honey, you’ve outdone yourself!” I force my self to sound excited.

He’s sets our table on the floor. We eat the take out. It was heavenly. I take the flowers, smelling them, “Sir, you are a true gentleman. How could I be so lucky.”

He puts his arm around me, his cologne nearly gagging me,

“I knew you’d realized one day just how much I love you. I did all this for you.” He kisses my neck, revolting.

“ I’m so happy my head is finally clear! I know you love me!” I say as to not rock the boat. Then, I see something. A chance. I move slow and while caressing his unkept hair and repulsive chest and stomach. Eventually my hand reaches the wine bottle. It was quick. I hit him in the head, glass and booze everywhere. Unconscious he lied  there. I sprung into action. I go through his pockets. The keys!! I quickly unchain my foot and secure it around his. I run upstairs for the first time, locking the door behind me.

Apple cinnamon, I love that smell. His house is nice. I didn’t see much of it when I was being drug down to the basement. I have no time to explore. I make my way to the kitchen. My mom made the best spaghetti. I begin working. Combining all my ingredients to create the perfect dish. Under the sink I find exactly what I need, the one ingredient that’s makes the whole dish. I poured all the rat poison into the sauce. I made him a plate, like the good wife he wants would.

I exhale sharply before I unlocked the basement. The moldy stench is nauseating, I guess after a while you don’t notice. He screams,

“You bitch, you fucking bitch. Let me go! I swear I’ll kill you!”

I walk down the stair and see him in the same position I had been. Except he is clothed, not tortured.

“Honey, this is all just a misunderstanding. Look, I have a surprise! Spaghetti, your favorite! Eat and then we’ll talk about this all and I will let you go,” I say, trying to sound sincere.

He takes his plate and eats it all.

“Big man like you needs all his nutrients. None for me, I’m watching my figure like you told me” I smile.

We sit and I wait. Then, the spasms and the foaming mouth, cries for help. I almost, no, I do enjoy it. Eventually he’s gone. Gone. Gone and I am free.

“Surprise, Ian,” I laugh.

I walk up the steps to the main house and walk out the front doors he carries me through so long ago. Free. There is a faint smile on my face. I will remember that smile. I was happy. Not happy he was dead, but happy to finally breathe air.

Once I was through the doors, I can see nothing but darkness. Then I realize, I don’t know where I am.

The other side is an area I have never seen before. There is an older woman taking out her trash across the street.

“Help! Help me Please! My name is Sarah Willard and I was kidnapped by Ian Matthews .