CW: death, grief, mature language. It sounded like a shoe crushing a bag of chips or a pair of glasses. A crushing, cracking sound. From the cab of her dad’s pickup, two sizes too small for the passenger seat, Andie craned her neck to see the road below them. She pressed her face to the glass, trying to angle her head just right to catch a glimpse of what they had hit. Her dad swore in the creative way he always did, some bizarre combination of words that hinted at what he really wanted to say, and pulled over to the side of the road.

“What is it, daddy?” Andie asked, squirming in her seat to try another angle in an effort to see the roadkill casualty.

“Don’t know, Bug, but I’m gonna find out,” Red said as he opened the driver’s side door. The blistering cold of a New England afternoon in mid-December bit at Andie’s nose and made her feel a little sneezy. Red grabbed his canvas Carhartt coat, the one that had the liner inside so he could stay warm while working outside, and stepped down out of the cab. “Daddy!” Andie squealed. “I wanna come!” “You sure?” Red asked. “It might be bloody.” “Yeah, I wanna see it.” Andie punched the red button that released her seatbelt that her dad insisted she wore even though he didn’t wear his, and used all her strength to push open the truck door. In a practiced routine, she grabbed the handle above her head for leverage as she lowered her right boot onto the step bar, then turned and placed both arms across the seat to step down like climbing on a ladder. Using both mittened hands, she pulled the door closed and scurried around the bed of the truck to meet her dad at the carcass lying in the middle of the road.

The turtle’s shell was cracked, like the pothole infested road they were standing on. When Andie reached her dad’s side, he was standing over the body with his hands clasped behind his back and his Timberland-clad feet spread wide. She recognized this stance from years of watching him work. He would take this position when he was deep in thought, puzzling over the angle a 2x4 had to be cut in order to fit in an irregular corner or a construction issue that required math beyond addition or subtraction. Andie was pretty sure her dad could solve any equation and knew the answer to every question. When he looked like this, she knew not to bother him with any of her “pesterin’.”

There was a little leak in the fracture of the turtle’s brown shell and hot air was escaping, visible like Andie’s breath meeting the cold air. She crouched and shuffled her feet to get a closer look at the damage. It was a big turtle, the kind that lived in the pond outside her home. It had eyes that bulged from the sides of its head like a cartoon character, and wide, webbed feet that reminded Andie of canoe paddles. The intricate pattern of diamonds and hexagons on its shell was disrupted by a long canyon that stretched from top to bottom, where the tire had hit.

The sight of this mangled creature both horrified and delighted Andie. She was already eleven and still had never seen a dead thing, if you could believe that. Sure she had seen dead fish when her dad would cook what he had caught in the pond, and she had seen a sow hanging from its back feet on a hook at the butchers’ once, but that was different. Those were killed on purpose, their deaths were needed for something. Even though she lived in hunting country and all her classmates and friends had seen at least one thing wash up on the shores of the pond or fall from a tree, Andie still had never seen something dead. It was because of her dad. He always shooed her away or cleaned things up before she could see them, but he was letting her inspect this turtle without saying a thing.

Then she noticed a flicker of movement from deep within the turtle’s body. It accompanied another little puff of steam. A closer look revealed a tiny fleshy thing, beating to an uneven tune. It was so dark inside the valley of the turtle that its oozing blood looked black like ink, and Andie realized that the little jelly bean sized thing was the animal’s heart. “Daddy!” she gasped, looking up into his pinched face. “It’s alive!” “I know, Bug.” He exhaled one long stream of vapor that looked like cigarette smoke. “I know.” “What do we do now?” she asked, looking to her dad expectantly, as a child who believes her father holds all the answers in his calloused palms does.

“I think...we get it out of the middle of the road before we get squashed by a truck too,” he said.

Andie swiveled her head up and down the road, checking for danger, but all was quiet. In the stillness of a country road, an incoming truck would be obvious from miles away. She turned back to consider the turtle, whose eyelids had begun to flicker slightly. “It’s waking up,” she pointed out.

Red didn’t respond, but just pulled off his jacket and knelt down beside Andie and the turtle. He tenderly nudged the turtle onto the canvas and used it as a stretcher to lift its body. Andie wondered why her dad wasn’t cold without his jacket. He was only wearing a long sleeved T-shirt over a regular sleeved T-shirt, not even a sweater or sweatshirt. Andie got to her feet and followed her dad, who was walking slowly and deliberately with the turtle suspended before him. The turtle hadn’t moved except to pull its head in. When they reached the cold, packed earth on the side of the road, Red paused and looked down at his daughter. “I’m going to go in the trees,” he told her. “I’m gonna bring this little guy with me. You wait in the truck and I’ll come get you when I’m ready, sound good?” Andie puckered her lips like she tasted something sour. She wasn’t little anymore, she understood what was happening.

“Are you going to kill it?” she asked. “I have to put it out of its misery,” Red answered. His face showed a flicker of amusement at his daughter’s intuition. “It’s what I would want, if I were in this bad shape.” “I’ve seen videos of people saving turtles with cracked shells,” Andie protested. “We should bring it to the hospital.” “Doctors around here wouldn’t know what to do with him,” Red countered. “There’s no point in prolonging his pain.” “We could call Dr. Lindsay?” Andie suggested. “He’d know what to do, I bet.” Red’s forehead creased and he looked to the trees like he was itching to get out there and be done with this.

“Dr. Lindsay only works on people-patients, Bug. He can’t help us.” Out of ideas, Andie just wagged her head with the weariness of a person much older than her. The blades of grass, stiffened from the early winter frost, crinkled and crunched under the tread of Red’s boots as he made his way towards the tree line. Andie followed a few paces behind, and despite her best efforts to be stealthy, the grass gave her away. Red didn’t ask her to wait in the truck again, though. Maybe he thought she was old enough to stand by while he performed his duty for a fellow creature of God. Maybe he knew his stubborn daughter would just give him a hard time and he’d have to get stern with her, something he didn’t have the energy for.

They walked a few paces beyond the first few saplings, into a cluster of more mature pines. Red placed his jacket on the ground and reversed the movement from earlier, gently nudging the turtle back off the fabric. Once freed, the jacket returned to warming Red’s torso.

“What are you going to do?” Andie asked, surveying the weak shell and the blood pooling up under the surface.

“I’m going to have to crush it more,” her father answered in a hoarse voice. She hadn’t heard his voice sound like that in a long time.

Andie simply stepped back and squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands balled into fists and she flinched when she heard his boot fall heavy on the turtle’s back, but she did not cry out. There was a moment of quiet darkness between the sound of crushing death and the confirmation from her father that it was done. She blinked her eyes back open and took in the gory scene. What used to be a turtle with a broken shell was now a mess of bone, cartilage, and punctured organs. A whimper almost escaped, but Andie swallowed it. She didn’t want to make her dad feel bad about killing this thing. She knew he didn’t like death. It was the curse of being dad that he had to face all the death and wield all the weapons when he hated it as much as everyone else.

“Can we bury it?” she asked. “Like mom?” Red let out a rough chuckle and nodded.

“Yeah, Bug. We can bury it.” He went back to the truck to grab the shovel he had among his tools.

“Lucky we were doing demo today, huh?” he said to Andie, as if they had both been working at the site. Andie giggled, she always liked being included in her dad’s crew.  Red set the blade of the shovel at a 45 degree angle and used his foot to plow it into the tough ground. While he worked, Andie perused the brush and collected weeds that looked close enough to flowers. She bundled up the stalks of bulbous seed pods and strands of gossamer leaves and used some grass to tie it into a bouquet. Once the hole was about a foot deep, Red used the spade to scoop up the turtle's remains and laid him in his grave. Andie placed the bouquet upon its body and stood back to admire their work.

“Would you like to give the eulogy?” he asked her, his hand resting on the hilt of his shovel. “What’s a eulogy?” “It’s when you say a few nice things about the deceased.” “Oh, like you did for mom?” “Yeah, like I did for mom.” “Okay, I can try,” Andie said and cleared her throat before beginning. “Dear…We don’t know his name.” Andie looked up at Red, her eyes wide with worry. Red thought for a moment before replying, “How about Frank?” “Like Uncle Frank?” “That’s what I was thinking. He kind of looks like a turtle, doesn’t he?” Red said, grinning down at Andie who hid her giggles behind her blue knit mittens. “Okay, Dear Frank,” Andie continued. Her face drew into a look of concentration and sorrow. “If you hadn’t been crossing the road today, maybe you would still be alive, but I guess you had to get to the other side.” Andie paused, then erupted in giggles again. “Why did the turtle cross the road?” Red said, picking up on the accidental joke.

“To get to the other side!” Andie replied, clapping her mittens together in muffled joy.

“Would you like to continue?” Red asked. “Um...I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Andie confessed. “Can you do it?” “Sure, Love Bug,” Red said, using Andie’s full nickname which he only did when he was being very sincere. Andie noticed the tone change and quieted down, turning her attention back to the turtle carcass in the ground.

“Frank, I’m sorry, buddy. If I could go back in time I would make myself pay more attention to the road. I would make myself swerve, or better yet, take a different route home. If I could go back in time I would save you and let you go back to your happy life of swimming in Myer’s Pond, basking in the sun and eating aphids and whatever else crossed your path. I would make sure you got home to your turtle wife and turtle babies who must be waiting for you now, wondering where you’ve gone. You could all get cozy together underwater, getting ready for the winter freeze. I hope your last moments were peaceful and content, I hope you had a full belly and a calm mind. I hope you are in a better place now, up in Turtle Heaven. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry you’re not here with us anymore. I’m sorry your baby won’t know you as she grows up, I’m sorry--” Red coughed, clearing something sticky caught in his throat. He didn’t want his daughter to see him cry, not like this. He had been so brave and stoic through the last year, he couldn’t let this damn turtle get him now. He had to stay present, remember who he was talking about. After a moment, he went on, “Goodbye, Frank the Turtle. We wish we could have known you longer.” Andie felt

a tugging in her gut like she was going to be sick, but she knew that wasn’t what it was. It was a sensation she had felt many times, it signaled a yearning for change. She was so tired of feeling helpless. Her mom used to say anything Andie’s mind could think up, her hands could create, but it wasn’t true. It wasn’t that her mom had been wrong, but she hadn’t been thinking big enough. Maybe Andie could make things like her dad did, but she couldn’t make the future different. She had tried so many times. When her mom was in their living room shivering and chattering despite the centralized heat that Andie had turned up to high and all the blankets and sweaters in the house. When her mom was sleeping in a hospital bed, and Andie would stare at her body and will the sickness away. When she would collect the clumps of her mother’s hair and try to sew them back together so she could wear them again, but it never worked. When her mom had told her she could do anything, she hadn’t been talking about saving a life.

“Goodbye, Frank the Turtle,” Andie echoed her father. “Sorry.” Red handled the shovel and replaced the dirt he had moved for Frank. Andie wondered if her dad, who she believed really could do anything, had tried to save her mom’s life too. If he had, why didn’t it work? “Daddy?” Andie squeaked.

“Yeah, Bug?”

“Did we miss something? I mean, could we have done something?” Red turned, clearly lost. “When? With Frank?” “No,” Andie said. “With mom.” “Hm.” Red patted the dirt pile once with the back of his shovel before turning away and taking his daughter’s hand, leading them back to the truck. When they reached his forest green pickup, he tossed the shovel back into the bed and opened the passenger door. In an effortless move, he picked up Andie and plucked her back in her seat next to his. He closed her door, crossed to his side, and climbed in behind the wheel.

For a moment they sat there, quiet and still. Then Red replied, “No, baby. There was nothing more we could have done. The doctors tried their best, your mom tried her best, we gave her all the love and help she needed, but when God decides it’s your time, you don’t get a say.” “God didn’t know mom, though. If He had--” “God knew her well enough to know he wanted her by His side,” Red said and turned the key in the ignition.

“Oh.” Red gripped the wheel with his chapped hands, and looked over at Andie. “Seatbelt.” Andie obeyed, and once he heard the click, he shifted into drive and turned back onto the deserted country road. Andie leaned forward and turned the heat up to high, then removed her mittens and sat back in her seat to watch the trees rush by as if they had legs and were running alongside their racing truck. Images of Frank’s mangled body mingled with images of her mom, gray and sallow in bed. Andie decided she was like her dad, she didn’t like death all that much. She was grateful he would always be there to handle the grittier parts of life for her. Life behind his shield suited her just fine. She lay her cheek against the cold glass of the window, and her smiling mouth fogged the glass until the trees were hidden behind a veil of wintery smog.


 She already knows what flowers she’s going to buy. She already has the cash for it down to the penny in her right pocket. She’s anticipated dirt and snow and already has her worst sweatpants on.               A small bouquet is arranged by the door. Hundreds of other priced blossoms are arranged throughout the store. With the pink carnations she’s picked, countless others fly off the shelves in an instant. There’s exactly twelve in her bouquet. An older gentleman sees the bouquet in her hand and smiles for her, but she doesn’t acknowledge him. She purchases the flowers without a word to the cashier and leaves the store. Without looking up, she finds her car, places the bouquet in the passenger seat, and drives out of the parking lot and through the main drag.               There is no radio, no music, no sound in the car besides the engine and the rustle of the plastic holding the flowers together. Underneath the bouquet is a pair of kitchen scissors that she had grabbed from the house earlier.               Every restaurant she passed by was packed, flooded in a scene of red, white, pink, and pairs holding hands. She doesn’t clutch the steering wheel any harder or take a second glance. She passes through the intersection and stops for the next one.               It’s maybe two miles out of town she had to drive to get to the cemetery. She doesn’t know what to make of it being so empty.               The grave is easy to find; it’s the center of a trio. The left plot was the first one there, occupied by a person she had never met. The middle was marked by a marble bench with a shared last name, the engravings still as crisp as she remembered them at the burial. The right plot was undisturbed and empty; however, she knew that it was bought and reserved.               She gently tore the plastic wrapping off the bouquet and cut the rubber bands binding the carnations tightly together. She put each scrap of waste in her car, she wasn’t mindful of where they ended up otherwise.               With each flower in her hand, she placed the bouquet upon the middle grave. Even amid the recent blizzards, she had kept this grave very clear in the last few weeks. Made it easy to find, and even with snow covering the roads throughout the cemetery, she knew how to get there.               She read the gravestone in an irregular, dazed fashion. She read the date of birth, then the dead’s labels, then back to the date of death, then the labels again, she glazed over the ornamental engravings around the border, then back to the date of death before she could settle her eyes on the name.               The last name she still bore, however it looked different on the stone. It looked old and conclusive. A gravestone made it seem like the name’s last mention was supposed to be here.               She anticipated her knees buckling on this specific day, but she was oddly still.               She looked back at the empty plot, feeling her hands shake at her sides before returning to the car and closing the door. Snow had drifted inside on the flooring and driver’s seat, wetting her clothes as she started the engine again.               She drove out of the cemetery and onto the highway, making her way back into town. Instead of following the main drag all the way through, she turned onto a division by the river.               Each house she passed was larger and larger until she found a manor with scarlet shingles and a harp in the window. She parked her car on the driveway, locked it, and walked beside the dead, snow-covered carnations to the front door. The house was silent, and she realized that it was still visitation hours. They would be back within thirty minutes.               She walked through the house and checked on the utilities. The furnace was still operating as it should. The fridge was still cold, and the food was fresh. Looked like enough ingredients for biscuits and gravy in the morning, perhaps a soup tonight. Her mouth was dry, so she took a quick swallow of tap water from the sink before walking through the rest of the house.               The dinning room was still clean. The tabletop was void of dust, and everything had been reorganized to look like it anticipated a sort of formal dinner. The second dining room was the same way, with the rug vacuumed.               She looked up at the winding staircase. Every framed picture was clean. She couldn’t scrub the coffee stains out of the carpet.               The cellar was meticulous. She had cleaned every pillow, wiped every window, checked every book in the bookshelves for folds in the pages. She removed the bookmarks because they meant that someone would be returning to them.               The grand piano was the only object in the house that could not be an eyesore to her. The stain was old and the tuning was horrendous, but she didn’t mind it. Not even the bench with the broken hinges and chipped corners.               The metronome was silent. She kept it that way.               The keys were real ivory. They had this particular texture to them, these vague color imperfections. The silence made way for the untuned middle C she played, and swallowed it when her finger was lifted.               Nothing could come to mind of what to play. Her arms were heavy and she couldn’t bring herself the energy to play anything, not even tritone nonsense.               She rose from the piano and walked upstairs. She could hear a new car engine in the driveway shut off, followed by the doors slamming shut.               The granddaughter’s room was the first room on the right. If she had followed the railing and through the hallway, it would’ve led to the master bedroom, sewing room, and laundry room. She couldn’t ever bring herself to clean the master bedroom.               She didn’t bother to close the door to the granddaughter’s bedroom. From upstairs, she could make out the sounds of five pairs of feet. One was heavy and distinguished with an equally heavy emotion she found painful to admit. Another was heavy, but with a certain burden. The three others were light and quick. The smallest one was out of the main entryway, but she couldn’t figure out where it went to hide. The other two were growing louder.               Her two sisters walked into the bedroom. One threw herself on the other bed, sobbing loudly. The other walked into the adjoined bathroom. She hoped that this sister liked the yellow carnations she placed in a vase on the counter. She hoped that it brightened the already dim room. And she couldn’t bring herself to clean it anyway.               She stared at the white crib and treehouse doll set in the corner of the room. She could remember laying in that crib, but she also couldn’t distinguish it as a raw memory or a hopeful figment. She remembered the soft sheets and the bumpy texture of lace beneath her hands. Above her was soft lights, and a music box playing a lullaby with no name, but she knew it by heart.               A woman with the softest hands reached to pick her up. Her clothes were always silk elegance, and her body was always adorned with gold and jewels and precious things. A beautiful diamond ring was always on her right hand. It’s cold, smooth touch was always a reassurance to her, even as an infant with no understanding of its importance or even what it meant.               Accompanying this soft elegance was the smooth tang of cigars. In the corner of her eye was the glisten of a metal watch encircling a scarred, aged wrist. On the right hand was always a thick gold band, something so concrete in placement that it seemed stitched into his very skin.               This second part brought her a tearing pain in her ribs, and she could then hear the sound of her sister weeping on the bed behind her again.               The bathroom door opened, slammed shut, and the pair of footsteps stomped out of the room. She didn’t track where they went.               Downstairs, the smell of stew wafted through the house. Nothing in her body reacted to it.               The sound of her sister sobbing was beginning to irritate her. She could feel the texture of clothes on her skin, the taste of saliva and nothing in her mouth. The settling and disturbance in the house. The footsteps downstairs that signaled the news that she was dreading and tried her best to ignore. She hoped that they saw the fresh yellow carnations on the counter and knew where she was so they would leave her alone and never tell her.               She rose from the bed, no audible break in her sister’s crying, and walked back to the railing by the staircase and followed it to the hall and ultimately the master bedroom.               This very room had remained empty for over one year and seven months. She had difficulty remembering the very day that he had left, and she didn’t realize he may never return.               She remembered the nights she watched movies in their company. She was too young to understand the television but felt the perfect harmony between the two. She missed it, even twelve years after the first passing.               The room was suffocatingly empty. The space was eating at everything and holding her neck, pushing her to leave the room. She didn’t dare disturb anything and touch the sofa she remembered laying in as a small child, or the jewelry her small fingers grazed but didn’t understand the value of, or the carefully selected, purchased, and placed décor that nobody dared to change. Nobody wanted to bring in anything new to this room. They wanted to preserve it the way it was as a pocket dragged in the line of time.               Even the dried carnations left on the nightstand.               She brought herself out of the room, feeling like a perverted thing in a holy space.               Out of the room, still hearing the sound of her sister’s – both – weeping, the sound of her mother cooking, her brother’s silence, and the father’s anticipated distress, she stood in the hallway and stared at the family photo she didn’t dust on the wall.               A photo she was in. She remembered the day.               She was dressed in white, seated closely with her siblings. Her mother sat beside her; her father stood behind her. Among her other relatives and the white carnations was her grandfather.               A solemn, loving, grieving soul.

A dedication.               And an honor.               I love you.


Everyone’s eyes are on her, constantly. She’s the star of the show, and she has been since she was born. A promise of life from the highest in rank, given to a pair of the lowest as a form of bidding. Watching from the side was always Everly’s brother. Everly was a gift, and Trevor was not to be seen in the same way. Trevor is supposed to be hidden behind Everly at Mr.Pierce’ss expense because he was not supposed to exist. A rank is a list of the successful and most liked families in society. Every three years, there is a family name rank election. Ever since the Shopel’s have been given Everly, their rank has been in the second spot right below the Pierce’s. When I was five, the Pierce’s gave mother and father Everly. Everly was also five years old, and I could swear her skin shined. It was hard to look away from her. At the time, we were trying to get by day by day. It was a tough life. Our house had buckets on the floors to collect rain, and the paint on the walls was faded and ugly. We couldn’t afford to even be on the charts anymore. Mother and father told me the day before we were given Everly that we would have to leave town. I never wanted to go, and that night, I cried. I wept out of self-pity, and since that day, the tears have never stoped behind closed doors. Now thirteen years later in about to go to her birthday party. I know it’ll be more extensive than any I have ever had. I’m jealous, but we have to keep our rank so that the city folk don’t ostracise us. I straighten my tie and head downstairs to meet our arriving guests. The Pierce family will be arriving today as expected. They always show their faces for Everly’s birthdays. To my surprise, Jackson walks through the door and shakes my hand firmly with a slight nod. I haven’t seen Jackson science last year. After his sister’s funeral, he’s stayed at home and only sees people when he asks them to visit. Jackson is in love with Everly, and so they see each other all the time. I wonder if he will ever confess to her. Everly has never been in a relationship, but she has always been followed by admirers wherever she goes. On the other hand, Trevor has never been allowed to do anything that might damage the family’s rank or his sister’s name. As a result of this, he’s always just followed in her shadows. I grab a drink off of Thomas, one of our waiters, and make my way to the back corner of the room. Once I make it there and get comfortable, I study the crowd of people surrounding Everly, congratulating her for finally becoming an adult. Jealousy rages through my veins, and suddenly I can’t control my temper. I swiftly move through the crowd of people and upstairs to my bedroom. I catch myself out of the corner of my eye in the mirror. My face is red, and I cringe at my reflection. Why can’t I be special like Everly? After a few minutes of pacing, my temper is finally at ease, and I sit down on my bed, falling onto my back. Closing my eyes, I hear a muffled scream coming from downstairs in the living room. Rushing out of my room, I trip on my feet and fall on my face. The pain knocks me out of my haze, and I quickly gather myself rushing to see what’s happening. I turn the corner, and I see Everly jump into Jacksons’ arms squealing like a child. I ask the woman beside me what I missed, and she fills me in that he just proposed, and she said yes. I turn my attention back to her. Her feet are off the ground entirely, and moments later, the rawr of the guests gets subsided by a loud knock on the door. Trevor wipes his nose and notices his fall from earlier made his nose bleed. He wipes it on his sleeve and rushes to the door. Grabbing the brass handle of the door, he already knows who is on the other side of the door. His presence is known by not only Trevor but every other person standing behind him in suspense. Behind himself, he can hear everyone’s whispers. Mr. Pierce walks through the doorway with his wife on his arm, both wearing their movie-perfect smile on their faces. I back away to hide, only to do the opposite. Mr. Pierce’s eyes turn towards me, and his smile briefly drops. He makes me feel as though I’m on fire. I wince under his gaze and turn to hide quickly. I’m never to be seen near him. What if the other family figured it out? Both of our families will lose our rankings. Seventeen years and eleven months ago, Trevor’s mother had a brief affair with Mr. Pierce, and Trevor was the result of it. He was not only almost the end of Mr. Pierce’s high status but also the end of his mother and her husband’s life in this city. Trevor grew up knowing Mr. Pierce was his real father, but he calls Mr. Shopel, his father. Trevor was to hide this secret behind Everly’s success and beauty. Mr. Pierce bought her from a top-ranking family in the city just west of them. *TRIGGER WARNING SELF-HARM/SUICIDE* Mr. Pierce walks right up to Everly, and he kisses her cheeks. With a movement of his hand, his son is beside him, holding a shoebox-sized present. I know this gift will be a good one; she always gets unique gifts from him. Her smile makes the whole room applause. I go upstairs and into my sock drawer in my dresser, and I pull out a bag with many pills in it. I’m so sick of being cast out, and the only way I can get out of this is to forget the world I'm trapped in. Below me, I hear a woman say in a high-pitched voice, “Oh my, a car! How lovely for you, Everly!” Standing before the bathroom mirror, I mock the woman and turn to face my bathtub. For a while, Trevor has struggled with self-harming and suicidal thoughts. His Problems have gone unnoticed because of his sister. He also is addicted to pills, and this is how he escapes. Trevor is almost old enough to escape this town, but he knows moving isn’t enough to fix his developed problems. Everyone knows him as the brother second to his sister. Trevor wrote his goodbye letter two weeks before this. He planned to die then, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Tonight was his limit, so this is the event to end his short life and painful death. I turn up the water and plug the bathtub; watching it fill, I listen to the chattering going on downstairs. Why couldn’t I be like Everly, and Why did I have to be a bastard child. I wish I was normal and somewhere far from here. I pour the bag of pills out onto the table, and I count them. Fifty-five pills this should do. I turn on the sink when my bath is almost done, and I Scoop the pills into my hand. I lean over the sink, collecting water into my mouth, and I force the drugs down with it. In small amounts, eventually, finishing them. My bath is drawn, and I open my mirror, revealing some tiny storage shelves. In the mirror, I have a box of razors. Pulling out a fresh one, I close the mirror catching one last glimpse of my foggy face. The water in the tub is too hot. It burns as I sit in it, still fully clothed. Rolling up my sleeves, I know that the pills will take effect soon, so I must hurry. I hold my arm up with the side of the bathtub. Drawing lith the metal Trevor left a red line in its wake. He did another on the same arm, this time deeper. And then again on the other arm. He quickly plunged into the water and cried out as the hot water filled his fresh wounds to keep them from clotting. Finally, Trevor got what he wished for. While his sister was living a great life of her own, he got to end his. He finally got something he wanted… His own show. Later that night after the party, Ms. Pierce searched his room to request his help with cleaning the house up. She couldn’t fund him anywhere; full of fury, she knocked on the bathroom door a couple times with no response; she rushed into his bathroom. His funeral was held a week later, and he was buried along with his secrets.


I suddenly awoke to the incessant screeching of my alarm clock. I laid in bed for a little bit, my eyes nearly crusted shut from deep sleep, in my darkened room wishing it wasn't that time yet. As I begrudgingly peered at my phone, I saw it was four o'clock in the afternoon. Ugh! Time to put on my fake, happy face, throw on my super plus-sized scrubs, and pull myself together enough for another night shift at work. It was my third, twelve-hour shift in a row at the nursing home. I was barely still functional as a human being at this point, let alone as a nurse.

My husband and I had been married for twenty some years and managing a household with four children while we both worked full-time was impossible. But, somehow, we were pulling it off. He worked days, and I worked nights. We barely saw each other. We never spoke to each other. Throughout our entire marriage, communication has always seemed like a nuisance rather than a necessity to him. I exited my bedroom to leave for work only to find the usual. My husband sitting in a poorly lit corner of the living room glued to an obnoxiously bright computer screen playing online games. My children amassing chaos and destruction throughout the remainder of the home like a scene straight out of “ Lord of The Flies .” I had no time to intervene, or I would be late for work. Although I was exhausted and burned out from my job, most days it almost seemed like a vacation compared to the insurmountable amount of work I had to do at home. I squeaked out a quick goodbye to my family as I rushed out the front door to my car.

Working in the medical field is hard. Yeah, the pay is fairly good with only two years of college to get you there. It was my best option as a young mother with a quickly growing family to keep a roof over our heads and food in my babies bellies. But, looking back now after years of grueling work as a nurse, I wouldn’t even wish for my worst enemy to have this job. It took everything in me just to get through a shift most nights. Don’t get me wrong, I adored my patients. Caring for people is a special and important calling. Nursing, however, is more focused on other things. It’s all about charting, passing pills, writing assessments, documenting intake and output, essentially very little time is actually spent with the patient.

My work and family life had no balance. There was little joy left in anything I did. Depression and anxiety, especially after the loss of my mother to metastatic breast cancer, had taken over everything. I felt surrounded by death and sadness most days. But, there was one thing in my life at this point that felt special, exciting, new and invigorating. It kept me coming back again and again. My secret friend, my dangerous love, that was at work. That’s why I never missed a shift, I took extra in fact, just to be there and have more time with my fling. It was such a release! I could hardly wait most nights for our time alone.

I arrived at work to even more chaos than what I had just left at home. Dementia patients in the hall screaming. Nursing assistants running frazzled up and down hallways just trying to keep up with diaper changes, feedings, and baths. The day shift nurses were glued to their medication carts still trying to finish passing out what seemed like fifty pills to each patient in the halls. We were typically assigned around twenty patients per nurse on a busy day. There were always multiple sick calls from nursing assistants, often leaving us short handed and doing the work of three people. None of this mattered to me once I found my love. We always found a time and place to sneak off together, regardless of what else was going on and keeping everyone else busy.

I reached the dingy, sad break room where the day shift and night shift nurses meet for the hand off report. I sat there, distracted and daydreaming about when my lover and I would have a chance to be together, while pretending to listen to the nurse’s report. Nothing had changed from my previous shift- so and so in room 302 has been confused and digging in their depends, 304 wants another enema, 308 is being discharged tomorrow and needs patient education because I didn’t have time to do it today, etc. It would be a typical night shift. Nothing I couldn’t easily handle. I started my evening medication pass to get everyone settled for their nighttime routine and bed. While in the hallway, I caught a glimpse of my secret lover. I whispered, “Not here, not now, later.” My lover slyly slid into my pocket whilst passing by unnoticed. A little tease for later I suppose. I quickly finished the evening medications and rushed back to the nurse’s station to hurriedly get through my charting for the night. I was feeling impatient and didn’t want to wait. I’ve been overwhelmingly stressed out the past few weeks. I needed this. I needed something good, something that made me feel good. Something that made my life feel worthwhile, like I had something special to look forward to- hell, in my mind, I deserved this. I would say to myself, “What could be the harm in this? If no one finds out, no one will be hurt. You just have to be careful, be subtle, don’t get too attached.” I thought I had the whole thing under control. Me and my secret lover.

It was getting into the wee hours of the night. Despite regularly working night shifts, night shift workers still get tired. Right around what we refer to as “the witching hour.” Come three a.m., everyone gets the heavy eyelids, the chins resting on the clenched fists at the desk, the ever so brief nod of the head until it flicks back up in rapid fashion and the eyes dart about to see if anyone’s watching. That was my time to sneak off to do what I’d been waiting to do all night long.

I went to the wound care cart parked in the hallway near the supply closet. I slowly and quietly started checking the supplies in the drawers, removing expired or worn out items, organizing the rows, throwing out trash. The nursing assistants were busy in patient’s rooms, and the other nurse on shift was busy at the desk as she’d just now started her charting for the night. It was the perfect time for a rendezvous. I entered the supply closet and waited. I waited to see if anyone besides me and my lover might come in to avoid getting caught. The coast was clear. We were safe. There was a small corner, just behind the door to the closet, that was out of view if anyone were to enter unexpectedly. I quickly walked over to the corner and reached into the front pocket of my dark blue scrub top. I pulled out a small, folded, white, paper medication cup and opened it. I took out two, oblong, white pills peppered with tiny, light blue specks. I hastily threw the white paper cup into the trash can and popped the two pills into my mouth. I didn’t swallow them right away. I wanted to savor their bitterness. I usually chewed the sour, chalky pills before swallowing them completely because, being a nurse, I knew that the drug would hit me harder and faster if it absorbed sublingually under my tongue than it would being digested in my stomach. I crunched away at the dry tablets until they became a nasty-tasting, thick paste. Then I swallowed them down with my saliva. I didn’t even need water anymore. I instantly relaxed and just stood there for a moment in that little hidden corner in the little, sad supply closet enveloped in the love and warmth of Vicodin. My secret friend and lover. My only friend and lover. Always there for me, never judging me, loves me the way I am- fat, old, sad, disgusting – Vicodin didn’t care. Whenever I needed someone, or something, to carry me away from the darkness without hesitation or wanting something from me first, Vicodin was there for me. My confidant, or so I thought.

Dangerous love is fast and furious. It doesn’t last for long. I would learn that sooner than I thought. I would learn that I had become an addict before I even knew it. Funny how it sneaks up on you like that. You get carried away in the whirlwind of the affair with your addiction. It becomes a part of you like a virus and quickly changes its genetic code to adapt to you. It tells you all the good things you want to hear about yourself. It makes you feel good. It makes you feel invincible. It makes you feel like nothing else matters and, therefore, nothing else begins to matter but the disease that’s taken you over. Addiction itself is addictive. I never understood any of it until it was too late. My dangerous love, my fiend, played me like a puppeteer moves a marionette. I take responsibility for what I did, what I’ve done. I allowed that trickster into the home of my mind, heart and soul. Especially as a nurse, I knew better. If I could take it all back, I would. This love affair took my career, my family, my relationships. It took the very essence of who I am.

Through a series of life-shattering events, I was forced to end this love affair. I still work hard every day, to this day, to never return to my toxic lover. The despair and destruction it’s caused me and everyone around me has left me wondering how any of us has survived to tell the tale. I am grateful to still be alive. I am grateful to have happiness and hope back in my life today. I am grateful for the return of real, honest, true love with others, and not with a sickness that wants to kill me. For the longest time, I knew that would be the end result of my dangerous love affair- death. I knew it, and I yearned for it. I felt I had nothing else to lose. I know better now. The brush with death that this monster caused has blessed me with a new-found love and appreciation for life itself. I now know the greatest love.


Nathaniel Thornton thought he had found a haven. But, as he tried — and failed — to wriggle free of the pillory, it occurred to him that he’d been wrong. The post wobbled when he fought against his shackles, but the trap would not break. The wooden framework, into which they’d locked his head and hands, remained steadfast and shut. At least no sharp blade hovered above the stocks, ready to guillotine him. Although he’d later reflect that decapitation would have been a preferable fate. “Now, now, Nathaniel.” Heledd Cadigan, dressed in a white robe, tutted. She walked around the front of the pillory. A crown of flowers adorned her head. It wove through the Scandanavian braids of her platinum blonde hair. The creases of her face reflected her authority over the other girls. The sparkle of her crystal eyes glinted, clear and aquatic and mad. She smiled, a grin stretched across, lips pressed tight. “No need for aggression, now. We’re far past that.” Nathaniel thought he’d seen the worst in people. He thought that if he acted in a kind and caring manner — his heart on his sleeve — others would follow suit. Others would respect and treat him with kindness. He thought that you’d only reap what you’ve sown. He’d never sown anything like this . But, he realised, he’d made a mistake on every account. The darkness within the souls of people had no end — it plunged on forever, pitch-black. Other people wouldn’t follow his example, they’d only use his gentleness as a weapon against him. And, at last, there is no karma. Good things happen to wicked folk. Bad things happen to good people. There is no order or system. Shit happens . “Let me go!” Heledd tilted her head back and laughed her insanities to the sky above. The sunlight fell upon her, golden and soft. On the walls of the small courtyard, lush green vines crept their way up the stone. The windows all boarded up. The ones of the building opposite barricaded from the outside . A thick metal chain locked the door in place. “Why on Earth would I do that? It’s destiny that you’re here, Nathaniel. Do you know what your name means? Hm?” He thrashed within the shut holes of the pillory. Wood scraped skin. Splinters deposited, scratches left to bleed. “You’re insane! Let me outta this thing!” “It means—” she said without reply “— Gift of God .” Heledd stepped forward and cradled his bound head. If he’d been a more savage man, he’d have tried to bite her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Even now, with the wooden boards locked into place. She crooned to him. “And that’s what you are, Nathaniel. A gift of God. You see, he has a plan for us all. And this is his plan for you. For us to let you go…” She shook her head. “Well, that would go against God, wouldn’t it?” “Stop this!” Nathaniel’s voice cracked. “Stop this now!” It commanded none of the authority he wished to embody. It came out thin and reedy — the whine of a prepubescent boy. Not an insistence. A weak-willed plea. “Oh, how you’d like that. To spit in the face of Mother Nature. You men are all the same. All you do is take and destroy. Rape and pillage. Burn and raze and scar . This blessing she’s laid upon the world.” Heledd grimaced. “The thing you call a virus, a disease. It’s her reckoning , don’t you see that? Mankind evolves and usurps nature’s throne. Says it’s his rightful spot.” Heledd spat on the floor. The rest of the girls — all younger — did the same. “You’re insane!” Nothing more than a pitiful croak. The skin around his wrists and neck now red and raw. The blood trickled down his arms and his back and his face. Hot and wet and wrong. “But Mother Nature has a trick up her sleeve. She has her reckoning. You call this blessing HuLa . Hmph. Such a human perspective! To name this most wondrous thing after ourselves. Human lyssavirus?” Heledd shook her head. “No. This is Mother Nature’s tool for rebalancing . And we are here—” she gestured to the girls “—to ensure that her tool gets put to use!” They all wore white, with various flowers and leaves stuck in their hair. “To make sure that you don’t evade her wrath, to stop you from spitting in the face of the divine!” She dropped her voice down a register: “I must insist.” All the moisture evaporated from his mouth. The blood drained from his face. Ice rippled through every vein. No words came out, only a dry groan. Nathaniel’s eyes watered and his vision blurred. Under different circumstances, he’d have shamed himself for the tears. In the background, two of the girls unlocked the chains from the door. Behind these, a pair — more robust than the others, arms roped with muscles — held sticks. Hooped lassos dangled from the ends. Two more flanked, spears at the ready. The metal chain clinked to the floor. A flurry of movement. Snarls and growls. Clicks and howls. Grunts and shouts from the girls. One of those with more authority barked orders to the others. Heledd stood aside, to clear a path from the opened door to the pillory. Nathaniel got a good look at this reckoning . And started scream. The girls brought forward a female rager, held in place by the lassos from either side, hoops around her neck. Those who had a grip on her had faces of pure concentration. Jaws clenched. Eyes squinted. Muscles tensed. Tendons strained. The rager wore what must have once been a white gown. Now, brown-red blood splotches stained the material. Flowers protruded from her messed-up hair at wild angles. Had she been one of them before HuLa? Or had they dressed her up post-infection? The thought seemed insane. Her eyes stretched wide, bloodshot. Her gaze fixated upon him — right in her line of sight. She twitched. Pink foam frothed at the corners of her mouth. It dribbled down her chin and wet the collar of her dress. Unintelligible shrieks jumped from her throat in fits and bursts. Her joints cracked as she staggered down the path towards him. Nathaniel screamed and tried to back away. But, of course, he couldn’t. He shredded his skin against the rough-hewn wood. Half-strangled himself against the lock around his neck. The boards creaked and groaned, but they did not give way. Heledd sighed and gazed upon the rager. Her countenance indicated peace and tranquillity. “For too long has womankind been forced to subjugate and serve. All for the petty crime of a bite from an apple. Well, no longer. The second great sin of our species has been committed, this by man. By his greed, by his ego, by his arrogance. The earth bleeds, and we with it. If the second great sin has been committed, then this plague is surely the second great cleansing. Mother Nature must purge the poison from her veins. We are the Daughters of the Earth.” All the other girls repeated this last line as the rager drew ever closer. “We are the Daughters of the Earth.” ### This is part of my project (novella?) for April’s Camp NaNo. The plan is 30 short stories, 30 characters, 30,000 words. Give or take. All set in the same city. All focused on the same event. This is actually #17 in the project. I also submitted part #1 to the monthly #BlogBattle, and parts #3 and #10 to Reedsy. https://joshuainsole.com/short-stories/this-place-is-dead-1-daughter/ https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/88/submissions/61324/ https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/89/submissions/62242/


Sensitive content: Bereavement 10.25am Helen desperately wanted to keep up her strength for the ordeal which was to follow, but she simply could not relax.  For what felt like the hundredth time, she picked up the clock from the sideboard, put it down without registering what time it said, then walked across to the window, pulled aside the curtain and peered out into the street. On the other side of the room, the telephone on the mantelpiece pierced the silence.  She turned, let go of the curtain and began to walk across to answer it, but the ringing stopped before she had even reached the centre of the room.  She sighed, looked unseeingly at the clock again, then resumed her vigil at the window. The door creaked open to admit Jamie, carrying an acoustic guitar, and Luke, who had a battered copy of

The Oxford Book of English Verse  tucked under his arm.  Helen suppressed a gasp at the sight of their incongruous dark suits and black ties.  She couldn’t help noticing that Luke had still not properly brushed his hair, even today, but decided not to remark on it. “Ah, there you are.”  She greeted them with a forced smile. Luke shivered.  “Geez, it’s cold in here.” Jamie slumped on to the sofa. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to this.” “Me neither,” Luke grunted.  He opened the book, then let out a loud snort. “Geez, what kind of random stuff is this?

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert,”

he declaimed, striking up a melodramatic pose.  “That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart…” Jamie looked up, shocked.  “You’re not going to read that out, are you?” “God no.  It just, like, opened at that one.  The one I’m supposed to do is something about death not being proud.”

“Thank goodness for that!”  Helen heaved a sigh of relief as Luke flopped into one of the armchairs and opened the anthology at another page.  His lips moved silently as he perused the text, whilst Jamie picked up the guitar and fiddled with the tuning pegs.  After a few moments his fingers moved to the strings, and the air was filled with the strains of

Stairway to Heaven . The door opened again and Martin entered.  Helen smiled.  Despite the sombre occasion, her husband could still look stunning, even when dressed, like their sons, in dark suit and black tie.

Jamie stopped playing, mid-phrase, and put the guitar down.  “Sorry,” he said.  “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do this.” “And this poem!” Luke chipped in.  “I mean, I know it was, like, one of her favourites, but—” “Don’t worry,” Martin soothed.  “Nobody except us and the priest know about it, so if either of you decide you can’t go through with it, nobody else will be any the wiser.” Jamie shook his head.  “But we’ll feel as if we’ve let her down.  She always said—”

Martin held up his hand for silence.  “Like I said, don’t worry about it.”

“You’ll both be fine,” Helen reassured them, as Martin seated himself in the other armchair. “Who was that on the phone?” Luke asked. “Somebody trying to sell us life insurance,” Martin answered.  “At least, I think that’s what he was selling.  He had an accent so thick I could spread it on my toast.” “They can certainly pick their moments,” Helen sighed, as their sons groaned. An uneasy quietness descended over the room.  Jamie eventually broke the silence. “This feels weird,” he murmured.  “Like – the calm before the storm.” “Mmm….” Helen nodded agreement. Luke pushed the poetry book aside.  “How old were we when Grandpa died?” he asked. “Not very old,” Helen answered.

Martin considered.  “Well, he died in 2001, so you would have been…” he added up on his fingers, “… five and seven.  A bit young to go to his funeral.”

“How old was he when he died?” Jamie asked. “Sixty-eight,” Martin said.  “How well do you remember him?” “Not much,” Luke said.  “I remember he had, like, lots of white hair, and he smoked those little cigars.  And he talked funny.” Martin laughed.  “That was because he came from ‘Zummerzet’.”

The others joined in the laughter at his mock West-Country accent. Luke spoke again.  “When he died, I, like, didn’t really take it in.  Not like it was with Charlie.” Martin’s face became sombre.  “How old was he?” “We were in, um, Year Eleven.  So – fifteen.  Or maybe sixteen.” “Did they ever catch the driver?” Jamie asked. Luke shrugged.  “Dunno.  If they did, I never heard about it.” “Tragic,” Helen murmured, turning back to look out of the window again.  She jumped as Jamie let out a loud sneeze. “Bloody flowers.” Jamie glared at the massive floral arrangement which completely covered the coffee table, then looked anxiously around.  “Where are the tissues?” “Over there.” Martin pointed towards the sideboard.  “You’d better take a few with you.  It’s not the sort of day to go out without a hanky.” “That’s usually my trick,” Helen smiled, as Jamie blew his nose and stuffed a handful of tissues into the pocket of his jacket. “What will it be like?” Luke asked nervously.  “I mean, like, we’ve never been to one before.” “Service in church,” Martin answered, “then to the crematorium.  That’ll be quite short, I should think.  Then back to the pub for the wake.” There was a pause whilst the two younger men took this idea on board.  Helen couldn’t help thinking that they both looked very uneasy.  Then Jamie spoke. “Dad, you believe in all that church stuff, don’t you?  Do you reckon it helps?” Martin considered.  “It always has done up to now,” he said eventually.  “In a way it’s comforting to believe that you’ll see them again one day.  Although, having said that, sometimes things happen that can shake your faith.”

“What?” Helen gasped.  “But you’ve always—“ Luke’s voice cut across hers.  “You mean, like, ‘If God exists then why does he allow this?’”

“What sort of things?” Jamie asked, turning back to Martin. “Well… I remember years ago, when an aunt of mine died quite young, the first thing my grandmother said was ‘Why wasn’t it me?’  And it does make you wonder: Yes, why wasn’t it?  If there is a God, then why did he let the younger woman die, rather than the older one?

“Why indeed…” Helen murmured. “Yeah,” Luke agreed.  “You kind of, like, come to expect it with old people, don’t you?   Not like with—”

“Natural selection, maybe?” Jamie suggested.  “You know, survival of the fittest, and all that?”

Helen raised her eyebrows thoughtfully, but said nothing. “Or Fate?” Luke went on.  “Like, predestination and stuff?” “Maybe,” Martin agreed.  “Grannie always believed in that.  So did Uncle Tom.” Luke smiled.  “I liked Uncle Tom.  He was quality.” “Yeah.”  Jamie’s normal voice was suddenly replaced by a broad Cockney accent.  “I wanted to be the Village Idiot, but I failed the exam.” Luke joined in, also adopting the unmistakeable accents of the East End.  “I speak two languages: English and Rubbish.” “Uncle Tom never talked rubbish!” Helen said, across their laughter. Martin chuckled.  “He was a law unto himself!   For what he said about eternal life, centuries ago he’d have been burnt as a heretic!”

“Why?” Jamie sounded puzzled.  “What did he say?” Before Martin could reply, the sound of the doorbell stunned them into silence.  Martin stood up and went to answer it.  Through the open door into the hall, the others could see and hear the man in the black overcoat standing respectfully on the doorstep. “Mr Blythe?  Are you ready?” “Yes, just a moment.” Martin came back into the living room and picked up the flower arrangement. “Ready?” Jamie and Luke glanced nervously at each other, then nodded, picked up the guitar and the book and followed their father out into the hall.

Helen watched them go, then drew a deep breath before moving to join them. “Here goes…” she whispered to herself.  “Heaven alone knows how this will go…” 10.55 am As the cortège came within sight of the church, Helen gasped in surprise. “Geez, look at that!”  Luke’s words mirrored her own thoughts.  The path from the churchyard gate to the church door was lined with people, standing two- or three-deep in places.  Several of them were already visibly weeping.

The priest was waiting for them as they climbed out of the car.  He gave a kindly smile to Jamie and Luke. “Are you all right for this?” he asked, nodding towards the guitar and the book. Jamie squared his shoulders and nodded.  Luke followed suit, but with rather less confidence, Helen noticed. “Very well then.  Let’s go…” The pall-bearers picked up the coffin, balanced it on their shoulders and carried it into the church.  The mourners followed.  The contemplative strains of Mozart’s

Ave Verum Corpus  filled the building, and Helen detected a faint smell of incense as the priest began to recite the familiar words of the funeral service: “I am the Resurrection and the Life, said the Lord…” Helen stole a quick glance at Jamie and Luke.  Their faces were both fixed, as if hypnotised, on the coffin. They shouldn’t be having to do this , she thought.

Not at their age. 2.45 pm Helen was the first back into the house.  She wandered aimlessly back into the living room and stared out of the window as the funeral car drove off. She turned as the door opened and Jamie and Luke came in, gratefully pulling off their black ties.  They both looked tired and drained.  She took a step towards them and smiled. “Well done.  I was proud of you both.”

Jamie sighed, sat down on the sofa and put the guitar down.  “I’m glad that’s over.” Helen nodded.  “Me too…” She stopped speaking as Martin came into the room.  He looked exhausted, but was clearly trying to keep going.

Luke shivered.  “It’s still cold in here.” “The kettle’s on for some tea. That should warm us up.”  Martin sighed as he sat down in one of the armchairs.  “Well done, both of you.  You did really well.”

Helen smiled in agreement.  “Yes, you did.” Jamie managed a wan smile.  “Thanks.  I don’t know about tea, though.  Right now I could do with something a bit stronger.”

He heaved himself up from the sofa, crossed to the sideboard, opened one of the cupboards and peered inside.  Eventually he pulled out a strangely-shaped bottle, about three-quarters full of dark red liquid.  He held it up and squinted at the handwritten label.

“What’s this?  ‘ Blythe Spirit ’?” Luke looked up.  “Hey, that was in that poem!”  He grabbed the book and flicked through the pages, whilst Martin joined Jamie and studied the bottle label.

“Let’s see – oh, it’s home-made sloe gin.  Blythe spelled with a y.  I think that’s Mum’s idea of a joke.”

“ Oh, very droll,” Luke groaned, as Helen suppressed a giggle. “Shelley, isn’t it?   The poem?”  Martin asked. “Yeah.

To a Skylark , it says here.” Jamie wrinked his brow.  “Isn’t there a play as well?  I vaguely remember it from school.” Martin nodded.  “Yes.  Noël Coward.  I saw the film years ago.  It’s about a ghost who can’t let go.  It was supposed to be funny, but to be honest I found it a bit weird.”

Helen opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Luke shiver again.  Meanwhile, Jamie had unscrewed the top from the bottle and taken a cautious sniff at the contents. “Oh well, I’ll try anything once.”  He started to pour the liquid into a small glass.  “Anyone else?” “ Yes please,” Martin answered. Luke hesitated for a moment, but agreed, albeit nervously.  “Er – yeah, go on.” “No thanks.”  Helen shook her head. Jamie poured out two more glasses and handed them to Martin and Luke.  As Helen passed round the back of Luke’s chair, she noticed that he shuddered as he took his first sip.

It’s probably a bit too strong for him , she thought . It’s pretty powerful stuff.  Very good for colds, though.  Kills ninety-nine per cent of all germs, and leaves the other one per cent too rat-arsed to bother. But the movement was not lost on Jamie either, who put down his own glass and turned to his younger brother.

“You OK, mate?” he asked, as Helen walked back to the window.  Luke relaxed. “ Yeah,” he shrugged.  “It’s – like – weird.”  He stared into his glass, then took another cautious sip. “Yes,” Martin agreed.  “It’s an acquired taste.” Luke opened his mouth to reply, but then appeared to decide against it.  The three of them sipped their drinks in silence.

“This is, like, the calm after the storm…” Luke said eventually. “Mmm….” Helen murmured. “What did it say on the death certificate?” Jamie asked. “ Some fancy medical term, I think.  Hang on, I’ll have a look.”  Martin stood up, crossed to the sideboard and took out a piece of paper from the top drawer. “Yes, what did it say?”  Helen asked.  “I never saw it.”  She walked round behind Martin and peered over his shoulder as he read aloud: “ Cause of death: acute myocardial infarction . Heart attack to you and me.” “At least it was quick,” Helen remarked.

Martin shivered as he folded up the death certificate and replaced it in the drawer. “You’re right, Luke,” he said.  “It is cold in here.”

Jamie stood up and switched on the electric fire.  “What happens now?” he asked, as he sat down again. “We need to pick up the ashes from the undertaker,” Martin answered.  “I think they’ll be ready tomorrow, or the day after.” Luke shuddered.  “That’s, like, really creepy.  What’s going to happen to them?” “She always said she wanted them scattered over the sea,” Martin said, sitting down in the armchair. “So I thought we might take a trip down to the coast on Saturday.  We could have a pub lunch afterwards if you like.” “Mmm…”  Luke sounded less than enthusiastic.

That’s not like him , Helen thought.

He loves his pub lunches. “ Talking of ashes,” Jamie took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, “I’m popping outside.” “ Could I bum one off you, mate?”  Luke asked.

“What?” Martin looked up in surprise. Helen frowned.  “I didn’t know you—”

Luke looked sheepish.  “I don’t usually, like, but right now…” “Sure.”  Jamie offered him the packet as they headed for the door. “I’ll go and make the tea.”  Martin stood up and followed them out.  Helen stared after him, then moved away from the window and sat down in the armchair which Martin had just vacated.  It still felt comfortingly warm. For the first time since the morning she felt able to think straight, and tried to clarify everything that was crashing through her jumbled brain.

Peter Pan said that to die would be an awfully big adventure , she thought.

But so far, it’s been more like an awfully big anticlimax. She counted on her fingers.

Heart attack.  Well, at least it was quick and tidy.  I think I was probably dead before I even hit the ground. And I’ve been spared the indignity of old age, or being a burden to anyone. That was what I’d been dreading most of all.

Postmortem.  Ugh, that wasn’t nice.

She shuddered at the memory. Big bash in Church.  Dear Martin – I might have known he’d give me a good send-off.  And I was surprised at how many people turned up.  Some of them I haven’t seen for years.  They seemed genuinely upset.  But then, if they thought that much of me, why didn’t they come to see me whilst I was still alive? Cremation…  That wasn’t particularly nice either, but then, I wasn’t really expecting it to be…

Bunfight at the pub.  Then – what?  I often wondered where I’d end up, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it would be back here.

Is this it?  Mrs Blythe, welcome to the afterlife. They drummed all that Heaven and Hell stuff into us at Sunday School.  For a while I even believed them, but I’d started to have doubts even before all that business with that loony fundamentalist, telling us we’d all go to Hell if we didn’t give the Church at least a tenth of our income.  But if this is what really happens, then at least I’ve managed to prove him wrong! I suppose it started when Miss Muir was teaching us about Hitler. What was it she said? ‘Perhaps that’s what Hell really is – having to listen to what people say about you afterwards.  And the more wicked you were, the worse it will be.’

And then…  Uncle Tom.

She began speaking aloud, her voice slipping effortlessly into the tones of her uncle’s Cockney accent.

“Eternal life ain’t about your soul goin’ on for ever, sittin’ on a cloud and twangin’ an ‘arp. It’s them what’s left behind ‘oo keeps your memory alive after you’ve gone.  And ‘ow much you’ll be remembered depends on ‘ow much you did, and ‘ow much you were loved, when you were alive.  What d’you reckon, ‘elen my girl?

“So is that why I’m back here?  To live on, as a memory?  For as long as they … rememb…”

The rest of the sentence was lost in a racking sob.  She struggled up from the sofa, crossed to the sideboard and picked up the box of tissues.

I’d no idea that in the afterlife I’d still be able to cry… As she wiped her streaming eyes, the door creaked open, admitting Jamie followed by Luke.  Luke in turn held it open for Martin, who was carrying a tray bearing a teapot, a milkjug, a sugar basin and three mugs.

All three froze in their tracks as they looked across the room.  The tray left Martin’s hands and crashed to the floor… THE END…?


  I hate the library. Do you want to know why ? It's because it is full of things I hate ; the books,the stern librarian, how the building is built,the dirge atmosphere.   In my opinion the library is similar to the place where my best uncle lives;the cemetery,in the ground. The quietness, formality and respect we give to inanimate things in these two places makes me to ponder.   I promised myself to never again visit these two places but love couldn't allow my promise to last a month. My crush that I was stalking for months finally offered to talk to me,of all the romantic places in the city she chose to talk to me in the one place people were not allowed to talk - the library.   The day for the hang out came. I was indifferent in what I will wear. A hoodie,blue jeans and sneakers,no. A tight T-shirt,track trousers and canvas. A white shirt,black tie and black suit,no. After spending the morning contemplating on what I will wear, I finally decided it.   I stood proudly in front of the massive Monumental City Library Building, smiling to myself knowing that when I enter through those doors I will accomplish my 7 months ambition.   All I could perceive when I entered the library was scent of decades old books. I started walking down the aisles, using my eyes to look for Sara;my beautiful crush. I couldn't help but noticed everyone eyes from the back table to the front table was position on me. I could hear them pointing at me and whispering to each other.

I didn't see what was wrong with me to get this attention. I combed my hair well,wore my best shoe,a white shirt,red tie and black suit.   The librarian was an aged woman with wrinkles splashed on her face. She wore an eyeglass that always rested on her nose.   As I got to her desk to take my library pass,she said "You wore a complete suit to come and read. That's unusual". I answered" Yes and I also came to meet my girlfriend. She is sitting down there(I pointed the area I sighted her)her name is Sara". The librarian nodded then asked for my name which I told her is" John Gibson". She handed me the pass and I started going to the free seat close to Sara.   As I approached her I said "Sara darling,you look gorgeous" but the quietness of the hall echoed the words for everyone to hear.   I got random shhh from several people in the hall and a disapproving look from the librarian. I whispered "am sorry" "am sorry" till I got to the seat directly opposite Sara's .   I sat down,sighed and said "Wow,what an entrance. This library is like a damn 1990's cave". Sara smiled in a reassuring manner that calmed my nerves. She closed the book she was supposedly reading,relaxed on the seat and said " You had two entrance, this and the first" "Yea i got everyone starstrucked including you immediately I stepped into this library. I look like a real gentleman right?"   "Well white shirt,red tie,black suit all sums up to a gentleman. So,yeah you look like one but in this setting a total idiot" she told me. My tempo and happiness went down the drain,just for me to hear her laughing "I got you right. I got you real good" she said in between laughs.   To follow her tempo I began laughing awkwardly. I heard "stop laughing" from a bald man sitting close to me. Well that made me and Sara to stop laughing. She smiled at me and leaned closer.

  In the course of our conversation we laughed in an increasing pitch that got multiple shhh from people around. The bald man got up and shouted "Someone should please get these two mental lovebirds out of this library". This got the attention of every one in the library. Flickering eyes from different races,genders,ages,sizes were all on me,Sara and the bald man.   The librarian stood up and said " Mr Wilson, Mr Wilson please come and drop your library pass and get out of here and you two psycho couple. Yes two of you,come to my desk immediately ".   When we got to her desk,she just pointed a sign post at the far corner of the hall which read NO TALKING IN THE LIBRARY. Sara kept the palm of her hand on the librarian desk and said " Pardon me ma,we didn't talk. We were just laughing ". The librarian just looked at me and Sara as if she was examining if were a good match. She pointed another sign post at the other corner of the hall NO LAUGHING ALSO.   " Okay Mrs librarian,we are informed. Can we go and sit down now" I said in the most inaudible voice I possess. The librarian just stood up and from this close range i noticed she was shorter than she looked while sitting down. There will be pile of library books she keeps under the desk to rest her feet on and ultimately increase her height while sitting down,i assumed in my head. The librarian signaled me and Sara to come closer to her. When we did,she used the ruler in her hands to separate our hands that were holding each other. Before Sara and I could say anything she pointed the third sign post hanged on the wall which read NO ROMANCE,CUDDLING AND PSYCHO COUPLES.   I got fed up and ask Sara out right there and surprisedly She accepted. I leaned down to kiss her,at the split second for our lips to touch I felt an object instead if her lips. I opened my eyes to see the stern librarian had stretched the ruler in between our lips to hinder us from kissing.   With annoyance Sara held my hand and said "John let's leave this library". We started walking down the aisles to the door just to see heavy security men locking the doors.   We heard the librarian voice " Did you two think you will leave this library without finishing the books you were reading".


The closing went smoothly, other than the banker spending 20 minutes convincing my buyer to not default on a $400,000 loan. There was a lot of mumbling at their end of the table, and I felt like I was in a different dimension. All the stress. All the stress. I set the only 2 keys to the store on the conference table. One for the handle and the other, the deadbolt. After 48 years in our family, I felt the crush of letting go of something our family owned for so long and for not knowing what tomorrow would look like. I just knew it couldn’t involve the business.

When I was 3 years old, my parents bought the local Dairy Queen for three thousand dollars, using Grandad’s money, because- who had three thousand dollars back then? This is where my siblings and I grew up. Watching the summers go by through the ‘floor to ceiling’ glass windows of the 1950’s style 2-window walk-up. Keen to the muscle cars roaring by. Dating the boys who drove them. Sneaking cans of our dad’s Old Style out of the walk-in cooler. This is where I heard of Elvis’ death from our transistor radio that sat on the shelf above the clock. This is where we learned loyalty. “If you want to go to college, go put yourself on the schedule ,” our dad told us.

This is where my own children grew up. My daughters, who worked their summers during high school, out-grew the business. The oldest would have nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with helping me. The youngest went to college in Michigan and met and married and stayed. In the end, it was my middle daughter who made me realize that I needed to sell. Alison was my right hand- and there was nothing I couldn’t accomplish with her at my side. We sold thousands of cakes each summer. She custom-decorated and air-brushed colors to perfection. We had midnight-madness sales on the 4 th of July. We grilled hot dogs for charity on parade day. She helped make out the schedules. She ran the store on days I had to attend events when I served as Village Trustee. She was head of the DQ Crew, and everyone loved her. Once, she gathered up the employees to tell them they were starting a Union. Dairy Queen Local #1, of course. I wanted to be in it, but she explained to me that’s now how it worked. The crew built a playlist of ‘favorite songs of that summer’ that we Spotify to each other to this day. From Wham to Enrique to Milli Vanilli to BSB and Disco Inferno. ‘80s at 8 was non-negotiable. It’s what we listened to. But, in real life, Alison was an inner-city high school teacher living 45 minutes away. She was on the negotiating team for CTU Local #1 when they were headed for a strike. Meetings would last well into the night. She coached girls’ softball and then also played softball with her friends in a summer league. She was taking classes to become a board-certified instructor, and a principal. She had a big life. She lived like there was no tomorrow, and I knew that she would never abandon me, so I needed to abandon it. Because I also knew, I could never run the store without her-nor did I want to. The DQ Crew I loved came back every summer throughout high school and college, but then the day came when they got a ‘real job’ and didn’t return. The weight grew heavier. I came alone to the closing. I suppose my brother could have come- but he had been a teacher for so long he wasn’t part of it anymore. He came last night to say goodbye to the old building. We signed our family names in sharpie marker on the concrete under a loose wall tile and then screwed it down. It was his idea. I thought it was genius. My father once told me, “Nancy, don’t ever sell that store.” But, Dad, you wouldn’t recognize the city anymore. His words so heavy. Dad taught high school Industrial Arts for 30 years. Coached varsity basketball for half of those and was the only coach to win the SICA Championship in 1963. For all of the years I stood behind that sliding window, students from years past asked about the Coach, and I would give them an update: he was out running around for me or up in Canada fishing. He was fine. When he passed, the whole town knew. And the whole town came to the funeral. I went back to the high school to get his championship basketball and all the photos of his teams over the years. Everyone at the funeral found them a joy to look at. My attorney handed me an envelope, I stood and forced a smile. I swallowed very hard and paused. I wished him well. The best of luck.

But, he was already successful. He had several stores in another town and a baby on the way. I left the closing and drove for the last time to the ice cream stand I loved for so long and would love forever and pulled into the lot before the new owner came. “She’s a pretty girl,” I whispered to myself and kissed the concrete wall that had carried me – literally carried me through the hardest times in my life because, to me, the place was joy. It was a safe place. The world that I built inside these walls was safe. The employees came back year after year, and we bowled together, had movie nights, Taco Bell food runs, and water-gun fights. We cried in the walk-in cooler and held therapy in the bathroom. We shared cigarettes. We landed a spot on a morning talk show because the host lived nearby and loved our ice cream. And every so often, TP’d peoples’ houses and left an abandoned couch on their lawn. We were a: Dilly-dipping Banana splitting Sundae-topping Blizzard-blending Cone-krunching Smile-serving DQ Crew


WARNING: +18, MATURE CONTENT: MENTION OF DRUGS AND DRUG ABUSE, TALKS ABOUT MENTAL HEALTH, CONTAINS A LOT OF SWEAR WORDS, AND IMPLICATIONS OF CERTAIN MATURE ACTIVITIES.

 J.T. has been gone for one week with no contact, or warning. Kam and Paul are breaking into his apartment by jacking it open with a crowbar. Emily and Fran stood guard at different ends of the hallway. It was midday Sunday. It was eerily quiet as the hallways were lit by little lights on the ceilings of the hallways.

When they broke into the apartment and swung the door wide open, J.T.’s homemade alarm went off. The white, chipped wooden door hit the multicolored ceramic windchimes that were hanging above the door, and a purple rubber goose screamed at the base of the door. Paul immediately grabbed the windchimes to make them stop making music, as he kicked the goose into the bathroom. “This has to be the saddest alarm system I have ever seen a man make.” Paul said. “Well, would you rather have J.T. be the screaming goose?” Kam said. “They both sound the same.”

They were met with darkness and silence. Paul turned on the light and the apartment became dimly lit. The only bright light being brought in was the one window with a view of a red brick wall from across the street.

The apartment was a small room. J.T.’s naked bed, as in no sheets and one pillow stained with coffee, was in the living room. There was no tv, so it really was his “living” room. The kitchen was against the left side of the wall with just a sink, mini fridge, an oven, and a microwave. The only “other room” was a bathroom that could only fit one person at a time. The entire apartment was only decorated with a round oak wood table, with a blue and green painted wood chair, but no pictures because J.T. believed it disturbed his creativity. The smell of the apartment smelled like an old cigarette with a hint of dusty old books. It was weird because J.T. didn’t keep books in the apartment.

Kam, Emily, Fran, and Paul stood around the chipped oak wood table and looked at the loose-leaf paper J.T. had written on. The piece of paper was taped on a Star Wars R2D2 Tamagotchi toy. Kam began to read aloud:

“I just wanted to touch a bit on the topic of solitude.

I've noticed that by ex-communicating yourself from the outside world and becoming a bit of an agoraphobe can lead to understanding yourself better, while distancing yourself from outside influence. Both positive and negative. Allowing room for personal untainted growth but at a cost; People think I'm fucking crazy.

Since I tend to dwell within the confines of my own Kafkaesque mentality, I've become a social pariah. Anytime I stand in line at the gas station I feel like I'm thinking so loud that anyone within my vicinity can hear me and have free roam of my emotions or thoughts, which makes me feel uneasy since they are so abstract, I would be prone to judgment and shunned due to a lack of understanding. I can safely assume that not very many people are as willing as I am to subject their thoughts to intentional distress like you want to elaborate. You see...I'm only trying to find the answers, some form of enlightenment.

The things I desire most are not tangible, and I always feel out of place in the material realm. Is it my prerogative to smile and nod at the other vessels, when I am not there with them, to begin with? This is why I tend to avoid direct eye contact with children since the eyes are the windows of the soul, and God forbid I subject any child to the bizarre and the bottomless quagmire that exists within my mind. For these occasions, I've fashioned a quirky character for them to tease and laugh at and pray that they don't see through the gaps in the smiles l've fashioned for them. They are quite intuitive when they are young, and I fear they can see the waking nightmare a human being can become.

The more I linger the further away from reality I get, but the further away I get the more powerful I become. There is not a soul in the world that could hurt me anymore. Much like a martial arts battle where the victor is decided before the match even starts. It's called combat clairvoyance, but the fight is not with fists. I'm untouchable; Albeit at the expense of my loneliness. Hell, any sort of reaching out I do is merely an attempt to anchor myself.

I like to think of this as a phase of my evolution, in order to become strong enough to make others around me feel safe and secure. I hope that one day soon, I will become the silent immovable rock that attracts the masses, for answers, for the correct questions, for peace of mind; the deep thought.

To anyone left in my life, please have patience with me during my transition.”

The room went silent. Nothing else could be heard besides the sounds of their breathing, and the sounds of cars driving by on the busy outside road.

Fran broke the silence, “You don’t think he kill-”

“No.” The others said unanimously. They are still staring at the note. With blank faces. All their arms are crossed over their chests. Five minutes have passed, and no one has said anything.

“Well,” Paul spoke again as slapped his thighs, “There’s no point in not calling the cops, and calling it a missing persons case.”

“No. We can’t get the cops involved.” Fran said. “And why not?”

“Because what are they going to do when they find him? He already has a warrant for missing his parole meeting, and he already has a few drug offenses. What do you think they will do to him? They won’t give him back to us.” Fran said in an anxious tone.

Paul rolled his eyes and mockingly said, “‘Give him back to us?’ He’s not a fucking dog.” “So, what if the cops come here and see the broken door? They’ll get us too.” “You can replace doors.” You can’t replace J.T.” “What the hell are you talking about? I-.”

“Can you two just shut the fuck up,” Kam said interrupting their bickering. “You guys are not doing anything but annoying the hell out of me. Why don’t we just look around the apartment, make some calls, try going his favorite places, and see-.”

“Does he look like Scooby fucking Doo to you? We’re not the mystery gang here. He’s not our lost puppy.” Paul interrupted Kam. Kam huffed out a breath while shaking their head, and Fran looked out the window with an annoyed look.

“I don’t think it would hurt if we looked around the apartment? There is not much to go through. I am sure we can find something.” Emily said as she walked towards the kitchen and opened the drawers. Paul sat down on the chair and grabbed the paper and reread the note. Kam walked into the bathroom, and Fran stood still, just looking at the entire room.

Emily opened the utensil drawer. Only a few forks, and two knives. She observed a few spoons that were melted downwards and had the oxidation color still on them. She sighed, put the spoons back down and closed the drawer. The next drawer had mixed colored napkins that were from restaurants, mixed with sauce packets from Taco Bell, or McDonalds. The third and last drawer had a black plastic plate with a “I LOVE DILFS” written on it, with rolled up joints of weed, and a few Swisher Sweets on it. There was a black lighter, and a torch lighter next to the plate. Emily bent down and opened the cabinets underneath the sink. There was nothing but a half-emptied bottle of Dawn dish soap. She sighed and closed the cabinets. She sat on the ground as she stared at the cabinet, seemingly staring at space.

Kam, on the other hand, was going through countless bottles of used and unused Advil, Tylenol, Xanax, Ecstasy, Prozac, Valium, and OxyContin in his medicine cabinet that was behind the mirror. In the bathtub, there were wet cigarette butts around the rim of the bathtub, empty green and brown beer bottles, and plastic 5ths of cheap liquor.  The toilet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the day he moved in, over two years ago. The floor tile was either cracked, or some of the pieces were missing. “This looks about right.” Kam spoke to themself as they closed the cabinet.

“Well, nothing new in there.” Kam announced as they walked out of the bathroom and towards the table.” “Yeah, I didn’t see much here either.” Emily said as he joined them.

“What else could you suspect from him? He thinks there is a group of people waiting to just ambush him and take him to the FBI.” Paul said shrugging his shoulders.

“Maybe he needs help,” Fran said.

 “No shit, Fran.” “You don’t need to be mean, Paul. We are all going through it with him missing.” “I’m not worried. It’s his own fault.”

“Paul, I don’t think it’s fair to say th-” Kam began to speak until Paul interrupted, “Kam, it’s his own fault. We have all been in the same situation as him, and we have helped ourselves to be better. I’m tired of him dragging us down for his own benefit.” Paul started to become aggravated.

“He has serious mental health problems; we should be there for him the best we can.” Emily calmly said.

“And do what? Where is he? He’s always calling us selfish. Saying we are never there for him. Even though I bailed him out of jail two fucking times. Always blaming us for his own problems. When we are the only ones who answer his drunken state of mind and cry about how this isn’t a fair life, and how he deserves better. He amounts to nothing in his own life. I’m tired of it. He does nothing for us except mope around and bitch about how his life is a mess. When was he there for our existential crisis!? Getting high? Getting drunk? Suddenly his problems are our problems? Now, look at what he is doing to us. Thinking this is some fucking scavenger hunt. Fuck him!” Paul abruptly stood up as he slammed his hands on the table and stormed out of the apartment.

“PAUL!” Kam yelled and walked towards the door.

“Let him be. He needs time for himself. This is hard for everyone.” Emily said.

“He needs time for himself? He’s the selfish idiot here. Our friend is out there having some sort of mental crisis, and Paul is calling him selfish. What an idiot.” Kam angrily said.

The room went back to silence.

--

Paul went through the Burger King drive-through for nine-piece chicken fries, a double whopper, two large fries, and a large coke. As he pulled out, he drove down the road to a storage unit where he kept most of his junk that was from his mother or father.

When he pulled next to his unit, which was a brick red color he parked his car and got out while holding the food. He went to unlock the unit, and when he pulled the door up, he noticed it was dark inside. He sighed, put the food next to a ripped-up emerald, green chaise, and walked toward the metal string that turned on the light.

“Paul?”

Paul looked at his helpless friend as he lay on the cold concrete ground. His teal hair disheveled, his black oversize My Chemical Romance tank top stained with what seemed like vomit, and his black cargo pants ripped to holes. The bags under his eyes matched his strained eyes.

“Yes, J.T.”

“I feel awful. It’s like my body can’t decide what it wants to feel, so it freaks out on me every time I try to have a peace of mind.”

“That’s what withdrawals do to you. Been there, done that.”

“Thank you for helping me, Paul. You’re a great friend.”

Paul took a deep breath and forced a smug smile, and said, “When this is done, never speak to me again. I never want to see you.”

“Paul, what are you talking about?” J.T. stuttered, looking at his friend with big doe eyes.

“I’m done with you. I’m throwing 11 years of friendship. It’s all because of your selfishness. I can’t stand to look at you.”

“What do you mea-.”

“I don’t want to hear anything from you. I have been too patient and caring towards you, and you have done nothing for me, or any of us, except be an awful excuse for a person.

When your withdrawals are done, you’re going to go back home, to a clean house, because I will tell your loyal friends to clean out your drug-ridden house. You’re going to get a steady job and figure out how to live life like the rest of us. I have given you too many passes and you have fucked up on every one of them due to your carelessness and ignorance. You’re 35 years old. Stop living a sad and stupid life. Never contact me once you leave this unit. Fuck you, you psychotic bitch.”

J.T. was in shock as he looked at Paul leave the unit and slamming the garage door shut. Hearing the garage lock, J.T. curled into fetal position and bawled like a child. Being consumed by his own thoughts. Wondering how everything went wrong.


Formaldehyde. It was no lie to say that it stank—even someone lacking their sense of smell could detect it. The pain, searing the back of one’s eyelids and scorching their throat, stinging their nostrils even as they flared wider. The other sensations—the dizzying weakness, the oppressive weight, the foreboding. It was the smell of death, and well Avery Winston knew it. Fifteen years as a forensic nurse, a long childhood as the daughter of a mortician—or, as her father was more commonly known, “Dr. Dead”—and countless visits to the funeral home had instilled a chief detective’s awareness in her. The stench leaked in through her mask, tugged at the elastic straps and jerked at the edges, as though the chemical had fingers and intended to use them. It burned a thick layer over her visible skin—her collarbone and cheeks, the line of her brow, the lobes of her ears, her pale forearms—whatever the mask, her scrubs, and her gloves didn’t cover. She could still feel the scars it had left twenty years ago, when one open door had led her into a lifetime of pain. Daddy had never been a softie, despite his upturned lips and sagging waistline. His career had hardened him, left him hollow and devoid of the life he rarely ever saw as he spent day after day embalming the dead of McDonough. But seeing him hunched over the table that day, normally steady hands trembling like a drunkard’s, countenance crumpling until his usually smiling mouth quivered, eyes fixed upon the body he’d just been delivered. He hadn’t been prepared. Neither had she. Avery was supposed to have gone straight to her apartment in downtown Atlanta that day, to celebrate her success with her roommate and boyfriend. She was supposed to have gotten drunk, passed out, forgotten all about the test she’d passed, and not gotten the news until the next afternoon. Instead, something had taken the wheel of her Hyundai and driven her down to McDonough, forty minutes away from the comfort of her home. She could have called them, relayed the good news over the phone sometime that weekend. She should have called them. Instead, she had driven to the morgue, where she knew her dad would be. She had stepped up to the front desk, easily caught Stacey’s attention, and been solemnly directed to the back room. The smell had never been so strong. It had always lingered on Daddy’s clothes, of course, and hung heavy in the funeral homes and the morgue. But walking into that room...it had more than lingered; it had clung with a vengeance, wrapping onto her every limb, seizing her fingers and her eyelids, her lungs and her heart, rendering her emotionless. She hadn’t heard the indistinct call of her name from behind, in the high-pitched voice of her father’s assistant, hadn’t heard the warning...not until it was too late. Her own hands shook, palms grew clammy, phone slipped and fell with a clatter to the linoleum floor, as she edged over the threshold. A warning siren sounded in the back of her mind, reminding her that she didn’t need to be back here, that the sights and smells of death would only make her sick. That there could only be one reason for her father to show such signs of grief. It wasn’t just anyone on the surgical table. It wasn’t just another nameless face, another careless addict, another texting driver, another heart attack victim. How could it be? How could it be anyone else, when no one had curls so thick and luscious, eyes so wide and luminous, skin so fair and flawless, as her mother? It wasn’t possible, her mind screamed, along with a thousand curses and rebuttals, a million cries, each one shriller and sharper than the last. And yet...wasn’t that what everyone else said? No! Why? It can’t be! But it was. It was over. Her mother lay there dead, her father bent over her lifeless form in silent weeping. Bile rose to coat her throat as formaldehyde and tears pierced her eyes. Shudders shook her shoulders, sobs wracked her frame. Avery could see it as clearly as if she had been standing there, watching herself that day. She had slowly moved to Daddy’s side, dropped to her knees before Mama’s dangling feet. She had cupped his hand, gripping his pen until his knuckles whitened, and stretched it out flat. A whimper had left his ashen lips then, breaking the stiff silence and triggering a tidal wave of emotion. They’d cried there together. Two years later, her career as a forensic nurse had begun. Daddy had been there, the week of her graduation, the year she’d spent interning, the day she finally got the job. He’d said Mama would be proud. He’d said he was too. They never found out how or why Mama had died, how she’d ended up there , then . That was why she’d kept on going, even though the opportunity to live out her girlhood dream as an interior designer had presented itself several times. It wasn’t about duty or expectations anymore, not when people like Mama died everyday and no one knew why . Daddy had been there every step of the way, like Mama would have been. Daddy was her lifeline now. The fingers pinched her skin, picked at the scars until they became scabs again. Then they opened and began gushing blood like fresh wounds. The formaldehyde burned, blazing a path to the pit of Avery’s stomach as she strode into the room with purpose, determined not to show any sign of weakness—not when she was on call. Not when another person was dead. In the distance, Dr. Rayne called her name, the smooth cadence of his voice not quite enough to drag her away from her job, nor wrench out away from the fringes of her memories—her nightmares. His footsteps, growing quicker and lighter by the second, made their way into earshot as Avery realized he was coming closer, coming to her. But why? The patient was already dead and, if she’d been informed, then he certainly knew. “Avery!” His voice was in her ear now, his gloved hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off, gave him a cursory glance and a reassuring nod before she waved him away and, with little bravado, threw back the curtain. The stench assailed her, each breath a pinprick in her nose and lungs—and then the sight met her eyes. His hands, normally steady but always moving, were completely still. The quirk of his mouth—gone, leaving in its wake an even frown. His eyes, concentrated and clear at all times, were glassy and hollow, floating in an abyss. Daddy? Dr. Rayne’s arm encased her shoulders and tucked her into his side, preventing her from turning and running, while he whispered the customary condolences and rattled off “this procedure that” and “twenty mLs of such-and-such.” It’d never worked. She’d watched it—for Pete’s sake, she’d used it—on grieving family and friends for years, and she knew it did no good. For the doctors and nurses, maybe. But to the one hearing it? Never. She hadn’t been prepared for this, regardless of the smell of death. One could never be prepared.