TW for mild language, and mentions of drugs, death, and injury. ***** "Picture it. It's the year two thousand. A new century has begun. The crime rate is peaking. And the majority of McDonald's ice cream machines are out of order- making the hardships of the world progress faster than inflation prices. But amongst the chaos, one man decides to lend his help to this deteriorating society.” Richard's voice added a ray of emotion to the once quiet detective office. He was thirty, pale, blond, and could look like a chad if it wasn’t for the brown fedora and trench coat. “Mr. Jenkins.” The tired woman spoke, rubbing her eyebags. “You're here for a job interview, not tell your version of this moment through the point of view of an omniscient narrator. Whether you’ll solve any cases is up to your skillset.” Olivia was her name, and getting aggravated at sub-par law enforcement was her game. She was twenty-eight, with tan skin, neck-length hair which frayed at the ends, and lavender eyes resembling only the rarest of gems- exactly what every main character needed to differentiate them from the rest of the cast. “But it’s a great conversation starter!” “So is "hello," yet I didn't get one." She furrowed her brows, playing with a golden brooch on her uniform. She had been interviewing dozens of clients that day who had the sudden urge to become a detective. Though she found most of them didn't pass primary school. “Gah, you’re such a mood killer." Richard threw his head back with a groan. "Gimmie a chance will ya!” He slapped his resume on the desk, grinning now. She looked over it, immediately tossing it aside. “What?" He looked disappointed. “The resume is empty except for “experience” which you put, ‘I watched Mission Impossible,’ and a drawing of a smiley face.” “You'd think that would count for something right?” Her frown only grew deeper. “Aw come on, you're too pretty to frown.” “Your compliments don't amuse me.” “They're not made to. They're supposed to- well- compliment." "Look, Mr. Jenkins, I appreciate your offer, but we're looking for serious candidates.” “I

am  serious!” He grew frustrated. “Plus you guys are low on staff. I’m your only chance.” His smile turned devilish. “I think we’ll live. We’re currently dealing with the 'Tune-Up' case, which isn’t for the inexperienced.” “Tuna case?” “No, Tune-Up. It’s the name of the drug our suspect Oswald is selling.” “His name is Oswald... Oswald? ” Richard laughed. She ignored this. “It's extremity dangerous and highly illegal.” “Like Kinder Eggs.” “Whatever works for you.” She placed two photos on the desk. One was a picture of the suspect who looked like a classic Disney Villain, and the other was of the pink pill he was selling. "It improves your brain activity and speeds up your thought process- allowing the consumer to think of more solutions out of a problem in milliseconds, hence the name 'Tune-Up'. A true lifesaver at family reunions." "If that's the case, this might help you guys.” He pulled out a small object from his coat pocket. “What the hell is that?" She snapped, her full attention now on him. "I thought it was a Pez someone dropped. I was gonna eat it until you showed me what the drug looked like." She flew over the desk and grabbed it, knocking everything down in the process. “Oh my god... this is the pill! We’ve been trying to get a sample of this for ages...where did you get it?!” She squawked in desperation, getting close to his face which made him giggle. “Your eyes are way

too  lovely for someone who looks like an overworked Dora the Explorer-” “WHERE DID YOU GET IT?!” “Alright alright chill. I found it on my way here when I stopped at a restaurant that my buddy Jim works at. It was on the ground.” “Which restaurant?” “Restaurant chic.” He faked an over-the-top French accent. She pondered over this realization with careful intent when the door to her office burst open. “Ms. Lionheart!” It was her overly passionate boss Bob. Bob the boss. What a ring it had. “I overheard your guy’s entire conversation on my way to the bathroom that totally isn’t an excuse for eavesdropping, and I need you to hire this man now.” “But sir, I can’t-” “You can and you will.” He pointed at Richard whose face lit up with excited expectation. "You young man.” “Yes sir?" "I don't know who the hell you are, but you're hired." “But sir!" Olivia protested. “He has no experience!” “Who needs experience when you’ve watched Mission Impossible! That’s how your old man got in.” He gloated. She sunk into her seat. “I got my Ph.D. for this.” “Besides, he found the pill didn’t he?" Bob added. “Yes but-" “No buts. I won't hear another word. We need someone on the case immediately." Bob turned to Richard. "Now Mr. Jenkins. I want you and Olivia to go down to the place you found the pill and investigate from there. I will phone you if we get any leads." “Yes sir.” Richard and Olivia said in unison. Though Richard sounded ecstatic- Olivia drawled her words. “You’re such a drag. I bet I can make us get along by the end of the day. Not like we have a choice anyway.” He teased in a mocking tone, making her question if he was being serious. She gave an angry laugh. "Oh, you're on dollar store Sherlock." ***** Richard sat them down at Restaurant Chic, which she found most literally translated to, 'Fancy Restaurant.' "God, the owner was lazy," she muttered. "Hey there Jim. Me and the young lady will have your house special. Make it quick, we're on a mission." Richard said to his waiter buddy. “Mission?” Jim repeated. “You mean to tell me that you

actually

got that job?" "Yep," Richard said with pride before sipping his water and choking on it. Olivia sighed. “We're here to find the man behind the 'Tune-Up' case.” “You mean that drug guy?” “Indeed. And Richard found one of his pills on the ground here. So either the dealer himself or someone who bought it was here.” "I did see someone taking a pill earlier. He had an old blue coat on for reference- the only guy I’ve seen wear one in the dead of summer. Aside from you.” He gestured to Richard who smiled. "What color were the pills?" Olivia asked in all seriousness. “I'm not sure, but I think they were purple possibly?" “That’s it.” She stood from the chair, aggression in her movements. “Where did he go?” “I saw him stop at the ice cream parlor down the street-” They both ran off. “What about your food!" Jim called as two bowls of soup were brought out from the kitchen. Richard ran back. He took a large gulp of the soup and said, "Thanks a million." He winked, tossing some money at Jim. “That’s not enough to pay for-” But it was too late, for they were long gone. They made it to the ice cream shop where they both cut in line. "Hey!" An angry lady scolded. Olivia showed her badge wordlessly which made the lady back down. “Oi.” She turned to the man running the parlor. “We got word that a man with a blue coat came here to buy ice cream from you?" “Er- yeah, there was a guy with a blue coat here. Strange man he was. Are you two cops or something?"

"Detectives to be more specific.” “Can you tell us where the guy went?" Richard said with haste as he leaned over the counter. “He headed down to that building. Into the movie theater, I think." The man pointed to a strip mall where the movie theater was. “Thank you. Now two mint chocolate ice cream cones please!" Demanded Richard. The man gave him the ice cream which Richard paid for by dropping a handful of change and running off. The ice cream man looked dumbfounded at the money. “That's not even enough for one cone-" But it was too late, for they were long gone. Richard handed one to Olivia who threw it away. They made it inside the movie theater and crashed into the counter, knocking down the popcorn machine. “Can I...help you two?" Asked the teenage girl working at the counter. “Yes. Did you happen to see a man with a blue coat walk in here?" Olivia was out of breath. "Yeah, there was.” “Which room did he go into?" “Room 15- hey, are you two cops? Cuz I can't let people in without a ticket." Olivia and Richard showed their badges. “You can go in ma’am, but your badge is a piece of notebook paper with a star drawn in crayon sir.” “What can I say? I like to put in my effort." His face was smug. “Sorry but-” “We're in a hurry, no time to question his clearly fake badge, bye!” This time Olivia was the one to drag him away. Though he ran back to grab a bag of popcorn, throwing money at the girl who said, “That’s not enough to pay for the popcorn!” But it was too late, for they were long gone. “You have a pretty strong grip for such a small lady!" He said after a minute. “Is that a good or a bad thing?” She smiled cheekily at him, entering the theater. “Well, you can you give a mighty good hug-" She grabbed him by his collar. "I'll give you a hug so tight you'll forget you even had lungs.” "I like the confidence!" “Shhh!" The audience said. They realized they were standing in front of the movie screen. “Sorry." They said together- embarrassed. She searched the room as Richard finished his bag of popcorn and stole another one from a random guy. “That was mine!” “Finders keepers!" Olivia ignored her partner, trying to focus on her pounding heart after spotting the man in the blue coat. She whispered to Richard, “I see him. Act casual and follow my lead.” He followed her into the seats next to Oswald. Olivia composed herself. “You know, I heard amazing reviews about this movie," Richard said through a mouthful of popcorn and pointing at the screen. Olivia slapped his arm before coughing purposefully which got Oswald's attention. She noticed a jar of the pills in his pocket and knew she had her man. “Hey sir, do you mind passing me that napkin over there?" She subtly showed her holstered gun before whispering, “Don’t make this difficult.” Oswald laughed quietly, revealing his own holstered gun. “I thought that model hasn’t been released yet?” Richard whispered in awe. “I got it on pre-order actually,” Oswald said causally before whipping it out and shooting it next to Olivia’s ear. It instead hit a bag of popcorn at the end of the aisle. "That was the only bag of popcorn I had left!” The same man from before shouted as the rest of the crowd screamed. “You okay?” Richard checked her in a panic.

“Yeah, it missed. Now quick, follow that man!” They both followed him with guns out. (Richard’s having crayon doodles on it) Oswald knocked down an array of items on his way to block their path. Of these many items included the popcorn stand. “I just set that backup!” The girl complained. "Not the time, just don’t let him out of that exit!" Olivia shouted. The few employees ran to the exit and locked it before diving back behind the counter. The exit may not have been an option, but the pill was. Oswald swallowed one of them. "Wonderful." Olivia rolled her eyes, watching Richard aim his gun at random locations in the room- struggling to locate their target. “Dude, he’s literally right in front of you.” However, she didn’t have time to point him in the right direction, for Richard pushed her behind the counter to avoid another bullet. Oswald was now grabbing random items around the room with intense speed. They didn't know what he was doing until his make-shift craft formed a slingshot. “That pill got his brain pumping,” Olivia's voice was now raspy. Oswald grabbed a part of the broken popcorn machine and put it in the contraption. The metal flew, breaking the lock system which triggered the alarm. “Aaand there he goes,” She was filled with disappointment. “It’s still worth a shot though.” Richard ran off. “You sure as hell better wait for me you ball of fucking sunshine!” They raced through crowds, crashed over baby carriages, and hopped over benches- the sheer excitement making Olivia feel better than she had before. It was a vast improvement from being stuck in her office like most days. Richard gave her a reassuring smile. She felt oddly safe in his presence, as did he. They got to the end of the bridge where Oswald never looked forward, causing him to trip over it. They ran to the ledge as Oswald grasped Olivia’s brooch as a last attempt to pull himself up. It only ripped the brooch off her uniform. “Wait!” She screamed, more upset about losing her brooch than losing the target. He conveniently landed in a crate full of items on a boat below, and she fought the urge to scream from frustration. "I need back up on Spring Street.” She spoke to Bob on her walkie-talkie, angry tears in her eyes. “The asshole jumped onto a boat.” “We'll be there pronto. Hold your position.” “So uh...That was exhilarating huh?" Richard sat on the bridge, trying to converse. She sat next to him in silence, her tears finally spilling. “What's wrong?” “My grandmother gave me that brooch before she died." "Oh." He sat awkwardly, not knowing how to comfort her. "And on top of that, I have to take responsibility for every case thrown at our agency because people like you are too incompetent to handle their jobs.” Her tone was filled with more hurt than anger. Pestering guilt flooded him like an overfilled glass. “Sorry… I suck I know. I got this job as more of a childhood dream than anything else. I should have left it to you."  It was quiet as her own guilt piled on. “No…you meant well, and I appreciate you trying. The brooch isn't your fault... A lot of this wasn't your fault. To give credit where credit is due, we wouldn’t have gotten this far if you hadn’t found that pill to begin with.” "That was an accident though.” "But you have a keen eye for small things." “Fair.” The two dangled their legs over the bridge as the sun slowly hid below the buildings- leaving nothing but the stars and lights from the city to show them their way home. "Thanks for putting up with me," he said genuinely after a while. She felt a tug at her lips. "And thanks for actually following my lead. can't remember the last time someone actually listened." “Olivia!” Her walkie-talkie blared with Bob’s voice which startled her. "What?!" “We located Oswald. He only got one block out after the ship docked. Go. Fly my pretties!” “On it, also never say that again.” She hung up. They bolted down the bridge. Richard got distracted by something on the ground which made her yell at him to follow. They eventually arrived at the location. Oswald came into sight, turning into a dark ally. “How do you suppose we catch him?” Richard asked. “Simple. Think smart.” “Huh?”  “He may be able to think faster, but the pill doesn’t make him smarter.” She grabbed two pieces of scrap steel from a trashed machine and handed him one. “Block with this.” Oswald turned with the gun pointed at them. “Don’t move or I'll shoot.” “Please do," she said. “You got a weird way of workin' lady.” He fired. They blocked the bullets with the metal and jumped behind the dumpster. “Waste his bullets.” She whispered. Richard nodded Oswald awkwardly jumped on the wall like an X-man from Wish, firing in their direction. They continued to hide and block their bodies until Olivia fell down, dramatically holding her side. "One down, one to go.” Oswald smiled. "Shit." Richard checked her but found she was holding back a laugh. “His gun model can only hold twenty-six bullets, he’s fired twenty-five." “I see." He smiled. "You’re a smart girl.” He dogged the next bullet but fell down anyway while holding his “injured” arm. Oswald soon found the gun empty. “Who cares, I did my part." Just as he ran away, a police car came and ran him over. “We're here with back up, where is he?!” Bob came out along with three officers, guns at the ready. “Probably dead at this rate.” Olivia sat up, rubbing her head.

“Why, what happened?” He noticed Oswald on the ground. “Ohhhh… did I do that?” Olivia and Richard nodded. “Oops…welp, job well done anyway.” He said boastfully as the officers arrested Oswald who was groggily sitting up. “Here." Richard pulled something out of his pocket. “What's that?” "Remember when you said I’m good at noticing small things?" “Yeah, so?” “Weeell-” He revealed her brooch. “This is why I stopped under the bridge.” She gasped. “Oh, Richard… thank you.” He clipped it back to her uniform as her warm smile grew. “Dinner, ice cream, and a movie. I’d say today went pretty well.” He grinned. “Sounds more like a date from hell.” “Well, your hell is my heaven, Ms. Lionheart…brave as one too.” He bent down and kissed her hand which she accepted. “I won the bet," he said after a moment. She fought with her smile. “I’ll give you that much.” "I hate to ruin the moment, but you two are also being charged with theft from three different establishments." Bob cut in. They looked at each other, both exhausted. "Fuck."


"The pain will finally stop." Goose bumps erupt all over my skin as the cold winter breeze coming in through the bathroom window seeps through the thin linen fibers of my worn out jacket. My teeth rattle frantically within my mouth and my heart weighs heavy within my chest. I rub my hands together in a feeble attempt to seek warmth but stop almost immediately and stumble backwards with a choked sob as the sticky blood on my fingers makes its presence known. "Just do it" I never meant to hurt her. She was never meant to be there. Why did she have to walk into the room and interrupt me? None of this was meant to involve her. Why, why, why? All I needed was a few minutes to myself in silence. Lord knows it is not a lot to ask for but in true me fashion I could not successfully do anything without hurting other people. The deafening silence of the house contrasts comically against the unbearable raging voices in my bed. I know I need to get out. No one will believe that this was an accident. Even if I try to defend myself in court, there is not much hope for a black man who shot and killed a white woman. Foster child or not. I violently hit my clenched fists against my thighs in sheer desperation and pain. The weight of the gun I had fired just moments prior burns a hole in my jacket pocket. I need to get out. Now. I hurriedly grab my phone and keys off the bathroom sink with fiercely trembling hands and take one look in the mirror. I wish I hadn’t because what meets my eyes was something worthy of being in a horror movies. Eyes wide open, red rimmed and dilated along with smudged blood splatters all across the left half of my face is what I am met with when I take a glimpse at my face in the mirror. That’s her blood right there. I quickly swallow the bile steadily rising up my throat at the thought of her blood all over my skin and rush out of the room. My heart beats faster than it ever has had to and my head feels heavy as a million and one thoughts cross my mind at every given instant.  I know that I should have ignored the voices whispering and encouraging me to pull the trigger but in the moment it felt like the only option. The gun had oddly felt comforting when I had initially lifted it and pointed it at my head. Every memory of every trial and tribulation had been brought to the forefront of my mind and the pain had taken an all-time high and reached peaks I had not known were possible. My eyes which I could see in the mirror above the bathroom sink had looked crazed so I had shaken my head, took deep breaths and steeled my resolve. I should have known in that moment that nothing would go my way. She had walked into the room and upon realization of my intended intentions had called out my name in utter horror but I recoiled and mistakenly fired the gun at her. It had happened within seconds. She had raised her hand as if to catch the bullet with her frail, tender fingers and when the bullet tore into her flesh her hands feel weakly to her side and she swayed weakly side-ways then whimpered softly and landed on the white bathroom floor with a mighty thud. In that moment she looked so much older, her face looked as wrinkled as a raisin and her chin folded into many layers. Her body went slack as soon as she landed on the ground and the once snow white tiles were very quickly covered by the ever-growing puddle of wine red blood. I shake my head as if to shake off the memory of the events that had just transpired and bound down the stairs as I make a bee-line for the front door. I was sure that the neighbors had heard the earth shuttering boom of the gun shot and called the police. If I wanted any chances of remaining a free man then I had to get out now. I step out of the house and I am immediately slapped across the face by the ice cold fingers of the winter air. I look around frantically and in that moment, the street that I grew up on had never looked more foreign. Across the road I can see the light being switched on in Miss. Lightwood’s bedroom and then shortly after a short figure is illuminated in the window as the tiny woman peaks out of her bedroom window. She looks down directly at me and with a sleep coated voice calls out my name. I bolt. I run until my lungs burned and my throat felt as dry as sandpaper. I had no intended destination in mind but I knew that never again could I return to the house. In fact I would have to leave my small home town and never come back. Running away would not give her the justice she deserved but I know that she would not have wanted me to be put away for a mistake I made in a weak and irrational moment. I look up towards the pitch black star encompassed sky and give a short prayer for her. She was my light and she had been my rock when I had no one else on this planet. Everything good about me was thanks to her but admittedly after I left the army and came back from the war it was hard at times to remember that any good existed. I never meant to hurt her, I just wanted the pain and all the memories to go away.  I continue pushing my legs to run faster before I kick a stone on the ill-lit pathway and topple over. I fail to find the strength to push myself up and keep running. Instead I put my head in my hands and cry for all that I had managed to lose within minutes. My home is gone and never again will I bask in her warmth.


“Psst”. “Vincento?” He was like a cat, from the back alley to the dimly lit sidewalk beside her, he was suddenly there, holding her hand. “How is my Ethel?” said Vincento. They caressed, her curly blonde locks spilling back from her eager face as she succumbed to his embrace and his exploring hands. “Vincento! Not here. Not now. Someone might see us”. Ethel grabbed his wandering hand and clasped it in hers, and they stood grinning at each other in the dim glow of the gas light at the Italian end of the street where the row houses crammed closely together. The twilight stick-ball game dwindled to an end, little boys and girls were shuffling back to their homes. “When then?” said Ethel, “when can we be together?” “When I have enough money,” he said, sighing. Ethel spotted her little sister Helen peeping at them from behind a plane tree. The girl took off like a jack rabbit toward their home at the far end of Cleveland Street. “Give me a week and I will get the money, I promise”, said Ethel. She kissed him on the cheek, then raced after Helen, intent on intercepting her before she tattled. Ethel’s petticoat and skirt flounced about her legs, and her boot heels clacked on the sidewalk.

Vincento returned to the shadows, thinking on his prospects with the mercurial girl from the big house near the park. +++ Ethel was called to account in the dining room, where Erskine Gordon and his wife, Dorothy, sat in judgment at one end of the table, while the two youngest children, Hazel and Mildred, clawed at their distracted mother.  Helen, arms crossed in a righteous way, breathlessly related how she’d seen Helen throw herself - half naked - into the arms of a swarthy brute in an alleyway, where biblical things of an unspecified nature took place under cover of the night.

“I will not stand your dallying with that Italian boy”, said Dorothy, alarmed at Ethel’s descent from grace as reported over the course of several weeks by the inscrutable Helen. A chance encounter, forgiven; chit-chat at the stoop, admonished; a walk in the park, condemned; but a tryst under cover of the night was a worrying progression. “You are too young to be talking to a man of that kind, alone, at night, and a man of unknown intentions!”

Erskine explored his well-ordered mind in search of wisdom regarding the management of a fourteen-year-old girl but came out of the search empty-handed. He therefore took his cue from the disposition of his wife. “Ethel, you will be assigned additional chores for the next week”, he pronounced. “It’s unfair!” said Ethel, stamping a heel on the wooden floor, which rattled the Welsh dresser, and caused their small dog to run yapping into the hall, “You treat me worse than the cook or the maid!” “Would you prefer we treat you as a child?” said Erskine.

Ethel’s life was one of drudgery, and constraint. While her father - a man of consequence - toiled daily at his office at the Knickerbocker Coffee Company, and her mother - a woman of solemn virtue – visited churches and women’s groups in pursuit of good causes, Ethel was confined within the well-appointed town house on Cleveland Street, neither woman nor child, tasked with endless chores. +++ It was another warm sunny day, which added to Ethel’s misery. She threaded a corner of the sodden sheet into the mechanical mangle, turned the handle, and gray water sluiced onto the ground as the wrung sheet snaked toward the basket. She cared naught for the sun, the breeze rustling through the locust tree, the yapping mutt or the whining siblings. She dreamed of dark-haired vagabonds in the streets of Palermo, of dusty olive groves on the baking slopes of Momma Etna, of blood-money, cutthroats and deadly feuds. How she yearned to be a veiled bride, on a boat, heading across the turquoise water to Sicily with Vincento, the Black Hand capo, by her side. “You’re making it dirty, all over again!” said Helen, pointing at where the damp sheet was piling up on the dirt in the back yard, “I’m telling mother”. +++ Ethel offered to deliver the gooseberry jam to her aunt who lived on the far side of the park, and, to her surprise, her mother agreed, apparently tired of her sullen behavior. So, Ethel set out cheerfully in the direction of her aunt’s house until out of sight, then turned in a different direction, toward Rockaway.

“Vincento!” cried Ethel. Vincento took the woven basket from Ethel and walked beside her along the bustling sidewalk. Chest out, swaggering, he doffed his hat at passers-by, many of whom acknowledged him with a nod. He was a fresh-faced man of growing importance, well-known by the local tradesmen, though barely eighteen. He made Ethel feel important too. “Mia Bella”, he said, waving his cloth cap gaily in the air, “the day seemed dull, but now it is ablaze”. Ethel was wearing a red velvet bolero jacket, a bright white blouse, and a high-waisted blue skirt. Vincento examined her like found treasure: red, white and blue, through and through, and the prettiest girl in Brooklyn.

Ethel was quick to business; she had a plan. They stepped into the afternoon quiet of Levy’s Bakery, where the owner effusively handed Vincento two prune pastries – free of charge.  They sat at a small table, where they might speak freely. She was a top-notch dame, smart as a whip, his ticket to the top.

“Vincento. It is time”, she said in a low voice. “I cannot bear the waiting. You will have the money before the weekend, and we can elope”. A puzzled look flickered across Vincento’s face, “you think it is not - a bit sudden? I have business…”. He paused. “What kind of business?”, said Ethel, impatient. Vincent looked uncomfortable and checked they were not being overheard, “It is family business. You know I cannot tell you more”. “Well, it will soon be my business too”, she said. Beneath the good looks and the easy charm, there was a hard-minded man who meted out threats and their consequences, like sour candies to children at a parade. This girl, soon to be woman, was telling him what to do and it sat uncomfortably with him. “Do you think there’s another way? Perhaps I should pay your father my respects?” said Vincento, who was confident in his ability to persuade others, though mindful of the hurdles that stood between him and respectable society. “It’s no use Vincento. My father suspects the Italians of corrupting the neighborhood. He would kick you to the curb like a dog," she leaned close, "and you would be forced to do something… terrible, I think.” She was rushing action at him faster than he liked. Vincento learned early that a man never runs toward danger.

+++ Busybody Helen discovered the envelope on the doormat in the hallway. She rushed it to her father, who was about to leave for work. He opened it, blanched, tucked it into his jacket pocket and grabbed his hat. Helen understood that she had discovered something important, but he left without explanation.

Later, sitting at his big oak desk at his office at the Knickerbocker building, Erskine opened the envelope. The letter was abundantly decorated with crossbones, skulls, a dagger-pierced heart, and an outstretched hand, all rendered in black ink. “ Black Hand order Mr. and Mrs, Please you leve $1,000 under the doghouse or if not you biggest girl will be stole outrite. If you notify the police or anybody we will beat to death. There is fore in our gang and we knows you and yours. C.G. the leader ” Erskine Gordon was a tolerant man who ran a business that employed dozens of men from diverse backgrounds and races, including Irish, Italian, Jews and Blacks; and he conducted business with the honest intent of betterment for all, but he was also prudent, a man of tradition, who favored a salad bowl of peoples over that of the faddish melting pot. Foremost and forever, he was a red-blooded capitalist and a law-and-order man. News of the Black Hand Society were all over the papers. A reign of terror, that started in Manhattan’s Little Italy and the West Village spread across the East River, facilitated by venal politicians and ineffectual police, depicted variously as corrupt, cowardly, or stupid. There were kidnappings and extortion in Flatbush, dead men in Red Hook gutters, and a taxi driver stabbed through the neck on Cleveland Street! Erskine Gordon weighed his options like sacks of coffee in his warehouse, and it was the law-and-order man that proceeded to the Liberty Avenue Station, where he would instill into the police the right combination of moral clarity, courage, and intelligence. The queer note was greeted with skepticism by Detective O’Brien, a tall, lugubrious man. It did not accord with O’Brien’s understanding of the criminal mind. “The method of the Black Hand is to operate within the silent walls of their own kind. It is most unusual for their racket to touch upon the everyday citizen” said Detective O’Brien, “or the pillars of the community, so to speak”. Sergeant Walsh, a squat, burly fellow, was more responsive to Erskine’s concern. “We will place an additional patrolman on the ground for a few days”, he said, “with instructions to confront any group of four men that cannot provide a sensible account of their intentions”. “In the meantime, you should take precautions”, suggested Detective O’Brien. “And we will interview the young Italian man you say she met recently”, said Walsh, cracking his knuckles. Erskine resolved to lay a trap. +++ Erskine shuttered the windows and double-locked the doors.   It was not yet dark outside, but the gaslit house was gloomy inside. The family were gathered in the dining room again. “I don’t understand! Why don’t you just pay the ransom?” said Ethel. “It is the principle of the thing”, said Erskine.

“These Black Handers are dangerous” said Ethel, “I’ve heard that they never forgive, and they never forget. They are cruel and heartless, and their vendettas pass from one generation to the next and are inescapable”. “I wonder where you heard that?” said Helen, trilling at her sister’s illicit knowledge of things Italian, happy to stir things up. “Can’t we just give them the money and not miss a thing?” said Ethel, “after all, it is my life that is at risk! Surely, I should have a say in the matter?” Erskine handed Ethel a wad of railroad stock certificates that he’d retrieved from the filing cabinet in his study. “Go into the garden, make sure nobody is looking, and place these papers beneath the doghouse as instructed”. Ethel was placated by this unexpected turn of events.

“I have a plan”, said Erskine, and from the small closet in the corner of the room he withdrew a canvass-wrapped shotgun. “If the Black Handers come, it will be bad for them, because I will be camped out in the Kitchen, ready to blow them to smithereens”, he said.

Ethel had much to consider. +++ Two days passed and the mood soured inside the barricaded house. The girls languished in boredom, tensions escalated, and a dispute over care of the dog led to a ferocious catfight between Ethel and Helen. Dorothy, exasperated, implored her husband to put away the gun and end the lockdown, which he agreed to, readily. He had acquitted himself in an upright way, had scared away the Hand, and he was keen to resume work at the office. Dorothy unshuttered the windows, the children resumed their activities, including play in the back yard, where Ethel was unusually attentive to her youngest sisters and the dog. It was in this more relaxed atmosphere that Ethel offered to visit her aunt again, to which Dorothy agreed enthusiastically, though against the objections of Helen on whom the burden of tea-time chores would fall exclusively in Ethel’s absence. Erskine left for work with his mind at peace. He happily attended to his affairs, and returned home in a good state of mind, only to find the house in turmoil. Dorothy was barely able to string a sentence, consumed by worry and dark thoughts. The two youngest girls were weeping.

“It is the Black Hand!”, said Helen, somewhat merrily. Erskine administered smelling salt and a tincture of Paregoric to his prone wife, and she was soon restored just enough to explain that Ethel had gone to visit his sister and had not returned. It was nearly 9.00 pm. and dark. Erskine set off for the Police Station, via Cypress Hills, where he soon discovered that his sister had no idea of the whereabouts of her niece and hadn’t seen Ethel in weeks. “I blame myself”, said Erskine to Sergeant Walsh as the Liberty Avenue Station, “I have let down my guard, and my family too. They have kidnapped the poor child”. Sergeant Walsh was a hardened man, witness to the worst of humanity, but the sobbing father elicited from him a gentle attentiveness. “Mr. Gordon, have faith, we will pursue every lead, hunt down these Black Handers, bring them out of their hole, dead or alive,” said Walsh, shooting from the hip, “We will fight their terror with that of our own”.

“But what of my daughter?” said Erskine, who could see Walsh’s heavy-handed approach ending badly. The sergeant needed neither moral clarity nor courage, but perhaps he lacked the intellect Erskine had intended to instill on his prior visit. Detective O’Brien hurried into the interview room, hatless, collarless, and disheveled, having been called from home to deal with this emergency. Unlike Walsh, O’Brien led with the mind, not with the gut. It soon came out that the doghouse had been moved, the stock certificates – relating to a bankrupt railroad, and therefore worthless – had been removed by an unseen hand, and that Ethel had voluntarily left the house, carrying a covered basket on her way to her aunt’s. “It is as clear as day, she has been kidnapped”, exclaimed Walsh. “Is it possible”, said Detective O’Brien as delicately as his irritation would allow, “that the Black Hand that wrote the note may have been that of your daughter?” +++ Vincento and Ethel were sitting on the wharf on the South Shore, overlooking Sheepshead Bay. They were watching clammers at work in the stinking mud, and oystermen on their skiffs, shunting in the deep with their poles. Ethel thrilled at this close proximity to the ocean, the same body of water that kissed the sandy shores of Sicily a thousand or more miles away, and which might soon carry her away. He took the sheath of papers from her, wincing at the pain in his chest. They had the engraved appearance of the dollar bill, and an imprinted face value that made Vincento’s eyes pop. These stock certificates belonged in a world of which Vincento could only dream. He had visited that world once. he’d wandered along Wall Street with other boys from the borough, he’d gawped at the bunting, the flags, the Hansom cabs, the men in spats and toppers, until shooed away by a burly beat cop. Vincento didn’t stop running until China Town, fearing that the establishment was on his neck. “I have seen my father looking over them at his desk. He says their value goes up with the Market”, said Ethel. Vincento flinched again. The squat policeman who’d jumped him on Cleveland Street had drummed him hard about the ribs, threatening worse if he didn't wise up. The establishment was onto Vincento and knew exactly where he lived. This girl was top-notch, his ticket, but out of his league.

“Surely the Black Hand can help us?” said Ethel, for whom the secret society was another kind of ticket, not up, but out…out of Brooklyn. There was no going back now. Vincento rolled the stock certificates into a scroll and tucked them into his waistcoat. “I will cash them in, and we will leave for a better place tomorrow”. “But how long will you be? Where should I go? What should I do?” she said, alarmed, frightened. “Wait here, I will be back soon enough”, he said. +++ Two days passed. Sergeant Walsh came by each day and reassured Mr. Gordon that Ethel would soon be found, his team would visit every house at the Italian end of the street. They had leads, they were closing in.

Dorothy was bed-ridden, incapacitated by the ebb of denial and flow of grief. Erskine sat in his office, unable to work; he wondered at fatherhood and the uncommon wisdom required in the understanding and management of daughters, and womenfolk in general; because, clearly, he was lacking. Meanwhile, Helen, burdened by her older sister’s chores, seethed with discontent and jealousy.

On the third day, with the Gordon home in the grip of a new reality, there was a loud rapping on the front door. Helen was there in a flash, and opened the door expecting Sergeant Walsh, but it was the lank figure of Detective O’Brien instead, accompanied by a uniformed cop. O’Brien removed his hat and enquired about her father’s whereabouts and availability in the most solemn way. Erskine appeared in the hallway, blinking at the light that shone from behind the Detective. “It is Ethel. We have found her”, said O’Brien.

The black mud on O'Brien's shoes and about his pant legs smelled of rotting shellfish and the putrid ocean.


Cherry had always an extraordinary imagination. No other homo sapiens could have a vision like him, his friends believed. He could have talked with his cat JoJo. It was like he could sense and comprehend, the enunciation and intimate convictions of all incarnate things. What a miracle child! A generous, introverted, clever, young man was born to a middle-class south Korean family and got a name, ‘Kim Choi-Joon’. The lengthy name had to adjust in the city of dream, and he momentarily rendered it cherry. Cherry’s father had the ambition to make him a judicious, skilled gentleman. So, he had accumulated wealth as more as he could and sent his child out of the home country to the dream country, New York City. Cherry always had fantasy dreams. He used to recollect them after waking up and make it into stories out of them. What smart sounds! He had constituted his fantasy sphere bigger than the universe that he adored to stay in it all the time. The fictional realm had everything that he had not in real life. Trees with multiple wheels, racing each other, big, scary dinosaurs establishing food in their kitchen for their families and chilling, living a normal life like human families. His world was overflowing with reconciliation. The visions became more authentic when he grew up. It primarily centred on the real-life of individuals who had a distressed life, in his fantasy world they would be liberated from those difficulties. But his life was not permitted to go through that fantasy world. Because he needed to live that life in real. And his life was differing from all of those things. Troubled. His timid psyche always stayed in the fantasy world. But he had the one largest problem he sought to release from. When somebody chatted to him, he could think of all the retorts he wanted to but when he talked, everything switched. His sentiments blocked him to say the proper words and he used to come to an end up with things to answer what he should on behalf of it. This is how he was in real life, clogged like an ant. Life never runs on your chosen track. That was for every people and for him too. His imaginations got heavy on him when he grew older, and decided to write this whole imaginary world, so anyone else could also enjoys that world. He decided to become a writer, but his father wanted him to be an engineer. What a tragedy! Like it said before life never runs on your chosen track. He arrived at New York and got admission to NYU. Although New York was his fantasy city as it was for every writer who chose to publish their books. Now he had to write everything and just to publish. But that was not straightforward.

A complete day at university and after finishing off it, he had to work part-time at café to comply with his expenses for living. Life was stuck in between the struggle of satisfying his parents dream. And his dreams were laying off somewhere in the dust. one day he roused up in the middle of the night with a dream. He did not emphasis on the dream because he had a nervousness on his head he considered. That day when his father phoned him to converse, he decisively revealed that he wanted to write a novel after his last year’s graduation complete. Although his father had known the behaviours of his writing. His father assumed that there would be no future for him in writing as it was not his era’s subject and he should focus on education because that would let him be a real man in their society. The writing was scrap, he believed. Poor imagination! Cherry was angry at a point and wanted to engage in battle for his freedom. But could not. at the time he sensed how his parents laboured to make his life better and the sentiments transpired again and made him halt to answer everything he wanted to. Those grubby emotions! Days chucked like and his impatience got higher on to write that daydream world, but he had no time for anything. When he travelled from the metro, he never got a seat because the other locals used to chill on it every time. When there was some little space, every time he could not call for them to have it. How introverted! He had no guts to talk with any strangers because it was the last thing he could not imagine. The answer to people. Every time he imagined having people’s reaction to being delighted or normal, but they would not, sometimes they had spoken with anger, egos and attitude. Which he was never ready to feel it. So, he ceased talking to people who he could not imagine responses. His friends at university used him for assignments and for money and he let them do it because he could not withstand them by revealing no matter what. The actual world was the merciless thing he could not control himself. Life was uneasy, uncontrolled and felt stopped. But he prayed every day in the hope of an inspiring sunray who could change his life. How believable! One day when he was working at café, a woman, perhaps a fairy from heaven entered the café. Her perfect beauty and long, nourished, strawberry smelled hair and her exotic manners of expression, everything attracted cherry’s eyes. He never realized it was happening to a real world. He slipped into his fantasy world. But it was happening in real life. He sensed it when the lady requested him for a milkshake. He had a mask on his face so, she could not see him. She was busy talking to her friends. She was an Asian too, perhaps a Korean or maybe a Japanese. Could be anyone. But beautiful. He did not speak to her as much. But he was busy imagine her in a fairy tale. When she left, cherry saw her till she disappeared. He felt something unusual first time ever that day, he wanted to talk to her, but he could not. how penniless!

He was in his own world, feeling of her, talking to her and hanging out. After concluding his shift, he reached home and snatched a pen and paper to write something on. He penned about her. He wrote a story about him and her that how they both get to know each other and fall in love. How loving! He realized that he would never meet her again in real life so, he authored every prospect he would like to be live in with her. He tallied the conflict as his real-life issue that he could not confess anything to people or speak. In the story, he wrote that he loved her so much but could not declare because she was married before and her marriage was on the edge of divorce. She asked him to help her in that vicious time. He did help him, but he wanted to hold her hand for the whole life, but he could not. how miserable! But he had the subsequent intensity strength that day. He laid every dread aside that day. He penned that his heart was speaking inside but he had to turn it from the outside. And he did. How fantastic! He finally hoarded all his courage and professed to the fairy from heaven and the love of his life. And she accepted it with a warm heart and kissed him. And the story closed with a happy ending. The man who could never speak and always chose that ‘if my heart could speak’, and finally he won the battle against all and said it. He gave the title to the story ‘if my heart could speak’. A desire that instead of himself, what if his heart could speak but he had to be a courageous man to speak on behalf of his feeling. And he did in his story. How heroic! He completed the story and felt the moment of joy he never had before. He promptly grabbed his laptop and wrote down everything. His story was well structured, filled with emotions and inspirational. He remembered the short story competition from the university. He sent his story to it. He never grasped that, unexpected his imaginations would want to be written on a piece of paper. This adjustment made him feel so inspired. He was happy to write for the first time. And It did not take a lot of time. He always wanted an extra, perfect time for his novel, but he realized the day that he could write damn speedy with wonderful deciding of words. Now he was ready to write everything he imagined without any delay. Finally, the happy days were coming back, and his prayer was heard in heaven. The next few days went so well. He attended university in the morning then the café shifts in the evening and he wrote his dreamy novel at night and then proceeded to sleep. After that time, he was happy as heaven and now he could speak to people instead of letting his heart speak on behalf of him. He never greeted the woman of his dreamy world again from that day. But After some more days, she emerged. How pleasant! That time when she entered the café, he fixated on her again with new inventiveness and believed as she knew him and had talked with her a lot because he did in his envision story. He eliminated his mask from the face with all brave and stuck his eyes in her eyes. For a second when she observed him, she was amazed by his aspects. And the way he stared her, she felt like she recognized him from years. She forgot the conversation with her friend as she was drowned in his eyes. She ordered the milkshake. She felt nervous as he was glaring her beauty with all his respected eyes. What a romantic view! The last time cherry could not disregard those moments. And now this time the girl could not forget the moments. Cherry desired to talk but again he felt that if my heart could speak. Oh! Come on cherry! The girl left the café but in the end, he glanced at the man’s eyes again. She was in love. her eyes could speak. How charming! Cherry could not sleep that night. Now his fancies were fluctuating into reality. The story really helped him altering his life to a positivity. After a few days, later cherry went to a party with friends. His all-university friends were congregated there. Now he was capable of the intersection with anyone because at least he could voice from his own now. He was not that longstanding cherry anymore. He saw that girl. She was so stunning yet in shadowy lights. Everyone was twirling. Cherry finally definite to the conversation to her. He alleged ‘how beautiful she is! I should talk to her. That day she was glaring me as she desired to talk. This time I am not going to expect that if my heart could speak because he is afraid. So, my buddy Mr. dumb heart, you let your self some rest and let me do some action. Ok, so I will start a smooth conversation and ask her to dance. That would be a great move. I hope she would accept it if she would like me too. And definitely, she would derive.’ He slashed the throng and went a bit nearby. But what he saw, made him stop there. She was chuckling with integrity with someone holding her back. They were dancing. She was so happy with that man. The man holding her so close to her body. It made cherry’s every imagination let go off. He trod back. He left the venue as soon as possible. How heartbreaking! When cherry was going back, she saw him. The girl saw him. How spectacular! The next day cherry was working at café regrettably. His imaginations took the dejected mode to reflect on the girl. He could think of the ingenious, but the miserable story, a boy meets a girl. Boy falls in love. Girl feels that too. The boy tries to talk to her, but she was taken. The boy feels hopeless and the story ends.’ How terrible! The girl entered the café at that time. She was alone. She came directly towards him. Cherry perceived her. He sensed again that innermost feeling. But he annoyed to keep himself busy. She ordered the milkshake again. He kept busy making it. No one tried to talk. Girl jammed her eyes in his, but he did not lookup. “Are you a student at NYU?” she finally said biting her lips. The boy stopped working. He thought ‘oh no, she is trying to talk. I do not want to. She is someone’s girlfriend. It would be very embarrassing if she would know that I starred her like that. I should not talk. But if not then it will be stupid, wait, I should. But should I ask her that he has a boyfriend?’ “yes, are you too?” he asked, whacking his appearance behind the mask. “um, yeah, humanities.” She answered, supposing some more from the boy. Her talked look intended. “yeah good.” He said but not more. He wanted to ask her about that day but desired the last time that if his heart could speak. “I saw you that day at the party at the university. You left early?” she asked. ‘oh no, she noticed me. That is why she knew where I study. And now if she knows everything about me, damn I would tell her nothing about myself. But what should I say about why I left the party because it was because of her?’ “yeah, I was feeling sick. So, I left.” He said really fast without observing at her, screening himself busy in work. “oh, ok.” She stopped. She needed to talk something but looked like she was thinking. ‘if my heart could speak’. “by the way congratulations. I liked it the most.” She spoke. “what? I mean what are you talking about?” he asked and stuck his eyes to her. He thought ‘what is she talking about? Did she think I’m someone else’s? maybe my mask, she did not recognize me.’ “oh! I mean your story. You won the competition. That was an amazing story about that boy and the girl, truly inspirational. It made me feel that I really should talk by myself instead of feeling that ‘if my heart could speak’.” She said. ‘what? Nooo... way, when did it happen? Wait, I won the competition never knew that. She read my story and hope she does not know that it was written about her, about us. No way what is going on?’ and suddenly his thoughts stopped. His heart stopped talking. Because he hunted to talk now. “thank you so much. I just abstract something like that and engraved it down.” He smirked, detaching his mask. The girl leered back to his face and glared his eyes. The atmosphere reformed into a fling. “well, I had sent one for the competition but maybe your one was natural and with great potentials.” She said to his eyes. “oh! Well, I had no idea this would happen, it was just written for some familiar one.” He said without intellectual anything. “who? Your girlfriend?” she asked. “oh! No, no, I don’t have a girlfriend, it was just inscribed for a fantasy friend.” He lied. “ok, great.” She said and took the milkshake from the counter where he replaced. “um, so, you wrote any kind of stories like that for any familiar one?” he asked without hesitating. “yeah, for an imaginary boyfriend, as I don’t have one in real life.” She grinned and observed at his eyes again. “ok.” He sneered and looked into her eyes. The eyes were matched, hints were switched. “well, you know you said that every time that if your heart could speak, but it really does. Your heart speaks through your eyes.” She said and left the counter. Cherry could not express anything, this time neither he nor his heart. Because both were stunned from, as both were approached by a girl and her heart. That day cherry finally converted the one who used to speak with everyone instead pleading ‘if my heart could speak’. He cultivated his communication with the girl of her imagination and now the real one. Both started to hang out. And became the lovers. As cherry’s imaginative story who won the competition and made him the good writer got him the girl and the respect towards his parents. After that, his parents were happy and desired him to choose the pathway he wanted. He wrote a novel and published it. It was inspired by his life that how not every time you should approach that, ‘if my heart could speak’ because it is afraid at some corners. So, you should speak of yourself because it does not help you every time. And at the end, he married the love of his life who was not an imagination now but real life.


    October 18th, 2021 Not sure how to start this. Should I go Dear Diary? It sounds silly but that is exactly what this is going to be. My very own diary, my journal, my thoughts, my life...maybe someday, my memoir. I want to remember this day forever. The day I decided to teach myself to write. Again. Writing makes me feel alive. Just read an article where the author says ...Writers write. Doesn't matter what they write. Just put the pen on paper and keep it moving. Or just keep typing away on a computer or your phone. So, if I can't write a story yet, I can start my journal. Type my thoughts and talk about my day. So many things I want to do but there is so little time. Before I know it ...the day is over. I have to be up again with the same routine. Cook, clean, exercise ..but now I'm adding something to it. Learn to write for kids, and then start writing. Research, study writer's market. I won't have time to breathe. I can feel the excitement building again. Like I have found myself one more time. The quick memo is going to be my favorite companion. Here's the fun part. I carry my phone with me everywhere. I can just open it up and start writing. Life ...here I come. Look at how much I have written already. Shweta and Amber have entered my head again. Maybe Gaurav and Shekhar will start whispering too. Four of my favorite characters. The product of my very active imagination. They are always there at the back of my mind.

They keep revisiting over and over again. A story or two, refusing to leave me alone. Who knows ...that day might be coming soon. Meanwhile ...it is exciting to be excited about something ...again!! October 19th, 2021 Dear Diary, I have often wondered what makes a story an awesome, relatable story. This morning while watching a TV show, I realized the role that a character plays in a story. I found myself almost switching off the TV because something bad was going to happen to the character that I follow. I realized that it was not the story I liked so much. In fact, it was to the character in the story that I felt an attachment. The thought of something bad happening to her was too much for me to take. For those few seconds, I became her and something bad was about to happen to me. Such is the power that a writer can have over the reader. Such is the kind of power I would like to give my characters. The reader should be able to identify themselves with the characters of a story. When they read something, their mind should go, "Oh yeah! This is exactly how I would feel!" I have come across so many interesting characters over the years that I have read books or watched shows and movies. More than the story, the characters stayed with me. Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice is one such example. She is everything that I ever want to be as a human being and as a woman. Everything she says and does makes me smile and think...I want to be her. And so does Arundhati ...from the TV show that I watched today. The two female characters are polar opposites and yet I identify with them both. That is the power of a writer. And as Arundhati moves forward to becoming an Elizabeth, I am with her every step of the way ...cheering for each and every step that she takes. Secretly, someday, I hope to be an

Elizabeth too. October 27th, 2020 Dear Diary,

Writers write. A little something that I need to keep reminding myself. It is hard to remember it when your day is so full of other non-writing activities. Cooking, clearing the sink full of dishes, laundry, picking up and dropping off kids from one activity to another. Every time I sit down to write, there is some other activity that seems more pressing and more important than this. Like, right this minute, even as I am tapping away at my cell phone, my mind is showing me pictures of my full sink. Before I begin clearing that, the dishwasher gives me the stink eye. How will you load me when I'm not empty yet? And then there's the matter of that pesky treadmill, all the way down in the basement, but sitting at the top of my head. Isn't it time for exercise ...it whispers into my ears?

Do you see what I'm doing right now, dear diary? I'm writing ...even as I complain about not having time to write. Sometimes it is as simple as that. Just take out the quick memo on your phone and start tapping at it. Some other times, it is a whole other story. Life is filled with so many of these little and big obstacles. And the irony is that these very obstacles to writing can become an inspiration to write someday. Ask any writer to talk about the various responsibilities that come in the way of their writing ...they can easily write a whole book on it.  There's an idea ...a book on a writer's life. The inside story. Many people have asked me what goes on in my head when I write something. Sometimes it feels like there is someone sitting in there dictating the whole thing. The words, phrases, and sentences popped out one after the other. The process is so smooth and so much fun that I end up feeling guilty. Work should not be fun. Work can not be fun. You certainly should not be paid for something that is so much fun. Not that I'm getting paid millions for this. But I hope to ...someday ...in the not-so-distant future. Writing about the process of writing can be fun too, right? And who knows ...this could one day be on the best seller's list. A journey into the writer's mind, a book to be read by all those upcoming writers. Not a teaching book. Just a book that goes through the ups and downs of a writer's life. It is lonely being a writer sometimes. Especially when you are doing the actual writing. It would be nice to get a glimpse into the triumphs and struggles of a co-writer. It might even give you a sense of community. I could just keep writing ...on and on. After all, writers write. November 5th, 2020 Dear Diary, It has finally happened! It has been the most productive week of my life! I have been writing like a crazy person. Have no clue if it is really worth anything. But just the act of typing words on my computer has been so worth it. My characters are speaking to me, and letting me get a glimpse into their world. These are the times I fall in love with my life! What is it about these characters that make me feel so alive? I know they got created so recently in my imagination. And yet, I feel like I have known them forever. I laugh when I make them laugh. I cry when I make them cry. I go through every twist and turn of their life as if they were my own. Is it just me or does every writer/creator feel this way? Is it even possible not to be attached to your creations? After all, they are pretty much like your baby, aren’t they? Crazy or not, this is the truth for me. I got so involved in their lives that I needed to take a break from their story. They were beginning to take over my life. I needed to come back to the reality of my life. Maybe that’s why some writers have more than one project going on at a time. I’m so glad I have my faithful diary waiting patiently for me to scribble on its pages. I don’t know what I would do without you. December 5th, 2020 Dear Diary,

Have you been missing me? I sure have missed you like crazy. Between my personal life challenges and the challenges faced by the characters in my book, (of late it has become hard to distinguish between the two) it has been the craziest month of my life! This was a month of sickness for me and my family. My son came home with a virus and very kindly shared it with his whole family. He has taken this sharing lecture that I gave him a bit too seriously. I probably forgot to mention that it was okay not to share germs. I have to keep in mind to be more specific when I decide to give him any advice in the future. But the good news is that I decided to share this challenge with the characters in my book. They are not very happy with me at this moment. Between the sniffles and sneezes, one of my characters threw in some not-so-nice words at me. Words that I can’t really share with anyone. I have got to say this, I really am in love with this girl that I helped create. She is everything that I couldn’t be as a child. I was a scaredy-cat and so obviously this girl has to be the bravest kid on earth. It makes me feel powerful that I can mold my characters any way that I want. Writing is such a powerful tool. If you are feeling miserable, just put in some happy scenes in your work. If you are a bit too happy, add in a few sad scenes to balance out the feelings. Uhmmmm …maybe it is supposed to be the other way?

December 25th, 2020 Dear Diary, I can’t breathe. I feel like the words are stuck in my throat. They tell me that it is a terrible case of writer’s block. I have had this before, but nothing of this magnitude. And the story had been flowing so well. I was getting dreams of my characters doing and saying things. I would wake up in the middle of the night and start typing as if my life depended on it. I started getting weird looks from my family and even my friends thought I was behaving oddly. But, I didn’t have a care in the world. As long as the words kept flowing, all was well with my life. And then the dreaded event happened. I slept through the night! Not a single dream. The characters just stopped whispering. It’s like they just disappeared off the face of this earth. I woke up the next morning, feeling fresh and miserable! Now they tell me that I should go for a walk or something. It is supposed to help with unblocking the block. All I want to do is find a corner on my couch, get a giant bowl of chocolate ice cream and sob away my day. I extremely dislike writer’s block!!!! December 30th, 2020 Dear Diary, The chocolate ice cream helped! It helped me gain 5 pounds in one week. I checked my weight this morning and almost fell off the scale. But it also cheered me up a bit. I spent the next two days visiting parks, zoos, and museums with my son. He was so shocked at the quality time he was getting with his dear old mom. It is quite possible he thought that this was going to be a forever thing. The poor kid had no clue that after two days of non-stop activities with me, his dream would come to an abrupt end. It all started at the museum. I was staring at this painting apparently drawn by some kid, and a fleeting thought crossed my mind. As my son chattered on about what he was seeing, I was desperately tuning him out so I could hold on to that idea that could move my story forward. Here is a funny thing about inspiration …it always seems to hit when you are least prepared for it. I had left my notepad in the car, and I was standing empty-handed in the middle of a nice museum. I almost screamed out loud that day. And then I remembered, my trusted phone was in my bag and it came with a quick memo. As I furiously jotted down my thoughts, my son gave me this sad look. He knew the days of mommy and me were over as quickly as they started. January 15th, 2020 Dear Diary, I did it! I started a story and actually managed to finish it. There is a beginning, middle, and end to the story. I fell in love with my characters as I created them. I felt happy when they achieved something and mourned their losses with them. It has been an amazing journey from start to finish. No human has yet set their eyes on it, and

I feel like I have achieved something great. Is this how it feels when a writing project gets completed? Does every writer feel this way? To see those words on your computer screen …THE END. I don’t think there are any words that look and sound as awesome as those words. I never thought this day would come so quickly. I remember those horrible few days when the words had stopped being my friends. I never ever want to go through that again! But those days will come again. New storylines will develop and new characters will take birth. I will make new friends and there will be days when they stop communicating. But the real magical part is how things always seem to work out in the end. And you have been my friend, my companion through it all, my darling diary. I wouldn’t have made it through this if I didn’t have your support. Now editing beckons me. But I will be back before you know it. I will be back to laugh, cry, celebrate and vent. I will be back to bicker and complain. I will always keep coming back to my loyal companion …


It'd been twenty-four years since she'd last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The massive building was constructed of an array of red and brown brick, contrasted by white, that lined the gleaming rectangular windows. The edges of the structure weren't sharp; instead, they were etched in like little staircases. It reminded her of the pin art she used to play with as a child. Her brother would make a contorted face and stick it into the pins, then chase her around with the horrifying 3D image. The entrance, a pointed archway, was once inviting. The bulbous white light fixtures bolted to either side of it were now nothing but beacons of dismay. Emma's hands were beginning to clam up as she took a deep breath to settle her palpitating heart.

She wiped her hands on her jacket before sliding them into her pockets. She observed the forest green shrubbery that lined the walkway. It was still neatly trimmed. The small areas of grass were as well, edged perfectly where they met the sidewalk. Nudging it with the toe of her boot, she gazed up at the building. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned her back and headed back toward her hotel a few blocks down the road.

Cars whirred past her faster than they should have, blowing her tight curls into her eyes. The frigid breeze was making her nose run and her eyes water. It was the very thing she was trying to hold back. "Oh my goodness, Emma? Is that you?" a high pitched voice questioned from behind.

Turning around, Emma was facing a heavy-set woman who wore thick-rimmed glasses and sported a chic, platinum pixie cut. She was wearing a short, tan leather jacket over a fitted white knit top, dark blue skinny jeans, and brown knee-high boots. Upon her forearm was a fair-sized Louis Vuitton purse. The woman looked familiar, but she couldn't put a name to the face. The woman could tell. "Oh, I'm sorry, doll. It's me, Katie! Remember we went to Hites Elementary together. I wouldn't mistake those curls anywhere! I was just ordering a latte, come join me!"

"Oh, sure! That'd be great," she beamed excitedly. She hadn't seen Katie since they were children, but she had followed her success online. It was like being in the presence of a celebrity.

Emma followed her long lost friend into the quaint coffee shop. The aroma of fresh coffee beans was heavenly. She went to the counter and ordered a black coffee, then joined Katie at a bistro table at the storefront.

"So, Emma, what brings you back to town? When you got rid of Facebook years ago, I always wondered what the heck happened to you!" That was the very reason Emma had removed herself from social media- privacy. Moreover, she was tired of living a mock-up life for others to see and judge. While Emma displayed herself as a gleaming artist- joyful and free, she was, in fact, the opposite. She was quite solemn. And, this town especially brought it out in her.

"Just came to visit my parents for Thanksgiving. What about you? You moved to New York to do your designer work, didn't you?" Emma inquired. "I sure did, girl! It's absolutely amazing. I'm here visiting my family too. It's so nostalgic coming back here- a nice break from the madness in the city. So where are you living now?" Katie asked, gently blowing on her latte.

"I moved to the Poconos a few years ago. Not nearly as exciting as New York, I'm sure," Emma responded.

She admired Katie's outgoing nature just as much as she had when they were children. Their contrasting personalities had really brought them together. And unlike some, Katie never gloated about her wealth or success. She came from money, which helped fund her fashion endeavor to New York, but she had indeed put in the work. Emma could think of no one more deserving.

"It's really tough, sometimes, girl. I feel like I never get a minute of peace. I have all of these deadlines, interviews, and then marketing. It never ends. I was so looking forward to this trip home! My phone is silenced and everything!" she said, holding up her glittery iPhone.

"Wow, I don't know how you do it. You're amazing!" Emma replied in admiration.

They chatted like they had never been separated. Emma checked her phone, and two hours had gone by.

"Oh my, it's getting late! I had better get going. Thank you so much for the visit, Katie. You really brightened my day," Emma stated, standing from her stool and shaking the stiffness from her legs.

"You really brightened my day too, doll," Katie answered, placing a hand on Emma's arm. "Let me drive you to your parents. That's quite a walk, and it's getting dark. Not to mention freezing!" Emma's parents had moved to Florida and sold the house years prior. She hadn't come to visit family and felt a little guilty for offering a white lie. However, the truth likely would've ended their visit before it even began. So the fib continued.

"Oh, my parent's converted my bedroom into a home office, so I am staying at the Pinewood Suites. It'll just be a five-minute walk. No trouble at all," Emma replied convincingly.

"Okay, well, let's exchange numbers! We need to stay in touch!" Katie said, swiping up on her phone. Her eyes widened, and her hands began tremoring frantically. "Oh my gosh, my mom has called a hundred times! My dad is having chest pain, and they just rushed him to the hospital! I have to go!"

Katie was hyperventilating as she bolted out of the coffee shop before Emma could speak.

Emma stood in silence with a sinking feeling for her dear friend. She sent up a silent prayer before heading out toward the hotel.

After a brisk walk, which took longer than expected, she arrived at the hotel and entered. Swiping into her room, she set down her purse and slipped out of her coat. She changed into her pajamas and kicked back on the king-sized bed after grabbing a bottle of wine from her suitcase. She reflected on her time with Katie.

"Not once did she mention it," she thought. Right after it happened, Katie's parents had pulled her from that school and enrolled her in a boarding school an hour away. She probably had a top of the line therapist while she was there. Emma had not sensed even a hint of uneasiness in Katie.

Emma polished off a glass of wine and settled down under the puffy down comforter. The next day was going to be a monumental one. It was what Emma had been waiting for, the whole reason she had made the four-hour trip to her quaint hometown. The town she promised herself she would never return to.

Emma smelled smoke. Mrs. Donaldson frantically instructed all of the students to push their desks to the back wall.

"Get down behind and cover your heads, children," she whispered shakily.

She cautiously pushed her large desk in front of the closed classroom door, making as little noise as possible. She crouched down behind her desk, and Emma could hear her whisper a prayer.

"Katie, I'm scared," Emma whispered, leaning her body into her best friend. She could feel Katie tremoring.

"We're going to be okay, Emma. The police will…" "Shh, shh," Mrs. Donaldson hushed nervously from across the room. Clicking boots were echoing in the hall just outside the door. She started praying again.

The door handle rattled. The children gasped, many shutting their eyes tight. The door opened, slamming against Mrs. Donaldson's massive oak desk, pushing it forward slightly. A man's voice groaned deeply, and the door slammed again with more force.

Mrs. Donaldson stood and whispered, "Children, keep your heads down. Do not look up."

The students did as instructed, burrowing their heads further into their knees.

A forceful thud pierced the air as Mrs. Donaldson slammed her desk against the door. The sound that followed was explosive, rattling the room. The class gasped in unison. "Don't look up, children," Mrs. Donaldson croaked. Emma couldn't help it; she raised her head slowly. Mrs. Donaldson was lying flat on her back, gasping, a pool of crimson growing around her torso. She stared in awe, unable to look away.

Just then, another flash and bang.

"We got him! Go, go, go!"

A scuffle of shoes was moving about in the hall, and Emma could tell people were running.

"He's dead. We got the shooter!" Things quieted down in the hall. Emma looked around, and all of the other students were still holding their heads. There was another bang at the door. The students hunkered down. "Mrs. Donaldson, we're all clear!" Silence. "Mrs. Donaldson?" Emma woke up, drenched and gasping. It was one of the many vivid nightmares she had been having for twenty-four years. But today, she was going to put it to rest.

The sun was beginning to rise. Emma fixed herself a cup of coffee from the single-serve machine in her room and felt herself calming down. She thought of Katie. She pulled out her phone and searched for her on Google. She was directed to Katie's website that displayed her products, clothing, and causes. Everything was beautiful, as expected. She opened the menu and saw a "Donate" tab. Emma didn't have much, but she really wanted to support her.

Emma discovered the donations weren't for Katie. There were links to several organizations that all promoted gun control. She did not offer any details about her experience; it was just the links.

She pulled out her wallet and donated to every organization, thinking of Katie. Emma pulled herself together and checked her watch. It was almost time.

It was a brisk morning, but Emma didn't mind. She had been waiting for this day since the announcement months earlier. It was finally happening. She found herself across the street from the brick building and could hear the even, blaring tone of work trucks reversing. Standing with her arms crossed, she observed the demolition excavator positioning itself before the structure.

For twenty-four years, Hites Elementary had been the origin of torment, night terrors, and flashbacks for Emma. It was a monumental day.

A man called out to clear the area. They were about to begin. Emma knew it wasn't going to change the past. She was going to have those memories forever. Nonetheless, Hites Elementary was about to be blown to pieces- and that was all that mattered.


The old red brick building still beset the ambiance of the institution it once was 99 years ago. Over the years, the Harlem Valley Psychiatric Center located close to New York State Route 22, in Dover, New York, had practiced numerous experimental methods for treating patients who were classified as mentally insane; methods such as insulin shock therapy and electro-shock therapy. It was the place where neuropsychiatrist Walter Freeman created a technique for treating a widely divergent group of psychological conditions. This newly developed method became known as a lobotomy,  Except for the overseeing eyes of the night watchmen, the doors of the institution were closed in 1994. After 70 years of questionable and often deplorable practices, the barbaric treatments silently became obsolete. Ezzie, born in 1904, had spent many years of her life there after she was forcefully admitted at the age of 30, 10 years after the institute first opened it doors. Under intense protest, she was brought to the insane asylum by the local New York police force after her mother could no longer take care of her. Her behaviour had become too bizarre and she was quite a force to deal with. The police picked her up off the street one day while she was standing on the busy roadway directing traffic, totally naked. Ezzie was one of those experimental patients, although which procedure or procedures she received back then isn't clear. Like the elusive medical practices in that time period, medical record-keeping also lacked details and was often written in illegible handwriting that resembled chicken scratch. Most of the patients were now dead and gone. Or were they? Ezzie never considered them patients, however. They were all her beloved neighbors who had helped her through times of life crises before they all moved away. She couldn't remember ever not living here; her mind didn't allow her to, and she also didn't know when most of the others left. Or did they leave, she wondered? The building was enormous so they could easily be in another wing and she wouldn't know. Maybe they were busy doing other things but she rarely saw them anymore so she assumed they had left. To this day she doesn't recall how she came to live here, but deep inside herself she blames her mother, who thankfully, was also long since deceased; that witch was a hateful snag. The miserable old cow couldn't even bother to spell her name correctly.

Ezmaraldo Jene Dorchester , for fuck sake, doesn't she even know how to spell Esmeralda? Or Jean?  Ezzie was sure this was an intentional joke her mother labeled her with for her own selfish entertainment, a cruel and humiliating spite to little Ezzie.  Intended as a diminutive jab of poison for her new baby girl, it was no secret that mother had despised her right from birth. Nevertheless, the place was now home to Ezzie and just being there shrouded great comfort in her. She loved the familiar cool feeling of the highly polished granite floors under her bare feet as she wisped through the long corridors. The accumulation of dust and cobwebs garnishing the hanging chandeliers eluded her attention. The eerie creepy moaning noises of an old building long ago forsaken didn't grasp her attention either. Some wings of the building accommodated old oak doorways into dormitories, one after another, each secured by heavy brass locks that hadn't been unbolted recently. It was lonely though, she missed her friends; friends who, unbeknown to her, were actually psychiatric patients from all backgrounds, and although the medical records were obscure, they indicated that most of them had passed away.

She drifted airlessly into the vast banquet room to sit and stare out into the courtyard through the huge glass windows making up the east wall of the room. This was her favorite spot where she spent hours gazing outside onto acres of land, overgrown with tall noxious weeds, out-of-control bushes, and looming old trees, knotted and unkempt. The overrun area harbored ominous mysterious creatures peering back at her, giving her a sense of comfort and company, making her feel less alone. A little mouse skittered past her feet, stopping briefly to glance up at her, his white whiskers twitching back and forth, his tail stiff and sticking straight out behind him like a radar gadget. Satisfied that she wasn't a threat to him, he scurried on his way to fetch food stored in the pantry. Inside the old storeroom, the contents from chewed boxes of macaroni and huge bags of flour, sugar, and other dried-out ingredients were spewed over the counters and floors, little footprints trodden through it all by plentiful rodents helping themselves to the wealth. The place was a haven for the little creatures that began inhabiting the building many years before. Ezzie smiled down at him, watching him scuttle away, peculiarly grateful for his company. She bolted upright at the sound of keys resisting the stiff lock that secured the double front doors. She recognized the creaking sound as slowly the old glass doors screeched open and voices penetrated the silence of the building. Footsteps echoed in the hallway coming towards the banquet room. Ezzie jumped up from her chair and instinctively darted into a back corridor, a daunting concealed corridor she was too familiar with from past macabre experiences, trying to elude her intruders. Back in the day, the residents referred to this horrific passageway as the torture chamber where all sorts of unexplained treatments happened to naive long-suffering specimens. Who the hell could this be, she wondered, panic gripping hold of her. The only people who ever came in here anymore were the night watchmen and they hadn't bothered to look inside for months now, maybe even years, as far as she could recall. Her heart was pulsing loudly in her ears, as she quietly tucked herself into a cubby hole. Ursula's shrill voice permeated the hallway, "Oh my gosh this is overwhelming Dexter. Do you really think we can do this?" she yelped. "I mean, really, look around. What were we thinking Dexter? There's so much work to do here," she rambled on.  "Some of the walls are literally crumbling. Broken windows. Dust and cobwebs everywhere. The place looks haunted. Who the hell would want to rent a room in this derelict place? How are we ever gonna turn this place around?" "Calm down Ursula, we'll get it done", Dexter assured her. "No need to jump off a cliff honey, we'll take it one step at a time. It's our dream, remember Ursie? We got this," he reassured her again. The clean-up and reconstruction began. Day after day, scrubbing, hammering, scraping, polishing, dusting, and vacuuming. People were coming and going, cleaning services, construction men, lawyers, and inspectors. For the next four months, the place was a beehive of activity, swiftly transforming the old edifice into a reformed pristine fortress. Ursula watched it all happening with amazement, her trepidation gradually easing into excitement while she visualized her dreams coming true, with the formation of a five-star hotel in the works. This was really happening. "This is so exciting isn't it Dexter?" "It is Ursie. Imagine, it won't be long before our first customer walks through the front doors", Dexter countered. "We're getting it done Ursula." He smiled confidently at her. Ezzie was restless. This was getting downright annoying. In fact, it infuriated her. Who are these people to just walk in here and invade her space like this? Over the next few weeks, she festered and pondered her situation, contemplating how to gain her control back, all the while remaining in hiding, feeling overtaken by atrocious intruders. She was irate. The constant hammering and pounding scraped on her last nerve. That bitch's high-pitched cheerful squeals of delight relentlessly exasperated her. From somewhere obscure, a familiar voice whispered to her, offering some advice. " Dial the age back a bit Ezzie and upgrade your fashion sense to this era dear ". She recognized the voice; it was old Freddie from Room 666 just down the hall from her room. Freddie always watched out for Ezzie, he was a good friend to her. The soft sound of his voice resonated in her satiating fond memories, a warmth she realized she had pined for lately.  It was so good to hear from Freddie. "What do you mean Freddie?" she asked curiously.

" You're not from this century my dear. These people will never take you seriously; they'll think you're dressed for Halloween Ezzie. Get with the times, this is the 21st century. You need to dress for this occasion." Freddie continued to bestow his knowledge on her. After a great deal of contemplation, that's what she did, she formulated a plan. I'll just walk right in the front doors. Get a nice room like I used to have. Get treated nicely like I used to, she convinced herself. Ezzie's mind was racing with ideas. She began setting in motion strategies and tricks to play out her devious plan; all this scheming and conniving fabricated immense amusement for her. Her days were busy again and she had a sense of purpose once more. She truly belonged here. When she was completely satisfied that she had appropriately updated herself suitable to this era, wardrobe and makeup in entirety, she gleefully began executing the rest of her ideas. She looked absolutely fabulous. Stunning. The sound of the front doors opening was exciting for Ursula. Her heart was fluttering with anticipation. With any luck this will be their very first customer, she thought to herself. All their hard work tirelessly reconstructing these ancient ruins and breathing life back into this old abandoned structure was about to start paying off. "Welcome, please come in," she said to the lady entering the hotel.

"Hi, do you have any rooms available?" the stranger asked Ursula. "Yes, we do. Single? Double? A suite perhaps? Here are the room prices. Hi. I'm Ursula." "Single. Just me," she replied sheepishly. She smiled and extended a gnarly hand out to shake hands with Ursula. "Hi. I'm Ezzie," she beamed radiantly. She was so happy to be home and have company again.


The sun creeps through the crevasses in the foil plastered on the iron-barred windows. The only sound emanating from Talia's labored breathing, she lays in a corner, contracted into a fetus position watching the movement of the dust particles suspended in Brownian motion. A knock on the door alerts her anxious mind and she kneels before the door. The door opens to reveal a man wearing an impassive mask of arrogance, which upon closer inspection can be seen to carry its own air of self-smugness, dressed in greasy overalls, a gun in his right hand, and a plate of baby food in the other. He places his foot on Talias' head, kicks her to the wall with his feet, and places the food near the dog crate kennel situated in a corner of the room where she sleeps. “Eat”. He says and leaves the room.  Just as he’s about to leave her room and lock her door, she catches a glimpse of her mother watching her with glistening eyes, until the door is eventually shut. Talia crawls to the plate of food and picks up the food with crooked fingers filled with open gashes and consumes it with tears trickling down her pale squeamish skin. Outside of her room, her mom says “Rob, I think, I mean if we could, you know to let her come outside once in a while, it would be… it could be” … followed by what sounds like a blow to her head with a heavy object, probably the gun Rob was holding, and incoherent screaming from Rob's end, “You think,” he says snickering, “who are you to think, go get me my dinner you ungrateful bitch”. What initially started as resentment towards her mother turned into empathy. Talia knew that her mother was as much a victim as she was, the only exception being that Talia was beaten a couple of times, while her mother was beaten all the time. Talia crawls back into her little corner, the pain of her bruised body wearing her down and she drifts off into a heavy slumber. Her mind, often the abode of her emotional refuge, also caused her to have scathing nightmares, manifesting all the repressed emotions she harbored, this time being no exception. The nightmare started as it usually did, with her entering into her friend’s house situated in the prairie. Her inhaler in one hand and her car keys in the other, she enters the house, scouting for Cole. She walks with trepidation, foreboding the outcome of the conversation she was about to have with him.

“Tals”, a voice calls out from a corner of the house. Following the sound of the voice, her gaze lands upon a pair of gleaming hazel eyes, slightly covered by shaggy brown hair. Cole, she says, almost to herself. This is it, she thought, it's now or never, he deserves to know, she says trying to assure herself that what she was doing was the right thing. She wears her brightest smile, attempting to conceal her nervousness, and heads over to him. “Hey Cole”, she says. “Hey Tals”, Cole says and leans over to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “How have you been?” “Um… fine, I guess… I just have something… I mean… there’s, something I wanted to tell you…” Talia mumbles, almost incoherently. “What is it Tals?” Cole asks, concern tinting his face. “You know you can tell me anything right? I’m here for you, and I always will be. You know, that right?” Cole asks. “Right… of course, I do… It's just, um, the thing is… I was going through my phone yesterday when I got a notification from the period tracker app on my phone that I was three weeks late. And I’ve just been so swamped with school, and work, and the band, that it completely slipped my mind. I took a pregnancy test, and I thought it was silly at the time, cause you know we used protection and everything and it was literally just the one time, but it came back positive, and… and I… I just didn’t, I don’t know what…” Talia drifts off and mumbles inarticulately. Talia puts her head down apprehensive of Coles response until finally looks up again and asks him, “What…. Um, what's going through your mind right now?” His face starts morphing. His eyes pooling with red and black hues. He grows ten feet tall, and towers over her, his arms uncannily long, and his face horrifically resembling her father's. “You what to know what I think, huh? I think you’re a little whore that needs to be taught a lesson for spreading your legs around”. He takes a baseball bat and beats her stomach, the force of which causes her to crumble to the ground and writhe in pain. Talia jolts awake, her arms clutching her stomach, sweat trickling down her face, and a horrible migraine beginning to set in. She wakes up to the smell of burning rubber, only to realize that the walls around her are burning down, the door of her room now in the rubble before her. She groggily attempts to get up and sees her mother beckoning frantically from the living room. “Your father is unconscious in the bedroom, quick get out of the room. I’ve called child services. Get up quickly before your father wakes up”. “Mom, what's going on? Why is the house on fire?” Talia asks in fear. “Your bastard of a father has caused us enough pain, Talia. This ends here. Do you know how long it’s been since you left that room? “3-4 months?” Talia responds unsure of the amount of time that elapsed since every day felt the same, caught in a circle of abuse. “1 year Talia. 1year. This ends now. I’m done catering to his violent impulses. I mixed sleeping pills in the dinner. He’s knocked out cold. I called child services and the police, who should be here any minute”. As she finishes saying this, they hear the sound of the police siren ringing in the distance. “Go Talia. Leave. I’ll find a way to live, you’ve suffered enough”. Talia's mother says through dejected eyes. “Bye mom”, Talia says and rushes to her room to grab the bag she packed multiple times before from when she was planning to run away. She grabs the bag, runs to hug her mom, and says, “I don’t blame you, I love you”, and walks out the door, where she’s whisked away by an ambulance. …………………………………………………………………………………………………......... “Could you please tell me your name?”, a petite lady in her mid-30’s asks from behind her cat-eye glasses. Talia eyes the child services badge on her chest heaves a breath of reprieve understanding that she’s finally safe and says, “Talia. Talia Evergreen Rosemund”. “How long were you held captive Talia?” Mrs. Denice asks. “For around a year now”.  Talia responds. “Could you please tell me what exactly caused this captivity? Why did your father suddenly decide to hold you captive?” Mrs. Denice asks again. “It started when he found a pregnancy test in my room”. Talia begins. “ He thought I was sleeping around and called me a whore. I wasn’t sleeping around; in fact, I’d only ever been with one person. After that, he would come into my room and start beating me up and telling me that I’m going to hell. I decided to have an abortion and somehow, he found out about it and followed me to the clinic. Before I got there, he came in front of my car and dragged me back home, and abused me further. He forced me to carry on with the pregnancy and after I gave birth, he gave the baby up for adoption. I tried running away after the pregnancy and he found out and locked me up for a year and abused me almost every day saying “It's gods will to punish the insolent”. “He locked me in my room and plastered the windows shut so that the neighbors wouldn’t know, and soundproofed my room so that people wouldn’t hear me cry out in pain. I know this might be an extremely insensitive thing to say, but I’m so grateful for the pandemic because it gave me my freedom back. Had it not been for the pandemic, my father wouldn’t have been napping during the afternoon and my mom wouldn’t have been able to slip him sleeping drugs and call you guys. He always comes home late at night and his schedule is always unpredictable, but because of the pandemic, my mother was able to understand where he was at every moment and could plan around it and save me”. Talia finishes erratically attempting to hold onto her resolve. The social worker looks over at Talia with empathetic eyes, reaches out to hold her hand in a gesture of providing solace and assurance, and says, “You’re safe now sweetie. Your safe.” Unable to control the amount of gratitude and relief she felt, Talia jumped up from her seat and clung tightly to the social worker, and spoke “Thank you. Thank you so much”.  Talia steps back smiling with gratitude and acknowledges the fact that the pandemic that took away most people’s freedom provided her liberation.