In the dimly lit museum, the silence was broken only by the faint sound of an infamous art thief's muffled breathing, known to law enforcement agencies as 'The Ghost.' He crouched behind a marble statue, his heart pounding in his chest with the adrenaline surge in his blood and his palms slick with sweat of anticipation. As an adrenaline junky, he was again on a mission, and every nerve in his body was on edge as he observed his target, protected by the museum's state-of-the-art security system. The Interpol had been chasing The Ghost for years, suspecting him of committing over twenty art thefts internationally. He had a particular knack for stealing renowned paintings, each with a value of ten million dollars or higher. So far, he had evaded capture, slipping away into the shadows with his stolen treasures. With each successful heist, his reputation grew, making him one of the most wanted criminals in the art world. He was a person of interest to law enforcement agencies, who were relentlessly pursuing him to bring him to justice. On the other hand, his formidable reputation had caught the attention of criminal dons trying to hire his services for their illicit desires. Despite the pressure from both sides, he remained elusive, and his identity and whereabouts were unknown. Even with their best efforts, the police had never come close to apprehending The Ghost. The thief was meticulous, leaving no trace of his presence at the crime scenes. But the authorities hadn't given up hope. A reward of one million dollars was being offered for any information that could help catch The Ghost, and the prize amount was increasing. They were determined to catch him at any cost. He had dedicated many years to perfecting his skills in the art of stealing. He spent countless hours studying famous paintings and the habits and routines of private collectors, art galleries, and museums. He meticulously planned his heists, targeting small private collections to large museums. He was determined to succeed despite the risks involved, and nothing could deter him from achieving his goal. However, this heist was unique. It would be his masterpiece, the theft that would forever establish his name in the history of art theft. His target was 'The Black Tulip,' a painting considered the finest, valued at around a quarter of a billion dollars. The museum's exceptionally robust security system was unmatched elsewhere. The room was fitted with a complex network of laser grids that crisscrossed the space. Additionally, pressure-sensitive tiles were installed under the plush carpet, which served as an additional layer of protection. These tiles ensured that any unauthorized weight on the floor would trigger the alarm. He had spent countless hours studying the museum's blueprints, memorizing every inch of the floor plan. He knew where the security cameras, pressure-sensitive tiles, and the network of invisible laser grids were located and had meticulously planned his approach. But as he reached out to grab the painting, a sudden wave of doubt washed over him. Had he missed something? Was there a flaw in his plan that he overlooked? He felt his heart racing in his chest as doubt overwhelmed him. He knew trying to steal 'The Black Tulip' was a significant risk, but the painting was too valuable to ignore. The question remained: Would he be able to steal the painting, or would he get caught? The thought of failure was daunting. He took a deep, slow breath, focusing on his inhale and exhale. He continued the exercise until he regained his calm. He was running out of time as the museum's annual gala was the next night, and the painting would be moved to a more secure location. He had only one chance to immortalize his name as the most notorious art thief ever. He fought back his doubts as he approached the frame. The painting portrayed a striking black woman seated in a field of red tulips, challenging the societal issues that plagued black individuals during the slavery era. The woman in the painting was watching him, and her eyes seemed to follow him. Her lips curved in a mocking half-smile as if mocking his hesitation. He placed the diamond glass cutter against the frame and held his breath. The blade moved smoothly, cutting the glass into a perfect rectangle. He then carefully removed the glass, revealing the canvas beneath. The painting seemed to come alive with its vibrant colors, and the woman's face exuded a sense of vitality. She appeared happy, as though she had finally escaped the glass cage that used to imprison her. Then he saw the tripwire. An almost invisible thin thread connected to an alarm system stretched across the painting. His heart pounded again. He had missed it during his recce, and it was unforgivable. "How did I miss the tripwire? How could I have overlooked something so obvious?" his sense of pride was wounded. "I should pay more attention to details, as the devil is in the details." He faced a tough decision: either risk triggering the alarm by unwinding the wire or quit. He hesitated, torn between instinct and reason. As he looked at the painting, it felt like the woman in it was urging him to embrace the risk with her gleaming eyes. He had put immense effort into stealing The Black Tulip, intending to etch his name into history as the most notorious art thief, 'The Legendary Ghost.' How could he ignore this heist? He could never forgive himself if he gave up now. After meticulously analyzing the tripwire and examining its details, he retrieved a long, thin copper wire from his compact backpack and carefully used it to bypass the ultra-thin wire. Then, he cautiously cut the tripwire with a tiny pair of wire cutters. His heart raced as he braced himself for the worst, yet the alarm stayed silent. With a sense of relief, gradually growing into triumph, he unhooked the painting from the wall and held it in his hands, marveling at its beauty. The woman's eyes seemed to soften this time, granting him her silent blessing. Taking great care not to damage the artwork, he carefully rolled the canvas, tucked it into a pipe-like case he had brought, and slipped into the shadows, leaving behind the museum and its secrets. The Black Tulip was his now, and victory tasted sweet. The following day, he visited a nearby news agency to check the newspapers and gather information about his latest work. He enjoyed reading exaggerated claims by journalists who credited him with having supernatural powers or having an IQ far greater than Einstein. 'The Ghost had struck again' was featured in bold and prominent font on the front page of the city's largest newspaper. Filled with a sense of satisfaction, he proceeded to the cashier's desk to pay for the newspaper. "Can they apprehend him?" inquired the news agency owner. "Apprehending whom?" he asked. "The Ghost. Can police catch him?" "Most likely not. He is a master in his art," he replied proudly. "Without a doubt, he is a true master of theft. But I don't mind him." "Why?" "Because he only steals from the rich and not the poor." "Like Robin Hood?" "That's right, just like Robin Hood."


Alexander's ride from the rideshare app turned out to be a young woman in her mid-20s driving a tan, beaten down Ford Taurus. She wore a tank top, bleached jean shorts, and a face - curtained by wavy, shoulder length blonde hair - that was deadened and lifeless, like a house that had been boarded up. They met on a clear July day at a Chevron near the interstate in North Salt Lake. The sun was just peeking over the valley's mountain peaks, casting its rays through the light morning smog. "I'm Annabel, you can call me Bel," she introduced herself. "Alexander," he said, nodding.

They slung his backpack into a tight space behind the driver's seat as the entire trunk and most of the backseat was filled with piles of her belongings. As they started off, she explained she was heading home after a college summer quarter, and Alexander acknowledged he was a recent graduate moving for a new job. During this exchange he noticed that his seat was not reclined at all, but in a ramrod-straight, vertical position. He reached for the recline lever. "Oh don't, please, sorry Alex, there's a fish tank behind you, it's glass."

Alexander pushed back a few millimeters, as far as he dared, until he felt significant resistance from the object behind his seat. She glared at him.

"It's Alexander," said Alexander somewhat shortly, who disliked nicknames for their brevity and informality. She ignored this. They drove past squat glass and concrete office buildings, supermarkets, and sprawling RV lots as the sun rose steadily higher. Its rays skirmished the car, and, even though it was still early, it became obvious the car's weak air conditioner was losing the battle. Alexander began to sweat a little. His back started to ache from being held perpendicular for so long and he shifted in his seat to try and relieve the pressure.

"Man, it's like ten times hotter than when I drove home this time last year," she said.

"Did you know, relative to the sun, we are in the same spot we were this day a year ago? Despite traveling at terrific speeds through space, we have effectively gone nowhere in an entire year."

She blinked at this unsolicited fact. "Oh," she replied. "My father was an astrophysicist," he explained proudly, oblivious to the awkward pause.

"You must be really smart."

"Fairly, yes," he wiped some sweat from his brows.

She stared at him for a bit, registered that his arrogance was genuine and completely unperturbed by her incredulity, and promptly cranked up her music. Alexander could feel each beat drilled into his spine as Nicki Minaj, Lil' Wayne and others rapped relentlessly through the morning. He made to say something, but she surreptitiously turned it louder. The windows thrummed. Alexander could feel air puff at the back of his head every time the bass thudded. He folded his arms and resigned himself to staring out the window.

The suburbs dropped away, and they climbed Soldier summit, swimming through rolling oceans of sagebrush and cheat grass. Mid-morning she pulled into a rest stop. Alexander, who believed that any stop on a road trip besides refueling was a criminal waste of time, scowled at the dashboard and refused to enjoy the brief silence. They rolled through the wastelands of southern Idaho next, with huge flat swaths of brown grass stretching out on either side of them that were broken only at the horizon by distant mountain ranges. There was a brief respite from the sun as huge purple thunderclouds crawled across the plains, but near Mountain Home, the sun returned in full glory. Bel stopped at a rest stop there, and then again forty minutes later near Boise. When they got back on the road, Alexander, with his back aching from his cramped position, sweating profusely, and dizzy from the deafening roar of her music, reached over and swatted the radio off.

"I cannot stand that stuff," he sniffed. "It's my car, Alex," she said, flipping it back on.

Alexander flipped it off again. She switched it on. For a few moments they struggled with the knob as she swerved through Boise traffic. Bel gave in and threw up her hands.

“Ok! OK! It's off," she snarled. Then she abruptly pulled into the next rest stop. Alexander breathed a low sigh of frustration.

"Oh good, I did not really want to get there anytime soon," he growled. "I have to pee." Alexander paced around the car while he waited, trying to cool his thoughts. The dazzling sun, baking black top, and endless traffic buzzing nearby on the freeway did not help. Bel took a full twenty minutes. Alexander was ready to do battle when she returned, but was surprised when she said, "I'm sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Can we try again?" This sudden reversal disarmed Alexander, and he agreed with a sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry I've got so much junk, maybe I could rearrange it a bit?"

"No, that is ok," said Alexander, eager to get back on the road. "I am sorry I turned your radio off. I do not really mind your music, however I do not like losing my hearing." "It's alright, we'll compromise," she said cheerily as she turned the radio on low. "So what's this new job you got?" "Software engineer. I actually graduated a year ago, and this will be my third new job in the last six months." "Oh?" she raised her eyebrows.

"My coworkers at my last two jobs, they... we did not agree much, and they carried grudges - they actively tried to force me out. I am hoping this one will be different." "Oh man, sorry." "It is alright," Alexander shrugged. "You know what my father does - what about you, what do your parents do?" "Nothing. My dad used to grow hay. One year a competitor forced him out. We were going to move, but while he was carrying a couple boxes out our door, he twisted funny and broke his back. Now he's a paraplegic in a wheelchair." She explained this in a detached manner. Alexander felt slightly horrified that such a terrible reversal of fortunes was even possible, and stammeringly tried to offer condolences. "He loves aquariums now, he sits and watches the fish for hours, every day. He has all kinds, iridescent blues and reds, hues of green and orange. He gives them all names and personalities." Alexander suddenly understood the tank behind him. "That is nice of you, to get him another one." "Some of them got broken," she shrugged, then shook her head, "That's not really true, I broke some of them. Seeing him there every day, stuck, so trapped, spiraling around his limited routine, and all the while he could have been out doing things if something so simple hadn't..." she broke off and took a deep breath, "it's just, he could have gone places, done things, you know? Now he goes nowhere." Alexander didn't know what to say. She continued. "Before his accident, in the summers my dad would use spare bales to make huge forts for us. We'd spend days camping out in them, sleeping under the stars, running our hands over their prickly walls and breathing in the smell of the fresh cut grass. We looked forward to it every year." Alexander smiled pleasantly at this. "I used to love days like this,” he said. “My grandmother had a pool with a kind of astro turf around it. It was unusual, most people have concrete you know, but I loved to lay on that soft, bright green turf, dip my feet in the cool water, and count the cirrus clouds whipping by way above." The small peace that had settled between them helped Alexander relax slightly. They gassed up in Ontario, but when they got on the road again the air conditioning seemed noticeably more pitiful.

Soon Alexander's back began to ache with sharper pains, and sweat dripped off him in earnest as the afternoon sun shot through the windshield. He regretted declining her offer to rearrange the fish tank. As the silence stretched on she turned up her music a bit more to fill it. Alexander pushed back on his seat, desperate to gain an inch, until they heard a faint crackling.

"Seriously?" she said. She pulled off on the side of the road to inspect it. Alexander drummed his fingers in impatience.

"Lucky," she said, "it's just the plastic rim." She rearranged some items, and got the tank farther back, so that he could lay back a couple inches. It took her nearly fifteen minutes to carefully replace her stuff, and Alexander sighed loudly more than a few times. When they got going again she increased the volume again. Alexander complained but she pretended not to hear. Oregon, punctuated by small towns with large green trees, slipped by as the afternoon wore down.

Alexander remembered something. "I misspoke earlier," he had to talk loudly over the music. "I said we had gone nowhere in the past year - just around and around. But really, our galaxy has been moving this entire time. From that perspective, we have travelled great distances." "Don't care," she fumed.

"As time goes on we move farther and farther away from center, light from other galaxies gets dimmer and dimmer. We get further and further into empty space." They were in pine forests, nearing Meacham.

"Is that me? Is that what you're trying to say? Petering out into nothing?" "No I -" "At least I'm not you, going nowhere in circles. Third job is the charm? Ask yourself what the common denominator is sometime." She had snapped before she could stop herself.

"Oh man, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean -" but it was too late - Alexander rammed his seat back as hard as he could. The fish tank shattered and glass splattered over the seat and onto the floor. Bel slammed her car to a stop on the shoulder.

"Out," she said, shaking. Alexander snatched his backpack, hurled the door shut, and stepped out into the sunset. He stood on the side of the interstate, and watched Bel drive away as the tree tops projected black silhouettes against the burning orange sky. Bel looped around and found him later walking in the dimming light. He got in and hugged his backpack to his chest. She had shut the music off, and as they drove they listened together to the hum of the world flying past, hurtling along lines and arcs, never still, lapping up mile after mile.

"Are we there yet?" he asked. "I don't know," she sighed.


Absence Makes The Heart Grow Shallower ‘It's better to be the best version of yourself, then being the second best version of somebody else’ What does that really mean. How do I know if I'm the best version of myself? You could say as long as I'm happy but really, I can't be happy 24/7. So when I am sad, am I not the best I can be? When I'm anything but happy am I not enough?  As I write this and as you read this. We are total strangers. You have no idea who I am. I have no idea who you are. But I can tell you before you start reading, I'm so totally in love with you.

— — —

You know the saying ‘you can read someone like a book’? Well, that's exactly what you are doing right now. You are reading me…a book. Am I trapped in a book? Like some Harry Potter type thing. No, I'm not trapped. I can leave whenever I want. I can stop writing whenever I want. But why would i? If I stop writing, then you stop reading and that means I wont get to see your face looking into mine. I wont see your eyes darting from one word to the next. But I know I have to. You have to move on. You have to find someone, someone real. Knowing that these words will be my last to you makes me ache over every inch of my body. I want to keep writing, even if it's complete nonsense but if I really do love you, which I do, I have to let you go. It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. I’m so grateful for the days I spent with you. When you brought me to meet your grandparents. Yes, I may have been in your pocket but I got to hear the voices of the people you treasure just as much as I treasure you. Maybe I'll see you someday. I know exactly what you look like, of course. I studied your face everyday so I could remember every detail of it. Sometimes you would come back to me looking a bit different. Like when you dyed your hair. I will never forget you or how you look. You may forget me but at least for however long you kept reading me, you remembered me.

My dreams may be empty without you but I don't want you worrying about me being alone. As long as I have you with me in memory, I will never be alone.

— — —  I know I need to let you go but this is so much harder than I imagined. I just needed to tell you that you made me the best version of myself, and I'm not happy all the time. I finally understand what the quote means. The best version of yourself is when you are so totally and completely fine with not being happy all the time, not pleasing everyone all the time. Thank you for teaching me this. Although you never said anything to me, I heard you louder than ever. You understood me in a way no one will ever be able to. No words, nothing but silence but as we both know very well, silence speaks louder than words. So even though we didn't use our voices to talk, we were probably the loudest people on planet earth. We were like those people on the dart that don't use earphones or don't wait to answer the call when they've left the carriage.

We were so silent that my throat is sore from being as loud as we were.

— — —

I saw you today. The urge I felt to hug you or just exchange an ‘excuse me’ while walking past you but you looked me dead in the eyes and saw right through me, like I wasn't there. And that's when I realised that I forgot I wasn't really there. People aren't able to see me, that's why I was trapped in a book, because I'm not capable of physically being in the outside world. I'm a ghost. I am dead. I thought I would never get a chance at love because I didn't experience it before I died. But here I am the most in love I could ever be and I'm talking to the love of my life… or if you can call it the love of my death. — — —

I know I'm not meant to talk to you but I find myself even more drawn to you than ever these days, if that's possible. As I write this I'm starting to think that you may not love me back. It makes sense. I got to learn about you inside and out but you just learned how infatuated I was with you. You don't truly know me, you never will. It's heartbreaking to feel this way, that you will never love me back. It almost feels like I'm dying again. Death from heartbreak seems like a sad way to die (again) but at least I got to experience heartbreak. Another thing I never thought I could do.

— — —

People say ‘you see things through your thoughts’ kind of like the saying ‘you can speak things into existence. But no matter how many times I think about you or how many times I say your name, you don't appear. I'm getting frustrated now. Why can't I see you, why can't you love me like I love you? Please, just one moment of love from you will complete me. I might be able to leave this place if you give me the chance to complete myself.

— — —

I don't want you to appear anymore. I loved you and still love you more than existence and I get nothing from you. Another quote for you; ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’. This absence is making me long for you more, so much more that I'm nearly starting to hate you for not being here with me. Hold me while I cry, while I die and while I long to go back to the days I would see your head peer over my pages..

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, maybe, but it also makes it grow shallower. — — — I may have been too late. Too late to love you. Too late that you didn't love me back. But, I guess it's ‘Better late than never’.


It was approaching 2am when Lexi made the discovery that would

fracture the world. She skulled the rest of her black coffee and sat the paper cup down on the smooth, white table. She was at the university working on her PhD thesis. The research involved creating controlled, miniature black holes in a Vacuity Machine and then testing its potential for hyper-space travel. It was mostly hypothetical research. Lexi ran the formulas through the Vacuity Machine over and over again. She was analysing the results of her most recent trial, bleary-eyed from a lack of sleep, when a chill ran from her tail bone to her shoulders. "Holy mother of God," she said to the air. She took a moment to catch her breath. Lexi had found evidence that no god existed. No god, gods or any divine creators of life. None. Nothing. And it was all discovered by accident, as an unexpected side effect of her research. The proof was irrefutable. Undeniable. It was flashing on the screen of this machine in an insignificant laboratory at an unimportant university on an irrelevant planet. Her proposal wasn’t intended to yield any definitive conclusions but black holes are a mystery and when you continuously prod the unknown, something unintentional is bound to occur. I need to call Steve.  She thought. Forty-five minutes later and her supervisor-turned-lover, Steve, burst through the door of the lab. "Where?" he asked. Lexi pointed to the screen. "I'm certain I interpreted the data correctly but I need another pair of eyes,” she said. Steve hurried over to the screen, eyes focused on the target like a predator on its prey. A silence stretched on for the next hour as Steve filtered through the results. Lexi watched the screen over his shoulder, trying to find a flaw in the formula, a discrepancy in the data. She was overwhelmed by the potential power she held. Finally, Steve turned around to face her. He took off his glasses and looked at her with an unnatural glow in his eyes. "It's watertight, Lex,” he said. “There’s no doubt about it.” He made a sound that was somewhere between and laugh and a cry. "We're officially godless."

* A few hours passed as they retested the hypothesis. The results came out the same every time. They left the lab as the sun rose and Steve offered to drive Lexi home. She refused, preferring to walk home in the crisp morning air. She needed to process the impact of her discovery. Steve understood, gave her a quick peck on the lips and sped back home in his Subaru. Lexi walked home on the path that followed the beachfront. She breathed in salt and leaves and coffee from a nearby van where a man was selling hot beverages to morning walkers. She bought a black coffee, exchanging a polite smile with the barista, and sat on a bench overlooking the calm ocean.

The discovery did not threaten Lexi’s identity. She had never truly been religious. “Agnostic,” she’d say if the topic ever arose but she had never based her life on these beliefs. Still, as she sipped her bitter coffee and watched the amber sky give way to blue, she felt as if some mystery or some sort of magic had departed the earth. She watched the passers-by. The runner with a pram, the women laughing and gossiping on their power walk, a dog playing fetch with its owner in the shallows of the ocean. Lexi could already feel the foundations of society buckling under the weight of her discovery. Society was mostly secular these days but she understood the importance and the need for purpose even if it was an illusion. And here I am... one person who rendered everything meaningless. The realisation pierced her conscience like a nail through skin. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t take responsibility for it. I need to call Steve. She thought for the second time that morning. She pulled out her phone and touched Steve’s name. There was barely any time for a ring before Steve picked up. "Lexi!" his face appeared on her phone screen. “Steve, listen to me. We can’t release the results to the public.” “What are you talking about? Why not?” he demanded. Tears began to gather around the lids of her eyes. “I can’t do it. It’s not ethical.” His tone changed, became softer and more reassuring. "Oh darling, don't be worried. This is a good thing. Trust me.” He paused for a moment. “This… is the right thing, Lex.” “You can't know that,” she countered. “I know that it might stop some oppressive regimes and wars. It’ll shut up those bigoted zealots for a start.” "Steve, we’re not doing it. We’re just not.” Her voice was surer now, more adamant. Steve took a deep breath in and pushed the air back out with a long sigh. "Look, Lex. This is an amazing thing you've discovered. Don't hide it. The world should know.” “I’m not so- “ He interjected, “even without religion, people will still find something to believe in." There was silence between them for a few seconds. "Plus, I've forwarded the research to a few contacts at NASA. They’re briefing the President this afternoon.” *** Pope James was jostled out of sleep by his 5am alarm. He rose out of bed, put on his white robe, its matching zucchetto and his large, silver crucifix which weighed down comfortably around his neck. At the end of the corridor was his private chapel, a room in which he took morning mass alone. The chapel was dressed in cardinal red from the velvet curtains to the patterned, Italian rug on the floor. The red was contrasted by a white and gold alter adorned with roses and cream candles that flickered when lit. Frankincense coated the room with its earthy, sweet notes. A white Jesus on a dark wooden cross hung from the wall above the alter, his face tired and weary. Pope James knelt before the Son of God. O Lord, I come to you to praise you on this great early morning as the sun begins to rise… As he gave his silent thanks, he found his mind wandering to Sister Celia. Images of her tanned skin and soft, brown eyes bubbled to the surface of his memory and he shook his head quickly as if to burst them. Give me guidance to lead and to inspire, give me strength to overcome the trials… Her smile pierced his concentration. Her lips distracted his focus as thoughts of her continued to inundate him. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen. Pope James opened his eyes and looked to his left where the life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary and her baby stood, watching over him with an expression of love and purity. He averted his eyes out of shame, as if she was real and could read his thoughts. * The meeting to discuss the discovery was scheduled for 9am. Pope James walked through the arches of the Papal apartment halls. The blue and gold painted ceiling reflected onto the polished marble floor which was so clean it appeared as if a thin layer of water ran across it. Father John, his butler, followed a footstep behind. “Are you concerned, Pope James?” asked Father John. “Not in the slightest.” Pope James kept his eyes fixed ahead of him as they spoke. “A lot of the world leaders are,” Father John pushed. “They’re nervous about the potential for chaos and instability.” Pope James stopped. “And are you, Father John, suggesting that I too should be worried about the potential implausibility of our God?” Father John didn’t shy away from this test of authority. “No. My faith is stronger than ever as I’m sure yours is too. But I’ve never seen rational world leaders behaving as senselessly as they are now. Some major cities in the USA have been shut down to counteract a potential increase in public violence. That in itself is concerning.” “A lot of those leaders should be rejoicing, shouldn’t they? Isn’t this what they’ve always wanted?” Pope James offered no more thoughts and they continued walking in silence. Father John had a point. Uncertainty, often accompanied by fear, was spreading through the masses like an unmanageable viral outbreak, and not just in the USA. The data of the research wasn’t public knowledge but rumours were already placing a strain on the population’s peace of mind. They approached the meeting room, a large rectangle outlined by a ring of wooden chairs. Dark, mahogany bookshelves lined the cream walls and a patterned, crimson rug took up the space in the centre of the room where one might expect a table to be. Pope James sat at the right side of the room in front of a religious painting. Papal members entered the room in single file and each took their seats on the perimeters. Sister Celia sat a few chairs away from the Pope and they shared a brief smile. Then Pope James stood. “Good morning all,” he announced. “We are here to discuss the academic research of Alexa Miller and Stephen Chalmers which, apparently, provides evidence that God does not exist.” A small laugh sounded from the Papal members. “I would like to note that this is something I would not usually waste our time with, however, a number of world leaders have placed a large amount of pressure on us to investigate the research.” Pope James looked across the room, making eye contact with each Papal member as he spoke. “As modern members of the Vatican, we must work with political leaders and carry out our duties as leaders of the church to unify the voice of Catholicism. I am hoping that we can be finished with this spectacle before lunchtime.” He smiled and the room indulged his cynical dig with a collective laugh. “Let’s begin.” Four men, all dressed in black suits, took the verbal cue and entered the middle of the room. They began to set up a large computer which looked alien in a such a traditionally-designed room. The computer was the size of a vending machine and a similar shape too. Its dull, silver flanks had multiple cables running from it to circular outlets on a black cube nearby. Lights were flashing on and off. A power bank of sorts, Pope James speculated. Other cables from the silver structure led to a small screen perched on top of a table that the computer men had brought in. After about fifteen minutes, one of them spoke. “Pope James, it is ready for you to observe.” Pope James pushed himself out of his seat and walked towards the computer screen. “We will run the formulas through the computer as Alexa Miller did. Then we will proceed to break down the results for you and the Papal members for discussion.” The man’s words came off as slightly patronising but Pope James brushed his annoyance aside. “Okay, let’s get this done with.” * Three hours later and the room was silent with shock. The suited men had left and taken their hideous technology with them, leaving the members to discuss the events privately. Suddenly, the silence gave way to a cacophony of chaos as members, hit by the reality of the discovery, broke into fits of panic. “Silence. Silence!” Pope James stood up and shouted above the discordance of voices. Everybody succumbed to his command. “What we have witnessed today is indeed alarming and unexpected. But God would not want us to behave like primitive monkeys in light of what we have seen. I am suggesting that this is a sinister ploy by the Devil and we should discuss how to approach it.” He only partially believed what he had said. Someone shouted from the other end of the room. “God doesn’t exist and neither does the Devil! You all just saw it for yourselves!” “Our lives and work have been a joke!” Another yelled and an angry murmur of agreement echoed throughout the room. For the first time, Pope James was scared. He improvised. “If your faith in our Holy Father dithers so easily in the face of a devilish charade, then you no longer deserve to be a part of the Vatican and I ask you to leave immediately.” He’d intended it to come out as more of a threat than an instruction and was startled when lifelong friends and colleagues filed out of the meeting room. Only five remained, including himself. Father John, a Bishop, another priest he did not know well and Sister Celia. "You need to make a public speech denouncing the research,” the Bishop urged. “By saying nothing, you're making a statement. You're admitting that they're right." "People will think you agree with them," Father John chimed in and the others nodded in agreement. Sister Celia grabbed his hand. "What is

He  telling you, Pope James?" she asked. Everybody fell silent, choosing to ignore the inappropriate physical contact. Pope James became aware of a quiet pecking at the window. His gaze followed the sound and he spotted a pigeon sitting on the stone ledge just outside the window, its head turning directions quickly and sporadically as if it were stuck in a glitch. The others looked at the pigeon too. "Pope James?" Sister Celia spurred him out of his trance. "I will hold a public speech to reassure the believers. He

is telling me that there is nothing to fear as long as our faith remains strong. And mine is immovable." He felt his stomach sink as the words left his mouth. * Pope James did not sleep for the next four nights. * The morning of the speech, Pope James rose from his bed and put on his robe as usual. He fixed the silver crucifix around his neck, noting his dark eyes in the mirror. The wrinkles around his face were more pronounced than usual and the colour in his eyes seemed to have greyed. He knelt at the alter in his private chapel as he did each day, delirious with anxiety. He hadn’t felt the respite of sleep for days and was finding it hard to distinguish the difference between reality and unreality. Weren’t they the same thing now anyway? "God, give me guidance. Give me faith. Show me that you are real," he pleaded to the heavens but the words felt weightless. The air in the room felt still. The candles no longer flickered as they usually did. The frankincense smelt burnt somehow. He looked to his left where the Virgin Mary stood. She looked at him and the sides of her smile began to stretch up her cheeks. Her eyes narrowed and her lips split apart releasing an otherworldly laugh and Pope James fell from his knees onto the ground in fear. He bolted out of the room, trying to escape the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. On his way out, he bumped into Sister Celia, sweet-scented and solemn. “Pope James,” she gasped. “I heard you yell from your chapel and rushed over. Are you alright?” She held his elbow, offering comfort, and looked up at him. Pope James was breathing rapidly like a panicked child. Sister Celia maintained her composure. “Come with me. I’ll make you a tea to calm your nerves.” “But the speech is only an hour away. I need to prepare.” “The best thing for you right now, is to sit down and breathe.” *** Lexi and Steve sat together on a dirty, blue couch watching the news from a safe house in the middle of wherever. They had moved there yesterday after angry strangers starting attacking them on the streets and just before heated mobs had found their addresses. The news broadcasted scenes of civil disruption. Looters climbed through the broken windows of shops, trucks sped through smoke-filled streets and places of worship burned down with voracious flames. In other shots, masses of people were seen praying to a giant banner hooked up to the side of a building. On it was a painting of Lexi’s face. Neither Lexi nor Steve commented. They were numbed and convinced themselves that the outside world was a separate, fictional reality. Steve broke the silence. “It’s nearly time, switch it to World News.” Lexi felt sick. She had caused this mayhem, this Armageddon of sorts. She didn’t want to watch the speech but she switched the channel anyway. Something inside her hoped that Pope James would say something to rectify the situation, to reverse the damage she’d caused. The Pope’s gaunt face shone from the TV. His tired, frail body moved up the steps to the podium where the microphone was placed. Lexi remembered him being old but not this old. “Hello,” Pope James said as he leaned into the microphone. “Many of you have been waiting for my comment on Alexa Miller’s discovery.” Lexi felt like retching when he said her name. “And I would just like to say that I have observed the evidence and have reflected on it.” He stared up at the sky for a long time. Lexi could see from the close-up that he was shaking. He pulled something out from somewhere in his robe and raised it to his chin. Lexi screamed and the TV visuals shook as the cameraman temporarily lost control of the camera. Before the Pope could pull the trigger, a nun jumped across the stage and tackled him to the ground. Pope James cried as the nun cradled him in her arms. After a long moment, he looked up at the nun and kissed her. “The world’s gone mad,” Steve said. “No thanks to us,” Lexi replied. They looked at each other gravely and after a while, broke into a laugh. And they laughed until they no longer could.


He’d been here before. The stairs were spiralling up, out of sight. The journey to walk them exhausted him. No matter how much he exerted himself, he still found himself at the bottom of them. He continued and pushed on, but got nowhere. Each look above was greeted by the same scene of endless stairs, going up, up, up. He was out of breath and paused for a moment, he looked above, and then below. He’d made absolutely no progress. How was this even possible? He’d been climbing for hours now. The staircase was glimmering with a golden sheen under the moonlight. Just as his body hit a wall of agony and pure exhaustion, he awoke. Sweat poured from his body. He was drenched. Another dream. The same dream in fact, that he had experienced since his teens. Terry was, other than his reoccurring nightmare, a normal guy. He worked at the local tools outlet and spent his days advising clueless (usually female) customers in which glue would be most suitable for that furniture repair, or which paint for the damp bathroom ceiling. He found great enjoyment from his work. It wasn't a managerial position, and he’d always discerned that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be anyway. He was happy enough. When Terry had met the love of his life, he was on his hands and knees, helping a dear elderly customer pick up the screws and nails she‘d clumsily dropped onto the hard floor. Chloe had rushed over, to find a kind, older store worker already there, calming the lady down with his sincere words. Chloe found herself holding the dear lady’s hand, as Terry did the clearing up. The lady treated them both as if they’d literally just saved her life. So thankful she was, for their kindness. Chloe had gone to walk away, but found herself hesitating. Struggling to know what to say, she produced a made-up scenario to which Terry would have to assist. Chloe had only gone into the store for a drill, but she came out with damp-proofing paint, and treatment for her garden shed. She’d spent a small fortune. And she’d forgotten to get a drill. Chloes visits to the store became more frequent. They clearly experienced a “spark” between them, and a fairly short time later, they were happily married, with a large stock of every DIY product any woman could wish for. Terry couldn’t explain his nightmares. His parents had unfortunately died, but he had one living brother who they saw occasionally. On having a heart scare in hospital, and being instructed to make some ”huge lifestyle changes” , Chloe felt this was the opportune time to have him over. John dutifully helped Chloe load the dishwasher after the meal. Chloe then broached the subject. Johns demeanour immediately changed as Chloe explained what she knew of the dream, and how it affected Terry. She looked intently at him. He slouched a little. “I dont know for sure Chloe. But someone was injured in his class in Secondary school once. I think they were quite close. Maybe it’s something to do with it? But you mustn’t tell Terry I said anything ok?” That night, the dream returned. Terry is there again. Same staircase. Same exhaustion and frustration as he pushes himself up and up, but gets nowhere. The glistening blinds him as he suddenly hears a voice. It’s John. “You did this Terry. You did this. One day you’ll pay for it”. Terry awakes suddenly. That’s never happened before. This time, Terry can’t get back to sleep, he tosses and turns for the rest of the night. In the morning, John doesn’t stop long. He gratefully accepts a strong coffee and quick bagel, then sets off for home. Terry walks him to the door. “I heard you last night, you know” John whispers. “Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you to make amends....” he quickly exits the house, not allowing Terry an opportunity to reply. He’s stunned. He can’t believe his brother has just said that. He stands, mortified. So John hadn’t forgotten. Chloe knows something is wrong. “What’s wrong love?” She attempts to appear completely unaware of what may have been said. “I’m fine. It’s just...”, he hesitates. He takes a deep breath. “There’s something I’ve been putting off for a long time. And I think I need to, well, make it right”. He walks, still stunned, through to the bedroom and reappears in his smart church clothes and an overnight bag packed. “Darling, I need you to just trust me. I promise everything’s fine. I’ll be back tomorrow. And I’ll tell you everything then, ok?” Terry kisses Chloe tenderly on the forehead. She says nothing. Terry senses her resignation and holds her face in his hands, “I love you”. Then he leaves. Terry wasn’t entirely sure where to start. But he knew the principal at the school was still there. So, that was his starting point. He’s eventually ushered in to see the very elderly principal Mr Heeds. He recognised Terry after a few moments and seemed genuinely delighted to see his previous student. “Good grief boy, you’ve changed!” exclaimed Mr Heeds. Was he always this short? Terry had remembered him much taller. And straighter. And a bit scarier if truth be told. Terry intends to get straight to business. Mr Heeds chuckles as they enjoy reminiscing times past. “Dreadful affair though, with that poor girl wasn’t it?” And there it was. Clara. Her name was Clara. “Have you any idea where she is now? I’d love to get in touch” Terry is almost stammering. For a few moments there is silence. “I think her Mum helps out at the homeless centre in town” he has a look of sadness on his face. After pleasant thank you’s and goodbyes, Terry waits around for over an hour, placed in reception. He muses over all the displays to pass the time until a secretary appears with a neatly produced folder, containing photocopied prom pictures and paper clips. ” I trust you will deal with this material delicately in your article” she states. He abhors it here. Even after all these years, the school still had an stiff upper-lip air about it. He’d hated it then, and he hated it now. John, his brother, had rebelled from day one. Terry was more subservient, and preferred to keep a low profile. He kept his circle small and tried to stay as far away from John as possible. Terry sat in his car for a while, unable to contain his emotions any more. Once he’d started crying he couldn’t stop. Once he’d flushed out every tear, he looked at himself in the rear view mirror. Man alive, he looked rough. He flicked through the folder and there she is, page 14, looking radiant, beautiful and ravishingly gorgeous. Clara. Thanks to google maps, the homeless centre wasn’t difficult to find. It helped that he’d actually met Clara’s Mum, albeit briefly when he’d collected Clara that night, although his gaze was transfixed elsewhere. She was a single Mum and crying with tears of pride when her daughter stepped carefully down the stairs, in a beautiful golden yellow evening gown. Entering the homeless centre wasn’t a pleasant experience. He wished hed changed before coming here, why hadn’t he thought of this? He headed for the soup kitchen and apologised for interrupting, but did anyone know where Mary was? The kitchen was fairly chaotic, but one lady looks up. “She‘s out the back, on her break” the lady points to the back of the kitchen, the door open. “Thank you”, Terry offers. He wants to stay and help out, but he’s got to get this over with, so he can get back to Chloe and move on with life again. Mary is sat on the step outside the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. Her face is wrinkled, worn and tired. Mary recognises him. “My goodness me, look what the cat brought in!” Mary struggles to her feet, stubs out her cigarette and gives Terry a big squeeze. He’s so moved by her affection he’s overcome, yet again, by tears. “I’m so sorry” he sobs, “I’m so sorry I didn’t stay in touch with her.” She squeezes even harder. She knows he’s sorry. He was just a lad. “I’m pleased you came” Mary finally speaks. They sit together on the steps and do the usual small- talk. So, where do you live now? Are you married? What do you do for work? Any kids? Then it was Terrys turn. This was his chance to start to set matters straight. He needed to know where Clara was now. He needed to see her face to face, to hold her, to say sorry- for everything, all of it- for being a rotten friend for never calling, and somehow explaining why he hadn’t, although he knew no amount of explaining would condone his lack of presence. Where was she now? Was she married with children? He hoped so. They’d be just as beautiful as her. Her house would likely be perfect, just like her. He just yearned for her to know how sorry he was. He hadn't realised, but Mary had stopped talking and he’d been deep in thought for several moments. So, how was Clara these days? Mary looked stunned and hurt. “Terry- how could you say that?” Terry was confused. He was clearly taken aback. Mary started crying. “The funeral’s on Wednesday, you know that, right?” For a moment, Terrys world collapses and he falls to the ground. Everything goes black. He awakes to kitchen staff crouched around him. “You fainted love,” Mary states, “here, have some of this.” Terry is handed a plastic cup with juice inside it. “At least he’s getting his colour back” one of the ladies exclaims. Once feeling himself again , Mary says shes finished her shift now so has got to get home. Terry, still feeling a bit woozy but detirmined to find out more, offers Mary a lift home. She shrugs and agrees, walking with him to his car. His gleaming BMW looks extremely out of place here. Mary is almost embarrassed to climb inside it. Terry automatically starts heading towards the house he remembers from his teens. Mary quickly redirects him. “We didn’t stay there long” she explains. They leave the outskirts of the town and move closer towards the inner city. They pass parks, with gangs of youths gathered in, on top and around all the graffitied playing equipment. There’s loud music blaring ,colourful speech, smoke billowing from every corner and everyone looks suspicious. As Mary directs Terry around the tiny, cramped roads, his heart sinks further and further. They eventually stop at a cluster of high-rise buildings. Mary thanks him for the lift and hesitates before getting out. “I’d invite you up, but,” she just looks at him and then looks out there at the flats in front of them. He understands. He is rather fond of his car after all. Terry has to ask. How? Why? What happened? Mary sinks back into her very comfortable, leather seat and closes the door quietly. “After the accident,” She begins, Terry senses beads of sweat appearing on his face, “she had to be in hospital for a long time. She had to learn to walk again. Her back was broken in several places, as well as her legs and one hip. We almost lost her several times.” She pauses, her lips trembling. “I lost my job as I had to take several months off work to be with her in hospital. And even when she was finally able to come out, the council could only house me here and there’s no workin‘ lifts. So, she got hooked on her pain meds and then worse stuff, and met up with some bloke who worked at the hospital, and she just went from bad to worse.” Mary was now shivering and holding herself in an attempt to ease some of the emotional pain. It wasn’t working. She stopped. Terry feared she’d maybe never said all this out loud to anyone. “She disappeared from the hospital one day and no-one knew where she was. Then she turned up at the homeless centre. One of my friends volunteered there and told me. So, I started working here, just to see her and check she was Ok. She never let me help, she never let me do anythin. She wanted to be left alone. And then...” Mary gulped. Terry, by now is holding her arm and tears are literally gushing down his face, unable to take it all in. “Then she couldn’t take it anymore.” Terry looked at her. Surely she wasn’t saying what he thought she was saying? “She thought it was poetic justice. To end her life the same way it kinda ended it before. She threw herself down the stairs at the hospital. She left a note on her. It was to me.” She reaches inside her bag to her purse and brings out a worn but well-kept folded piece of paper. “Mum. Forgive him.” Terry can’t breath, let alone talk. Mary places the note carefully back inside inside her purse, closes her bag and exits the car. She turns and puts her hand on Terrys shoulder. “I do...forgive you” and gently closes the door behind her. Terry watches as she walks past all the kids and the noise. All he can hear is his heart pounding in his chest. His brain takes him straight back to that fateful night. He can see Clara as clear as day at the top of the golden staircase. He’d returned with cocktails for them both and was impressed at himself as he managed to climb the stairs, holding two drinks and still holding his gaze on the most beautiful vision he’d ever seen. He couldn’t believe she had said yes to him. He was a no-body. And she was an angel. Just as the glistening array of golden and white lights fill the room, he sees him: John. The joy immediately replaced by anger, as he sees John wink directly at him from above, and kiss Clara. She doesn’t stop him, or pull away, she kisses him back and they embrace passionately. The next few seconds happen, it seems, in slow motion, as he runs past the top step and throws himself at John, glass smashing into the ground and starts punching. John falls back and consequently knocks Clara off her feet. She stumbles over the top of the edge and falls to the marble flooring below them. Both brothers look at each other in shock. Terry goes to run down the stairs, but John grabs his arm and yanks him away “you’ve got to go” he shouts. Terry looks back- her body laying lifeless in a pool of blood. “GO!!” He screams and pushes Terry through the door to the other side of the hallway. Terry stands alone in the empty room, supposedly off bounds to students. He hears the screams and shouting. All Terry can see is her lying there, in his mind and cannot remove that image. He stays in the room, stunned, for what feels like hours until John returns for him. That night, everyone that was there was questioned. Clara was rushed to hospital and the students were informed in assembly the next day that she was in a critical condition, in a coma and all contact was to be checked through the principal first. Terry and John never spoke about it ever again. Until last night. Over 30 years later. Terry starts driving. He needs to get away and out. But from what? From where? The demons in his head were causing the pain, not the street. How could he ever escape what he’d done? It was his fault and his alone that her life was irreparably changed because of his anger, jealousy, stupidity. He’d married Chloe who thought he was a good man. But he wasn’t. And now not only was he good for nothing scum for never telling anyone the truth about what happened, or even attempting to stay in touch or explain or apologise- but now he’d also killed her. Because of him, her life went down the drain. All her hopes and aspirations, dead along with her on that fateful night. He was the worst person he’d ever known. He sends a text message, against all advice, whilst driving, to his dear wife. He didn’t deserve her. She’d never forgive him and why would she? “Chloe. Forgive me.” He accelerates and drives over the edge of the bridge. As he falls he sees Clara’s face. She holds out her arms to welcome him to the darkness of the watery depths.


The traffic was horrible.

Heat shimmered in the air above the cars and the stench of exhaust penetrated the air conditioning, slightly burning my sinuses and leaving an unpleasant trace on my tongue.

The entire week had been as bad as this traffic and all I wanted to do was collapse at home and forget that there was a world around me until Monday forced me into it once more.

Just get me home, Lord, and I’ll stay there. It was cool in the apartment and leaving the sweltering aroma of the rush hour behind made simply stepping in the door cathartic.

The couch beckoned from across the room as I entered but the need to wash the accumulated stress of the week away pulled me to the shower first.

I scrubbed beneath hot water then stood, I don’t know how long, with the cold flowing over me.

I think I almost fell asleep standing in the shower but my relaxation was interrupted before I was ready to leave. The telephone rang. I knew that I would be unable to get to it in time to answer, so I didn’t hurry really, but my relaxation was thoroughly disrupted so I stepped out of the shower to towel off.

I forced myself to dry slowly and carefully, feeling a sort of perverse pleasure in making the caller wait for a response.

I walked to the bedroom and again took my time pulling on shorts and a t-shirt.

I didn’t intend to go anywhere so I dressed for staying home, again feeling that pleasant twist from denying any departure by my actions. I walked back to the living room, pausing to look at my phone for a moment as it lay on the counter like a trap on an animal’s trail.

I reached out for it then turned away and walked to the couch, ignoring the call of civilization in favor of the soft call of the cushions.

I stretched out slowly, letting the tension of my entire body fall away into the foam beneath me.

My mind drifted gently into a state of ease, forgetting the week, the stench, and the heat, falling toward slumber. A jarring ring brought me upright in an instant.

It was the damned phone again.

Why didn’t I turn it off? I got up and walked to the counter where the phone rattled against the formica like the buzzing of a snake’s tail with each ring.

I picked it up and, as expected, it stopped ringing as soon as my hand touched it.

I immediately turned off the ringer and stood for a moment locked between the desire to see who was calling and the urge to put the phone back down and return to the couch.

With an eventual sigh, I opened the call log to see who had disturbed my attempt at relaxation.

Both calls were from Chris, my best friend for years, and I couldn’t make myself ignore them.

With another sigh I hit the button and called him back. The phone rang twice and Chris answered, “Hey man, whatchu up to?” “Well, I just got in from work, took a shower and was almost crashed on the couch when you called.” “Well I’m glad I caught you before you could crash.”

Chris responded enthusiastically.

“I could use a hand over here for a few minutes, then I’m grilling some burgers and have beer on ice.” I sighed. “Chris, I’m tired and really want some peace and quiet for a bit.

Is it important?” “It’s important to me.”

He laughed.

“I got a truckload of lumber and if I can get it set off by the house, I’m gonna start the new deck tomorrow.” Chris was my best friend, had been since high school, and he was one of very few people who would come help me should I be in need.

“I’ll be over in a little while.”

I answered.

“I don’t want to be out late though, I’m beat.”

“See you then.”

He replied in a voice that sounded almost like a laugh.

Chris was irrepressibly cheerful which was normally one of his endearing traits but at the moment it was sort of grating. I changed to some shorts a little more substantial than the gym shorts I wore around the house, pulled on socks and tennis shoes, then headed out the door.

I didn’t realize that I forgot my keys and wallet until I reached for the car door, which seemed typical for the evening.

I walked back to my door and realized that, naturally, I’d locked the apartment door with my keys inside.

I thought about screaming but I couldn’t really work up the energy so I just moped my way around to the office to get the manager to come unlock my door.

She heard my story and reached for the key, coming around the desk toward me as though she had almost as much desire to interact with others as I did at the moment.

She did come let me into my apartment, though.

I got my keys and wallet then headed back to my car.

It was about a twenty minute drive out to Chris’ but he lived out of town and it was late enough that the rush hour traffic was gone and early enough that the Friday evening traffic had yet to arrive.

The conditions being much better than my commute home, going to see a good friend, and enjoying a little actual solitude in the car turned out to be decently relaxing.

I didn’t even turn the stereo on, choosing instead to enjoy the relative silence.

I finally arrived about forty-five minutes after our conversation. Chris met me at the car as I pulled in.

“Man! What took you so long?” He grabbed my hand in a shaking grip and pulled me into one of those hugs that accompanied such a cheerful spirit, clapping me on the back as though trying to burp me.

“I’ve already got the grill heating.” “Dude, my car was so happy to be hauling me out to unload lumber after work that it refused to go any faster than twenty-five miles per hour.”

His humor was infectious and I couldn’t help but respond to it.

“It actually turned into the station back at the four way and sat there pouting.

It took me five minutes to convince it to come on down here.”

He laughed loudly at my joke.

“Come on in and say hi to Sarah.

She’ll be glad to see you and I’ll grab us a beer before we unload the truck.” “I’ll wait on the beer, but I’ll be happy to say hi.

Sarah hugs better than you do anyway.” He chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder as we walked in through the back door.

His wife, Sarah, was in the kitchen turning a pile of ground beef into hamburger patties but came around the counter to throw an arm around my neck, holding her hands out clear of me.

“Good to see you, Jim.

Come on in and have a seat.” “No time for sitting, your husband’s a slave driver.”

I responded with a smile.

“Every time I come out it’s work, work, work the whole time.

You know how he is.” She laughed.

She was as cheerful as Chris himself but in a softer way that helped offset his occasionally overwhelming exuberance.

“Maybe he won’t work you too hard and we at least intend to feed you.” “I see that.”

I gestured toward the pile of meat remaining and the three patties already on the pan beside it.

“If you want me to eat all of that I will probably need to be here all weekend.” Chris made a whip crack sound from the door.

“Cindy and her boyfriend are going to be back in a little while.

He could help unload the lumber but being teenagers they have a talent for being absent when the work’s happening.”

He made the whipping sound again.

“Now get on out here.

If you won’t drink a beer first then let’s get this job on the road.” His truck was parked around back and it was most definitely loaded with lumber.

For the next twenty minutes or more, Chris and I unloaded and stacked boards, sorting them into piles for sills, joists and decking.

His trailer was parked to one side loaded with foundation blocks.

He saw me looking and laughed again.

“Those we can just unload as we use them.”

He told me.

“I seldom drive to town in the trailer.”

His own humor made him laugh again. Sarah was putting patties on the grill as we finished up.

“I hope you’re close enough to finished that you can watch the burgers!”

She called from the soon to be enlarged back porch. “Why?

Are they going to do some tricks?”

Chris called back in his usual manner. Sarah just turned with a chuckle and headed back inside.

“Jackass,” Came floating back on the hot evening air as she left. Chris turned to me laughing.

We were both absolutely dripping with sweat and I was very much wishing I’d at least brought a dry shirt.

“Why don’t we go get that beer?”

He asked me, “Then we can get you one of my shirts to wear at least.”

It was funny how good friends often seem to read your mind. I took the beer and downed it in three long swallows.

I’m not much of a drinker and less for beer than other drinks, but there is something about an ice cold beer when you’re hot and thirsty that is hard to beat.

Chris threw me a shirt as I took the second swallow and walked out to watch the grill.

I walked into the bathroom and dragged my own sodden t-shirt over my head.

I washed off as well as one can without a shower then put on the shirt Chris had gotten for me.

He was a bit bigger than I and it draped enough to make me feel a little emaciated beneath it.

I walked back out to the porch, spread my wet shirt over the rail to dry, and grabbed another beer from the cooler.

This one I just sipped while chatting with Chris.

The burgers were coming off the grill and Sarah was laying out buns and all the trimmings on the bar between the kitchen and dining room when a car pulled into the driveway.

“Yep, they might miss the work but they’re always in time to eat.” Chris chortled as the car came to a stop in front of the house.

“That’s Cindy and what’s his name, her boyfriend.” We walked in the back with the burgers as they walked in the front from the car.

“Hi, Uncle Jim!” Cindy called to me.

“This is my boyfriend, Jeremy.” “Nice to meet you, sir.”

The kid said as he shook my hand. “Jim’s the hit man I’ve been telling you about.”

Chris called from the counter where he was setting the platter of meat down.

“I think he’s got about a thousand kills, six of them my daughter’s former boyfriends.” “Daddy would you hush?”

Cindy chided.

She and Jeremy were both stifling laughter so it was obvious that this joke had made the rounds before.

Cindy was a pretty girl, and smart, but I’d known her all her life and I didn’t remember another boyfriend.

Sixteen was early enough to pick the first. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the company, Chris and his family were definitely some of my favorite people, but I had every intention of unloading the truck, grabbing dinner, and going back home for some quiet isolation.

What happened involved sipping a third beer after dinner, talking with Sarah and Chris and all the while making playful fun of the kids displaying their gaming skills and laughing.

It was an enjoyable evening, really, but when I finally climbed in my car it was nearly ten forty-five and I was exhausted.

I got home after eleven and walked straight in for another shower.

I sat reading for awhile afterward and finally stretched out in bed about midnight. I awakened just after seven and lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling fan and enjoying the silence.

The clock said seven thirty-four when I finally decided to get up and greet the day.

I looked out the window at the retreating shadows and decided that I might go down to the pool and swim a little after breakfast then went to the kitchen and cooked bacon and eggs to accompany the coffee which I’d started earlier.

I sat down at the table and slowly chewed the first bite of egg. I was washing the bite down with a swallow of coffee when a jarring ring disturbed my reverie.

I decided to ignore the phone. I took another leisurely bite, washed it down with more coffee and heard the phone notify me that the caller had left a message as I did.

I sighed, reached for the phone and heard the raucous buzzing of the doorbell.


Roots of trees rupture through the ground and extend up, aching for sunlight. They won’t find it here, not tonight. Their leaves brush the ceiling, and their branches conform to the shapes of the bookshelves. I’ve never experienced nature taking over a place in such a way, let alone something as precious as a library. Animal nests have been built in several corners, bookshelves and the books inside them are caked in dust, and chrome-coloured stair hand railings have been plagued with rust and are beginning to deteriorate. It’s likely been a while since anyone’s even visited this place, let alone worked here—a shame. The aesthetic of this place is lovely. “This place is cool,” Kupla said. “Not what I expected at all.” “Yeah,” I added. “Bit creepy, though.” He didn’t reply. I could tell he agreed, though. You spend enough time with someone you pick up on their nuances. Here, I could read Kupla like a book, and the fact of the matter is, concern was painted on his face. No matter how hard he tried to hide it. A silence filled the air as we inspected the library’s ruins. We stayed within reaching distance of each other, just in case. “Doesn’t help that the sun’s just set,” Kupla said, breaking the silence. “You’re the one that suggested we do this tonight. Let’s go exploring , you said. You’ve been looking at those random Facebook posts too much. Be thankful we found a library and not a psych asylum or something.” “True, true. You’d not be able to handle that,” Kupla said, laughing. Projection at its finest. “Hear that fucking croaking? We must be near a creek.” “Maybe,” I said. “We haven’t looked at that room yet. Let’s go there next.” “Okay,” I said. “Don’t be too loud. Animals are living here. Don’t want to bloody startle them and have ‘em jump us.” “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. We’ll probably need a light soon. Has your phone got much battery left?” “Yeah, a fair bit. We’re fine,” I said when a book caught my eye. It had a red spine, and all surrounding books' spines on the shelf were black. It stood out like a sore thumb. I picked it out and observed it. “ A Grim Dawn, ” it said on the cover. I turned it over to read the back, but there was nothing there. The book had been wiped clean, which was weird because every other book on the shelf was dusty. Inside “ A Grim Dawn” were drawings. It didn’t take long for us to realise they were some type of blueprint of the library. I was about to place it back on the shelf, losing interest, but the fact that it was cleaned and formed as a thought in the back of my mind. Someone had looked at it recently. “What’s that bit meant to be?” Kupla said, staring intently at a small square drawing off to the side. If it were a room, it was pretty plain. Maybe it was for storage. The print of it was merely a square with a circle in the centre. “It has to lead downstairs somewhere,” he added. “It doesn’t make sense otherwise. Look at this part connected to it.” He was right. There were two large rooms connected to the small “storage” square. Kupla walked past the black-filled bookcase to the other side of the room. I could hear the rough scratching as he ran his palm over the rusty handrail. “Going by that book,” he stated, “if the entrance were anywhere, it would be roughly here.” There was another bookshelf in its place. The books inside it seemed somewhat random yet normal. Nothing noteworthy stood out. “What about behind it?” I said, and Kupla tried pushing the side of the shelf. “It’s moving,” he grunted, dusting off his hands on his black long sleeve. “I need your help.” The shelf left scrape marks on the floor as we nudged it over, and behind where it originally stood, clear as day, was a door to another room.	A hidden room. The room only had two things inside it. One of them was a glass window, which looked out to the back of the library. Kupla opened it, screeching and fluttering of bats circling the peak of a giant Eucalypt tree pierced our veil of silence. “I can see a creek right there beside the tree. You were right.” The croaking was slightly louder with the window open. In the shape of a circle, a piece of rope is right there in the middle of the floor. Trees and plants had not yet reached this room. Or, if they previously had, they’ve since been removed. A bat flew past the window in a blur of speed, and Kupla stepped back with a flurry. In frightened Kupla style, he remained silent. I could see past his faux stoicism. He was deep in thought as he observed the small room. “Is it just me, or does this room look… not as dusty as the rest? Like, clean, almost,” he asked. He was right again. The room had the appearance as if someone had been in it recently. And it can’t have been for the view. “That rope there has to mean something. Pull it up a bit,” I said. Kupla curled the rope around his fingers and yanked. The middle of the ground opened up, revealing the silhouette of a declining staircase. The rope was attached to a trapdoor. Darkness blanketed the rest of the room downstairs, and it was impossible to make anything out. We would have to walk down ourselves. “A hidden room inside of a hidden room?” Kupla asked. I shrugged. “Guess it’s time for the torch then, aye?” We descended the stairs slowly, an obnoxious creak with every step. A feeling of anxiousness spiked the lower we went. I spoke nothing of it and hope Kupla felt the same. Eventually, both of us had reached the bottom. I shone my phone light ahead of me, and a thick, black rat scurried from one side of the room to another. Kupla jolted back, tripping on an uneven tile. He fell to the ground. “Fucking rat,” he sighed. Dusting off, I could tell he was trying to keep his cool. Despite appearances of the previous room, this one looked as if it hadn’t had any life inside it for years. Dust and dirt layered everything in sight. Webs weaved by spiders stretched across the floor and audibly cracked as I passed through them. Kupla stood up, dusted himself off yet again, and shone his light around with me. In the far corner of the room was a bed. White sheets draped over both sides and fell down the end of it. Somewhere in the middle was a large red stain. Cobwebs covered the pillow and bed frame. “Something tells me that stain isn’t wine,” Kupla said as we edged closer to the bed. “I’m scared to think what’s in the other room if this is in the first fucking one.” “Other room?” I asked. “Remember the drawing? There were two rooms connected to the small one upstairs. What the hell is in the other one?” “Mm, good point,” I added. A gust of wind permeated throughout the room, and the door we came in through shut with a slam. “Did you shut that window before we came down here?” I asked. “Nope.” “Great. Just what we needed,” I said. I continued exploring the room a little further. By now, we were both past the point of pretending that we weren’t scared, the room had a creepy vibe to it, and that was that. “Man, this is enough for me,” Kupla said. “I’m heading back up. Come help me with this door.” I looked over at him. His shadow towered over him as I aided him with my light. His was shining on the stairs as he quickly ascended them. “The door didn’t look too heavy. You’ll be fine,” I said. Just wait a minute for me, and I’ll come out with you.” Again, I turned my attention back to exploring the room. I cast my light in front of me, and it revealed a wall with funny markings on it. I edged closer and realised it’s a tally. Someone was counting something, and I didn’t feel like knowing what. “Nah, I don’t wanna wait. This place gives me the cre--” Kupla’s voice trailed off. “Uhh… you need to come see this. Like right now.” “I had the same thought,” I replied. “Look at this weird tally on the wall.” “I don’t care about a fucking tally, man. The other side of this door has scratch marks on it. Like a lot of them. Someone’s been fucking stuck here and tried to escape. Help me with the door now.” The tally could wait. I rushed over to help. The scratch marks on the back of the trapdoor were no joke. Whatever level of anxiousness I had previously had evolved into nausea. The thought of being trapped here made me sick. At least I haven’t seen any skeletons around, I thought. “I’m bailing, fuck this place,” Kupla said. He pushed the trapdoor open and looked down at me. “Coming?” “One sec,” I said. “Just need to take a better look at that thing on the wall.” “I’ll wait here. Be quick.” I stared at the wall and counted. I wasn’t sure what the carved numbers meant, but it had to be something. Whatever it means, it’s happened a lot. At a glance, there are over a hundred markings carved into the wall. The tally and scratch marks were enough for me, and I didn’t want to look for the other room. An unexpected sense of dread had begun to course through me. The hair on my arms and back of my neck stood bolt upright. A strange coldness took the air. I forgot I was even in a library. “Kup!” I called out. His head appeared from upstairs. “Yeah?” “Coming now. Just checking you were still around.” I was climbing the stairs when I looked at Kupla. I began to ask him a question when I noticed a frown on his face. His eyes squinted. It was a frown of focus. “Thought I saw somethin’, never mind,” he said. The frown faded. But not for long. I was on the final stair, with my hand on the trapdoor, ready to leverage myself up, when Kupla’s face wore the frown again. “What?” I asked. The frown lessened, but his eyes widened. “Behind you!” he yelled. Before I could turn to look, I felt it. All at once. The stinging cold. The dread. Nausea, they all intensified. But they were nothing compared to the sudden puncturing of the fleshy part of my neck. I tried to shake free to no avail. The creature was strong. Too strong. I couldn’t even budge. The creature was draining me at a rapid pace, and I could feel consciousness smoothly slipping away. When I woke, Kupla lay sprawled over the staircase. He’d been torn apart mercilessly. Blood travelled down the remaining stairs and pooled at the bottom. I felt like I could smell it. I was overcome with a craving I wasn’t sure how to satiate. My phone light was gone, but I didn’t need it to see anymore. The fear, the dread and the cold had all passed. They were replaced by an ache to stretch and a longing to feed. A scuffing sound came from across the room. It was not the creature from before, but a man. He was dressed in all-black. He looked me in the eye, and a self-satisfied smirk played across his face as he began adding to the tally on the wall.


Angela opened her eyes to a new day not knowing if it were morning. There were no windows in her room, and it could have been the middle of the afternoon, or even midnight. She heard no sounds except her own breathing, and when she awoke she inhaled and exhaled heavily, as if she had just completed a marathon race instead of having slept for hours. Perhaps she had slept for days. She had stopped wondering about time months ago. Now she simply slept for as long as she was able, then stayed awake for as long as was necessary. She knew she would have to eat, that they would soon be coming with food, and had she felt stronger she might have spat it back at them as she had done when they first brought her here. But she had swallowed that rage a long time ago. Now Angela ate whatever morsels they gave her, and recently she had to restrain herself from thanking them. She feared the day might come when she would feel grateful that they had allowed her to live, when she might find herself smiling at them as if she understood and accepted the perfect correctness of her captivity. She looked at herself in the small cracked mirror above the sink. Although her hair was stringy and unwashed, she remembered how golden it had shimmered in the sun. Her face was still quite pretty, and once she had heard one guard tell another he had never seen eyes quite that blue. The other whispered what a pity it was. If only she had a piece of paper, a pen, even a crayon. Maybe this time she would show them that she could create something useful and lasting that mattered to them, something that in turn would make her matter. When Angela had first arrived they had eagerly granted the request of the eighteen year old girl and waited to see what gifts her imagination might offer them. She had succeeded only in producing a few formless scrawls that they said were not art, and some rhymeless gibberish that they told her was not poetry. They took away the paper, the pens, and the paint brushes. Not long ago, the tall blond guard who wore the keys around his neck had asked her if she might like to sing. Any tune would do, he told her. “Please, oh please, let me try!” Angela had begged. The next day he brought to her room a small cassette recorder with a blank tape. “Perhaps we will find the song bird in you where we were unable to find the artist. Sing, and we promise to listen,” he assured her. For days Angela sang alone in her room, remembering what her mother had sung to her many years ago. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird . . .” A week later she handed the cassette to the man with the keys and simply said, “Please . . .” He stuffed the tape into his pocket and left without a word. The next day the guard sat alongside her bed and informed her that he and the others had decided that she was no song bird. For a moment his words had sounded like an apology. She knew she would never see the tall guard again. The wasted papers that Angela had filled with nonsense and the inarticulate squawks she had tried to pass off as music had convinced them that further efforts on their part would be foolish. From that day forward the guards who silently delivered her food seemed unwilling to even look at her. Angela heard the key slip into the lock on the other side of the heavy door. She no longer pretended to be asleep when they came, because they did not care whether she were sleeping or awake. One of them always waited outside as the other entered. She heard the heavy jingle of keys and looked up. The keys were around the guard’s neck. “You,” she said, but the word was only a statement of fact, not sparked with the warmth that accompanies the recognition of a familiar face. Once uttered, the word sounded idiotic. “Yes,” he answered, closing the door behind him. He did not look at her as he set the tray of food on the stand alongside her bed. She had expected no further conversation, and when he spoke again his words startled her. “They told me to say the other guard had caught a flu.” He pulled up the small wooden chair and sat, although the chair was too small and he seemed not to know whether to fold his legs. “There is no flu. They wanted us to talk.” His statement was ludicrous. She had not had a conversation with him in months, and those few she remembered had been pitifully brief and one-sided. “I don’t understand,” she said as she selected a small bread crust on her tray. She had learned to keep her responses short, for the guards tired of her quickly. “I’d like to know about God,” he said as if this were meant as an answer. “Tell me how you feel about God. Tell me about your religion, your beliefs.” “I have no belief in God. I have no religion. Don’t you have some sort of records about that?” She felt immediately sorry she had asked, but the guard ignored the question anyway. He fidgeted in the small chair. “You’re an atheist, then? Or an agnostic? You have opinions regarding God’s existence, or the lack of it?” He sounded almost hopeful. “I'm an apathist. I don’t much think about it,” she answered as she nibbled at the crust. She picked up a slab of egg yolk with her left hand, ignoring the silverware, leaned her head back, and dropped the yolk into her mouth. Her response oddly pleased him, although he did not smile. “An apathist? That was a joke you just said. Admittedly, not a very good one, but it was a joke. Then you have a sense of humor. Tell me another joke.” Angela looked hard at the man, not certain about how earnest her guard’s question was. “A joke? You mean like why did the chicken cross the road?” The absurdity of her question seemed to increase the guard’s excitement. “Yes! Yes! Tell me, why did the chicken cross the road?” There was anticipation in his voice as if he sincerely were interested in the chicken’s intentions, and when he leaned toward Angela for her response his face revealed the hint of a smile. “Perhaps the chicken was an apathist,” she said. The guard’s smile disappeared as quickly as if it were erased. “That isn’t funny. I'm sorry, but that isn’t funny at all.” His tone became flat, expressionless. He sounded like a man keeping some kind of score. No points for humor. Sorry. Next category. “Can we talk politics?” he asked. “No.” “Sociology? Science? History? Law? Philosophy?” His questions now had become a formality, a check list to be completed, filed, and forgotten. “No . . . No . . . No . . . No . . .” Although Angela could not remember ever having had a discussion this long during her stay here, she wanted this conversation to end. “Perhaps I could tell you why the philosopher crossed the road? No, I guess you’re right. That wasn’t very funny either. I suppose you'll be leaving now?” Her question had anticipated his next words. The tall guard rose from the chair with difficulty, trying to maintain his dignity when he could not get up with his first attempt. “I have one more question for you, Angela,” he said. He had never called her by her name before, and his doing so struck her as odd. He walked to the foot of her bed and turned toward her. “Do you know why you are here?” He asked this without malice or emotion, with only the desire to know her answer, as he had wanted to know about song birds and chickens. “I'm here because you see me as a useless bird.” Having said the words, she knew they had always been on her tongue waiting to be spoken. “I beg your pardon?” “You know, the sparrow who can no longer fly becomes useless to the other sparrows, a burden to them. I've broken my wing, isn’t that right? And the flock has no further need of me.” “I'm impressed,” the guard answered. “That is quite a creative analogy from one who knows so little of creativity.” He sat on the edge of the bed and moved close to Angela as if to reveal a secret. Instead, he reached under the blanket and grabbed hold of her right hand, yanking it out from where she had kept it hidden. He held her arm straight up and the pain caused her to wince. “But this isn’t  exactly a broken wing, is it, Angela? It’s a wilted arm, a useless limb. It is not pleasant to look at, it serves no function, and it belongs to you. It is you.” The words came in furious bursts now, like machine-gun pellets, and he shook her withered limb as he spoke. “You see yourself as a wounded sparrow, do you? What happens if we take that sparrow and tie her leg to a string and swing her around in circles in a desperate attempt to make her fly? She struggles against hope to use her wings, her useless wings, and meanwhile we swing her around and around and around, wasting our energy, wasting our time, and in the end when we stop swinging her she comes crashing down to earth anyway. Our time has been wasted, her hopes have been destroyed. What is the point? Why even bother?” He let go of her arm, allowing it to drop. For a moment Angela stared at the shrunken arm as if it were a foreign thing that did not belong in the bed with her. She spoke without removing her eyes from it. “A sparrow who can no longer fly can sing. And if she can’t sing, she can still feel, can still-” “- Love?” the guard interrupted. “That’s exactly right, Angela! We asked this sparrow to sing, and she could not! But we realized she may be capable of love. . . the kind of love that could only result in frustration for her. Because the real question is, is she capable of being loved? Do the words she writes encourage love? Does her beauty or intellect in any way inspire it? It is unlikely that anyone would even try to love her because of that hideous limb. Not that all physical impediments are repulsive. Perhaps if she were only blind . . .” “Stop . . . Please, stop . . .” Angela pleaded. Her brief taste of defiance had made her want to gag. “You want to cover your ears, don’t you? You want to block out the words, make me go away, maybe you would even like to strike me,” he continued. “But you can’t do it, can you? That limb just lies there like a dead weight. Do you see my point?” “I have my other arm . . .” “. . .whose only function is to hide its companion. No, Angela, I'm sorry, but the time has come for us to stop swinging the sparrow’s string.” His anger slowly dissolved and he fell silent for a moment. He attempted to hold her wilted hand in his, but she pulled it away. Instead he took her other hand. “But first I have something I want to show you, something you need to see.” He sat on the bed and placed her fingers on his left leg below the knee. “Rub your hand along my leg, Angela. Does the calf feel peculiar to you? Congenital defect, they called it, like they called yours. The leg is gone, at least from the knee down. Amazing what they can do with prosthetics today. But, you see, I have my particular talents. I happen to be quite good at drawing people out, at enabling them to find a way to compensate for their physical shortcomings. And I can be quite decisive when called upon to make the kind of decisions that others would find distasteful. No one ever asked me to sing, or to fly. But when they came for me, I simply told them what I could do.” Angela struggled to pull her hand free as her anger rose inside her like hot bile. “But you also decide who is to be exterminated! You decide who the state no longer regards as useful! What gives you the right--” “ This gives me the right!” he shouted, his breath hot on her face as he tapped her hand on the hard wood of his prosthetic leg. “This has forced me to find my usefulness to others, just as your pathetic limb has forced you to admit that you have none. And I have no intention of relinquishing my usefulness by allowing you to continue your hollow existence. I refuse not to matter!” The guard’s renewed anger seemed to embarrass him, and he turned away from Angela. He ran his fingers through his blond hair in an attempt to collect himself, and when he again looked down at his leg he noticed that Angela’s hand was grasping it. Angela knew he had been unaware of her touch until he had looked. When his eyes locked with hers, her mouth curled in a bitter smile. “I

feel this,” she said as she ran the tiny hand of the wilted arm along his wooden leg. “I feel this with both of my hands, even the one you call useless. Tell me what you feel when I touch you. Does this prosthetic device extend all the way to your heart?” Angela tapped on the artificial limb as if she were expecting a reflexive kick. “A curious question,” he answered. “You might have made a fine idealist if you had believed in God.” She moved close to his face and whispered, “ . . . to get to the other side. That is why a chicken would cross the road, isn’t it?” He paused for a moment to look at her. “Such blue eyes,” he said. “Such exquisitely beautiful blue eyes.” He called for the guards to take her, and within moments three entered the room and another two waited by the doorway. She presented no struggle and went quietly with them. She wondered as they walked if one of them would take her hand.                                                     ####


"What are you doing?" There was a moment of shock, of panic. I felt the spike in my heart, but all of my focus was on the crowd. The hundreds of eyes all moving my way. All suddenly honing in their attention on us. "You know what I am doing." His hands were around my waist, locking in with a slight dip in his fingers. His pull forcing me to move with him, each step at a time. One by one slowly moving us towards the dance floor, now rid of any other couple. It sat there empty, waiting for a simple pair to come and take up its vast space. And that's exactly what he was doing, he was leading me without a breath to think or say no. Not a second to really think about the people around me, the judgements that would follow when they saw it was me in his grasp and no one else.

“We cannot do this here- in front of all of these people.” I wanted my voice to be strong, to hold a sense of power but it didn’t. It was quiet, weak, a whisper at best. And his eyes didn’t soften, didn’t shift in the slightest at the tone. At the small shake in my hands as he lifted them around his neck. Tracing his own light touch down them, leaving a tingling, sparking trail of tiny bumps.

“We can, and we will .” He nodded his head once, that soft, calm, deep rasp left no room to argue. Not that there was any time to. He had us in the middle of the floor, in the center of the ballroom, in the center of everyone's gazes. Some admiring us, some leveling a look that could cut me down right here right now. It didn’t matter how much makeup I painted on, or how many curls I put in my hair, it didn’t matter the silk and lace that fell from my dress, it didn’t matter that I looked like them, dressed like them, I wasn’t one of them. I knew, he knew it, and they knew it. Who was I kidding when I came here?

“You are not going to change my mind, I am doing this.” I felt that pain of my words sitting on my chest, felt the weight of them. And by the small flinch in his dark eyes, he felt it too. But in a breath, that look was gone. And it was the hard, stern, consuming gaze left bearing down on me.

“You can’t.” He simply shook his head, and then the first instrument string was played. The sound carried through the room as softly as the very air we were breathing. And it put a thud in my heart as he pushed my back slightly, taking a step backwards. With those hands locked around my waist tightly, I had no choice but to follow in his lead. Follow with the melody that came with the song. “You can’ leave.” His eyes moved, flickering back and forth between mine, as if searching them for something. For a moment, I held my breath, staring up at him. At the quiet desperation in his eyes. In his words.

“I have to. For your sake and mine, I have to. ” I felt my voice fading, it growing quieter with each word. They felt like knives trying to come out of my throat, cutting and digging in. But I forced them out. No matter how much it pained me to see the look on his face. Those pale lips twitching just barely down. Threatening a frown. But he refused to show it.

“You don’t have to- what you are doing is running away- trying to escape and you can’t. You won’t escape your troubles just by leaving this place, they will follow, haunt you no matter where you run to.” I blinked up at him, it took all inside of me to keep my footing, to keep up with the rhythm of the dance but his tone, it dropped. It went sharp, sharp enough to cut through me. My lips parted, but I had no words to say. So he went on. “You don’t have to run, I am right here- I am by your side no matter what happens. But if you leave, if you run… I can’t protect you.” His brows dipped, and for the first time since I’ve met him, he let his pain show on his face. In those deep brown eyes. It was at the surface, open for me to see. With all of the hurt and heartache I’ve suffered until now, that hurt me the most.

“I’m doing this for you, I’m doing this to protect you-” I shook my head, shoving all of the panic down, all of the suffocating anxieties in my chest back down as much as I could. Not letting him see them.

“Do you love him?” He swallowed the anger, all of that pain vanishing from his face. Leaving the empty void staring back at me. My heart cracked at his words. The man who put that ring on my finger, who offered to take me away from this world that would never accept me, do I love him?

“This life is not full of fairness, people like me don’t get to love- we get to either marry into a title or we fall into nothing. Love is a fairytale , it doesn’t exist.” I hardened my face, my entire body. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even look like he heard my words. He simply grunted, shaking them off with a shake of his head.

“That's bullshit.” I felt his hands flinch, his fingers digging in a little deeper, as if he was scared I might slip away from his grasp.

“You wouldn’t possibly understand, you have a title- have your future secure no matter what so you can’t say that it's bullshit-” I shook my head, feeling the fire light in my chest, erupt in my words. But he didn’t even let them touch him, he just cut me off. With words that shook me to my core, touched my very soul and silenced me where I stood.

“I know it's bullshit because I am in love with you ,” He stared into my eyes softly, and yet they pried into the deepest depths of my very being. Seeing me for everything I was, feeling every emotion I was feeling, hearing every racing beating of my heart, “I have never wanted this life, never wanted anything in my life but to escape. I have never wanted anything that's been thrown into my life, name, title, power… except for you. From the moment I saw you, I felt something that I have never felt before. I’ve read a thousand books and not one could describe the sensation that poured through me when I first heard your laugh, first saw your smile, first felt you touch… Ever since I met you, I cannot get you out of my mind, cannot think of anything or anyone else but you. I’ve never wanted anything more than you , I can’t escape you, can’t imagine living my life without you in it- I don’t understand how I've lived so long without you in the first place.” He stopped moving, stopping his feet from following the steps of the dance, the music was still playing, people were still murmuring but it went quiet. Everything that was not him and I was silenced, nonexistent to us. We disappeared into our own little world. And I was drowning in his words, yet ironically, I never felt like I could breathe any lighter. “I know you want to leave, want to run, but my heart physically cannot let you go. I cannot let you go. I don’t want this life if it is not you by my side living it with me… I don’t just want you, I don’t just need you, I am completely and utterly intertwined with your soul, my life isn’t mine anymore. My heart isn’t mine anymore. It does not belong to me. It belongs to you. And solely you. Because I love you, ” I felt every ounce of the air in my lungs vanish, every ounce of my blood run dry, my mind went into a whirl as I watched him lower, watched him lean down on one knee, and reach inside of his jacket pocket. I felt my lips part, my jaw drop slightly in pure shock, but I was frozen. Stuck in his words, stuck in this moment, for the first time, feeling like I was truly alive, truly living, living for this, for him, for right now. “Will you stay with me, love me… Will you marry me?”