Content Warning: mentions of domestic violence, postpartum depression, anger issues, substance abuse Something in my brain shifted when he slammed his glass on the table and shouted “grow up!” He continued speaking, a blur of angry expressions and fists hitting the table. My head was swimming, ears ringing, like my hearing had been knocked out.

I was more focused on the glass, a gift I’d gotten him as an inside joke: world’s best teacher. He chipped the rim with his temper tantrum. Every pound to the wood made the whiskey slosh and splash the ungraded essays scattered about.

He finally stopped, his tense hands spread out and holding up his weight, his too-blue eyes staring a hole into the glass. I used to love his hands, how they’d touch and thrill and tease me in secret.

He had never said anything like that to me. Grow up . I repeated the words slowly, tasting the syllables, not quite understanding their meaning.

He’d never mentioned age. He never told me I was mature, or adult, or grown up. He went out of his way to avoid the topic. He had simply respected me, treating me like he would treat someone his own age. It had never felt wrong with him.

My next words came out in a whisper, a painful shock to the yelling and hitting moments before. “So I guess I wasn’t grown up enough when we got together?” There was a glimmer of emotion in his eyes, initially reading as anger, but I knew it was guilt.

I was sixteen years old, barely old enough to drive yet, and he was thirty. And why did it never seem wrong until this moment? My eyes searched around the lavish house in the suburbs that he had to have. The kitchen was a mess, which had started the fight in the first place. Toys were scattered on the floor, the high chair was dirty from meals days before, and the dishes piled in the sink. I don’t even remember the last time I had a shower. The depression is overwhelming, which is what I tried to explain to him. I was reaching out for help and he started screaming in my face that I can’t even do my one job. And now we’re here.

I saw the stacks of essays in my peripheral. A similar stack had once held an essay of mine, written with after school help from the cute new teacher. I never felt nervous around him, not like when I tried to flirt with boys my own age. In that moment I felt powerful, filled with stupid hormonal lust. I touched his leg when he finished reading my paper, giggling and claiming it was an accident. But I doubt it was accidental when he placed his hand on my cheek and kissed me.

Now, the only time his hand meets my cheek is when he hits me, and the only time he kisses me is when he wants sex.

I don’t know why I did it–pursuing a man twice my age. The original plan was to get him to sleep with me, a bet my friends and I made. That’s all I wanted, but then I started catching feelings.

First love is a powerful drug.

The guilt on his face disappears, replaced with his usual false sense of swagger, alpha male. He takes a sip from his chipped cup, laughing, a cynical sound saved for when you’re really angry. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Then tell me what you meant,” I started, not realizing I had these words on the tip of my tongue. “Tell me what the hell you meant, because I’ve sacrificed everything for you!” I put too much emphasis on the word everything, bringing my fist down onto the countertop. I hear the baby crying from the next room.

I suppose that describes my experience of motherhood–Daddy can hit the table and even slap Mommy across the face, and Baby sleeps right through it, but when Mommy gets loud and stands her ground, Baby wakes right up.

He looked back down, passing the cup between his hands. The look on his face suggested that our argument was over. “Aren’t you going to take care of that?” He pointed his cup towards the sound of crying.

“No.” “No? Why? The baby is crying and it’s your job to calm him down.” I was in his face in an instant, sarcastically listing on my fingers. “He’s fed, he’s changed, the sound machine is on, he’s fine.” I felt crazy, like I was losing my mind. I snatch the cup out of his hands, something I know he hates. A part of me is afraid he’ll hit me for it, but the bigger part of me doesn’t care. I swallow the rest of the liquor. “That’s the baby you wanted so badly, why don’t you go and soothe him? Oh wait,” I laugh. “He doesn’t know who Daddy is, because Daddy is never here, and when he is here, he’s drunk! and yelling! and hitting on Mommy!” I’ve finally lost my shit. The look on his face is priceless, he’s shocked that I said that. I expect him to also start yelling. He looks into my eyes, and I ready myself for a fight. I feel every emotion, from anger to resentment to nostalgia to desperation. I give him pleading eyes. We’ve gotten away from who we used to be, but I don’t want to just lose him. I want him to start understanding me for who I am now.

“Who are you?” he asks calmly, his tone more frightening than if he’d gotten in my face and screamed the words.

I’m his former student that was supposed to be a one-time fling. I never meant to fall for him but I did, and stupidly. My friends judged and looked down on me, constantly reminding me of the age gap.

I came to him during his lunch period one day, begging him to move far away with me. I was crying about my friends reactions, telling him that I only wanted him, forever. He agreed, saying whatever you want, you can have. I replied, I only want you, and he said I’m all yours.

They threatened to call the police and report him if I didn’t break things off. I lied and told them I did. They consoled me in my fake break-up, saying that he was only manipulating me.

I only ever wanted you. I was terrified when I got pregnant, but you were so excited and happy, so I had our baby. I wanted to go to college, but I gave up my dreams for you. For our family , you constantly said.

True love conquers all, you told me once, your hands gently cupping my face as we stayed after school yet again, resorting to janitor’s closets and dark, locked classrooms just to finally be alone together.

I placed my hand on top of his. I had waited too long to answer his question. “I love you,” I told him, but he wouldn’t look at me. “I’ve loved you for a long time and I don’t think I can just stop loving you.” He removed his hand from underneath mine, staring at the wall for much too long, then whispered, “I can. We’re just too different.” The cup must have cracked more than I thought, because it shatters, the same moment that my heart broke and our lives together shattered.


“Why are you selling this house?” the realtor asked. “Well, it's a long story” I replied and launched into my narrative. “Last month Aunt Veronica died. Two weeks ago Aunt Veronica’s will was read. I didn’t attend the reading of the will because I wasn’t expecting anything to come from it. Yesterday I was informed by her attorney that I was bequeathed her house up in northern California.

Today I was presented with the keys to the house and I started making plans to view the house and see how sell-able it was. Tomorrow morning, I plan to make the 960 mile from my home in Phoenix to where Aunt Veronica once lived in the outskirts of Weaverville, CA.  I made arrangements to fly in to Sacramento and rent a car for the 200 mile drive to my final destination.

I hoped to have it all wrapped up within a week so I would not need to take any more time off from work.  The biggest surprise thus far was that Aunt Veronica remembered who I was in the first place.  It has been decades since I visited her...and my Mom was the one to drag me along when I was only five years old.  Mom and her sister seldom spoke, so I had assumed that everything Aunt Veronica owned would not be including me in the bequests.

She had no other family, but she did love animals.  I had assumed that she would leave everything to local animal charities which according to her attorney received the bulk of her estate...all except the house and the land  surrounding it. Now that manor was mine.” “The flight into Sacramento and the drive up I-5 to Weaverville were uneventful.

Since it was such a long day of travel, I checked in to a local motel for the night. It would be easier to locate the property in daylight.

The night passed peacefully and the morning found me looking up the address and plotting the trip to the manor...one that had been three decades in the making.

Something was lurking in the corner of my mind...something long forgotten, but it began pressing its way to the forefront of my mind like a persistent pest.” “After breakfast at a local cafe, I started the drive up highway 3 and towards the depths of the Trinity Alps.

After several attempts, I located the tiny side road that would lead to the manor gates.  The gates were well hidden by underbrush. Once I located them, and moved aside the brush, I unlocked and pushed them open.

I slowly drove up the unkempt driveway and eventually found the house.  Time was not kind.  It appeared to be dilapidated and run down.  If appearances were the key to selling a house, this one would need bulldozing. I took my time checking out the house.

The front porch was looking rather unstable at best. I decided not to tempt my luck with the front steps, after all, I wasn’t sure if the paramedics would be able to find this place since I had so much trouble with locating it in the first place.  I wandered off to my right, looking for another entrance to the house.

The right side was just as dilapidated as the front.  The back of the house was somewhat more hopeful...there were indications that power was coming into the house and the back entrance seemed to have been used much more than the front.  The underbrush was cleared away and there was a place to park a car without trekking through tall grasses and bushes.

The yard was better maintained than the front.  It seemed clear to me that Aunt Veronica preferred this entrance to the front one. I opened the back door and entered a spacious kitchen.

I was surprised! The interior of the house was very well maintained!

Everything was clean and in excellent condition.  I wandered from room to room.

The attorney told me that everything in the house and on the property was mine to dispose of as I saw fit.

Plans to have the estate evaluated and sold began to swirl through my brain.  I went into a parlor, music room, dining room and eventually found myself in the front hall with the seldom used front door to the manor.

I cautiously opened the front door and looked out on my parked rental car.  I closed the front door and noticed the deep walls on either side of it but thought nothing of it.  I wandered up the stairs and checked out all the bedrooms and bathrooms.

It was beginning to get dark inside and I decided that I’d had enough for today.  I started down the stairs and was planning on trying the front door exit towards my car when I heard a very eerie sound emanating from the wall just to the right of the door.

I decided not to check it out today, and cautiously made my way down the front steps to my car.  The shadows around the house were deepening, and I could have sworn that I saw movement in the vicinity of the front door. As I turned to get a better look, the movement seemed to stop.

Thinking  nothing more of it, I returned to my motel room for the night.” “Now, it’s the second day of my week in Weaverville and I’m back at Aunt Veronica’s house. This time I drove around to the back and parked my rental car.

I brought enough provisions for a few days and my luggage.  Since I owned this house, I might as well be staying in it.  I spent most of the day contacting estate brokers and real estate agencies.

I planned to sell everything.  I started inventorying what was in each room.  Finally, it was just about dinnertime, and I was in the kitchen when I heard that eerie sound again.  It was louder than before, and seemingly more persistent, too.

I followed the sound to the front hall.  In the deepening shadows that were slowly engulfing the room, I had difficulty determining where the sound was coming from.  I switched on the overhead light and noticed nothing.  I started slowly examining the area, and a puff of air escaped from the wall to the right of the front door.

I felt it just as surely as I am standing in front of you!” “I don’t doubt you” said the realtor. “Go on…” “Well, I’m standing there trying to figure out where the breeze was coming from.

I knocked on the wall in several locations to no avail.  In exasperation, I leaned against it, and it gave way!

I had fallen into the hidden passage!  I scrambled to my feet, located a flashlight, and followed the passageway.

It led down a flight of stairs across what I presume to be the basement, continued for over a hundred feet and back up another flight of stairs.

At the top of the stairs was a trap door. I opened the trap door and found myself in an old barn.” “I decided to do further research on Aunt Victoria’s house.

According to the local historical society, this house was used in the 1920’s as a speakeasy and the passage was used to smuggle liquor into the house.” “Interesting” said the realtor. “The history does add something to the value of the house.” “Now, I’m not so sure I want to sell it. I think it should be deeded over to the historical society. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.

I think I want to think about it for a few more days.”


I reached down to grab the man’s hand to pull him out of the boat wreckage. Shark fins occasionally sliced through water ripples just beyond where the man had been floating on wooden debris. I pulled him into my boat. His skin was blistered and oozing. He’d been languishing in the sun without cover for quite some time, I guessed. “Those sharks near the surface usually don’t attack,” I assured him. “Now the ones circling below you, well, those are ambush predators, and they sure looked like they were getting bolder, judging from your toes.” Two of the man’s toes were nicked. “Hardly life threatening, your little shark-nibbled toes, but the fresh wounds and gently dripping blood would have made you into chum had I not gotten to you when I did.” The man rocked back and forth, hugging himself tightly with his scrawny arms, and probably would have been pissing himself from fright, had he not been dehydrated. “What’s your name?” I asked. The man only trembled and shook. His mouth was open and his teeth chattered. He stared at the cooler in the corner, grunting and panting. I went over and took out a bottle of water and gave it to him. His hand shook so violently, and he was in such a state of shock, that he could not grasp the bottle. The bottle fell, spilling cold water onto the floor of my boat. The man fell forward and began lapping up the water like a dog. “I’ll get you another,” I said soothingly. I placed another bottle in his hand, and wrapped my hand around his, until I was sure he could hold it steady. “Bob,” he sputtered, between gulps of water. “You sure were bobbing,” I chuckled, “like an apple. I think I’ll call you Apple.” Apple eyed me with annoyance while chugging water. “Bob is my name,” he said, finally gathering enough strength to form words. “Sorry,” I smiled, “just trying to lighten the mood.” “I’ll put you in my book,” he said, with a cragged voice. He must have blown out his voice screaming at overhead planes, I figured. “Why don’t you rest quietly, and I’ll get some crackers for you. You don’t want to eat a big meal, or drink too much water immediately, or you’ll get sick. You have to ease your body back slowly.” Bob held up his water bottle in a silent toast to me. He nodded his head, then drank the rest of the water. I radioed for help and the coast guard and paramedics arrived quickly. “Are you ok, sir? Do you feel pain?” The paramedics swarmed Bob. I had never rescued anyone before, and wondered if they were this concerned over every stranger they rescued. Bob looked like a race car with its pit stop crew. The paramedics, all of them, gathered around him, and lifted his arms, checked inside his mouth, poked him, listened to his heart, called out vitals, and shined lights into his eyes. At the dock, reporters scrambled over each other like breeding gerbils in a small cage. They shoved microphones forward, while cameramen stood leaning over the dock ropes with their cameras aimed at Bob. “Robert! Robert Briggs! Were you under the influence of any drugs or substances when you took off in your plane?” One reporter screamed her question above the many other questions being shouted. I looked over at Bob. I had no idea who this man was, although everyone else seemed to think he was famous. Bob wearily hung his head, trying unsuccessfully to hide his face from the throng of news cameras. “Robert, were you released from rehab on your own recognizance, or did you escape against your doctors’ advice that you should remain in rehab?” A man stumbled over a camera tripod as he yelled his question. “Were you attempting to commit suicide, Robert, when you flew your airplane without alerting anyone to your hastened departure?” Another reporter shouted from atop her news van’s roof. I tossed Bob my jacket to put over his head. The guy was almost shark bait, and now he was again shark bait, except the sharks circling him here on land, were reporters. Bob caught my jacket. “Thanks,” he graciously mumbled, then quickly covered his head with my jacket. A giant dog tore after Bob, tackled him, then pinned his neck to the dock with its fangs pressed into Bob’s jugular. “Shit!” I whispered under my breath. I walked faster, away from the ensuing chaos, and toward what I hoped would be an easy escape back to my car parked just beyond the marina. I’d been smuggling drugs in international waters and forgot about my private stash I’d tucked away in my jacket pocket. Thankfully, the rest of my important cargo was sealed inside my daughter’s inconspicuous toy camera I’d stripped and modified. The drug dogs must have been preoccupied with the stronger smelling, unsealed drugs in my jacket pocket. I escaped unharmed, and laid low for a while, at my country home with my wife and daughter. As it turned out, Bob was indeed famous, though I had always heard of him as R. A. Briggs, the author. His next book was all about me, which gave me a good chuckle. I got the feeling he was pretty pissed off that he had gone from shark bait to dog bait within hours. While relaxing with my family at our pond, I read Bob’s newest novel, knowing full well that I was the evil antagonist. The main character in Bob’s book was named Richard, nicknamed Dick, and was a boat captain who was choked, beaten and stabbed to death, and I mean repeatedly strangled, bloodied, and beaten with a baseball bat, a tire iron, and finished off by shoving an apple down the throat of the character clearly modeled after me. Talk about overkill. Quite the imagination Bob had. Later, I learned that R. A. Briggs was nearby at his book signing event. I left a copy of Bob’s book at the front desk of the luxury hotel where he was staying. I gave explicit instructions to the clerk that the apple must remain on top of the book when given to Mr. R. A. Briggs. Inside I wrote, ‘Sorry about that, Apple. That was quite unplanned. I had forgotten about that thing in my pocket when I gave you my jacket. You are apparently, extremely livid, but, nevertheless, you didn’t rat me out. In fact, you made millions off my character. I saved you, you saved me, and now you’re richer. All my best, Lifesaver.’


The house stood in eerie stillness, as it always did in the winter, the back room that used to be Grant’s practically screaming its secrets. It had been so loud since he left, especially in the wintertime. He loved the snow, and the room never let me forget it. The gray clouds muted everything, especially at night, and the streetlamp outside the second-story window cast a long, ink-black shadow along the wall. I hadn’t realized that the wallpaper had started to peel where the wall met the molding. My fingers trailed along the top of the old paint there, my skin catching on dust, the corpse of a dead spider, and flaked wood. It really had been a long time. I couldn’t seem to bring myself to step through the doorway. I felt his eyes on me. Grant’s. I knew it wasn’t possible. Not really. He was long gone. The wooden barrier swung open regardless, the hinges groaning in protest from lack of use. The room beyond, pregnant with energy – unsaid apologies, hateful ignominy, final punctuation – leaked old memories. I hadn’t cleaned it. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had all his furniture burned, of course. Couldn’t stand the sight of it. It hurt too much. I flicked on the light switch, and a dusty bulb flickered to life above me. A chill breeze swept past me as I entered, and I realized very quickly that the window must have a crack or some kind of leak. The place was freezing. It probably explained why my energy bill was so high. My arms wrapped around myself instinctively. I didn’t really know why I brought myself to do this every single year. I was trying to get over something, something too big that I couldn’t put down. It hung on my shoulders like one of those sleep paralysis demons you see in old paintings, ghoulish and somehow a little like you. My fingers clenched around my sweater and the age-old unresponsiveness crept up on me again. My hands trembled. My chest wavered. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I had to do it. I spun toward the wall, toward the only thing in the room. Grant’s mirror hung there, covered by a cloth that I had thrown over it shortly after he left. After a few short chokes as beads of sweat formed on my forehead, I dashed for the fabric. I tore it away from the wall like one would rip off a bandage to reveal the mirror underneath. It hit me like a flood. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror, and I remembered how terrified I looked. As the date approached, I lost out on sleep. Dark purple bags ringed my eyes, wide and white like saucers, and my blond hair knotted against my skull. I hadn’t bathed for days. Weeks? Was I always so thin? Then Grant came, as he always did. The memory of him danced around the room like bad imaging on an old television. He raised his hands up at me, screaming silent words that I couldn’t remember as he spun around the room. I shouted back, pointing an accusatory finger at him. I was much rounder then. He ripped up the corded phone off the nightstand, ripped the cord from the wall, and flung it at me. It left a dent in the door. And then I said it. “When I know you’re coming home, it makes me want to kill myself!” I screamed. The mirror had seen everything. I yelled out in that room alone and I dropped to my knees under the weight of it all. I thought I could face it. I thought I could get the beast off me. I wailed so hard my throat tore itself open, and thundering footfall exploded from somewhere below me. Before long, someone had dragged me to my feet and was ushering me out of the room. “Claire? Jesus, Claire! I go to make a sandwich for five minutes.” Before I was pulled from the space, I took one last look at my reflection. That was the face of a woman who had told her husband she wished he was dead. When I finally came out of my trance, I looked up to see who had grabbed me and nearly threw up. The acidic bubble of fear came up in my throat and I swallowed it, chunks and all, back down. Grant pulled me into the kitchen – no, not Grant. Garrett. Grant wasn’t here anymore. Garrett, Grant’s twin brother, sat me down at the kitchen table and hastily reached for an orange bottle. He popped the lid off and pushed my medication into my hands. After practically throwing a cabinet door off its hinges, he handed me a glass of tap water. “You have got to be kidding me, Claire. The psychiatrist said you weren’t allowed in there. Especially today. How’d you find the key?” “It was under your laptop on your desk,” I replied. I was sure I sounded like my soul had left my body. “I don’t know what else to do. Dr. Sturges told you that you’re not ready to handle it. Every single year you have another break because you don’t listen to what he tells you. I can’t have you having another break, Claire. I’ve already had to cover every damn mirror in the house.” I didn’t say anything and just stared into the cup. I could almost make out my reflection there, but not quite, thank God. “Do you think I wanted to move out here? Abandon my life? My job? Just because my brother decided to marry some—” He stopped himself. I looked slowly up at him, interested in what he had to say. “Some what , Garrett?” * * * My shaking hands fumbled with the bobby pin as I tried to pry it into the lock. I had let myself go too far. Get lost. If I didn’t do it now, I would never do it. I would be stuck in whatever hell this was, below the surface but never quite deep enough to drown. Finally, the bobby pin clicked into place and the door popped open. I turned to look over my shoulder. Garrett should be sound asleep. He hadn’t noticed the Hydroxyzine that I had slipped into his food. Grant’s room stood before me again, that cold air wrapping me in a hug as I entered. I didn’t dare turn on the light this time. The cloth that I had pulled away remained in a heap where it had fallen a few days ago, crumpled in an uncomfortable shape on the floor. My eyes played tricks on me and imagined someone lying underneath it. I shook my head to clear my thoughts, as if that would help me, and then I looked to the wall. Where it hung, the mirror reflected just the edge of the window and otherwise empty room. I could not see myself in it. Not yet. The paper in my hand crumpled as my arms started to tremble and my fingers tightened into a fist. With my teeth, I unrolled packing tape – it practically screamed out as the adhesive gave. After ripping away a piece, I closed my eyes and pressed the tape to the paper and the paper to the wall. My finger glided over the smooth tape, and I tried to calm my breath. I could barely stand. I didn’t know if my body could take it. It had to. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the paper. A dark photograph took up the upper half of the page, almost indiscernible in the dark. But the headline wasn’t. Acclaimed and Beloved English Professor, Aged 38, Dies in Head-On Collision with Big Rig. My eyes met the mirror. A dark silhouette lurked in its circular frame, haloed by the snow-reflected light from the window. I took a step away from the mirror. Then back toward it. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I didn’t see my face. Not clearly yet. One more step toward it. And then I met eyes that weren’t mine. My eyes were blue. Grant’s dark ones stared back at me. The world turned around me and suddenly I had been flipped upside down. My face slammed into the mirror, the glass breaking against my skin. Something hit the wall against my head, and when I turned to look back into the room, the light had turned on, and the phone that had once been on the nightstand had slammed into the wall. “Grant!” I cried, turning to find my husband behind me with his hand behind my head. “Grant, let me go!” “This is all your fault, you know,” he replied, his tone as smooth as a pane of glass. “You told me to go kill myself, so I did.” He pulled me back from the mirror by the knots in my hair so I could face him. I grabbed for anything I could, but my fingers merely met wallpaper. “Garrett! Garrett help!” “It was as easy as driving under the overpass on I-25 right into that 18-wheeler.” My knees buckled and I hit the floor. The phone. I scrambled for it, but he kicked it away from my hand. “I’m sorry, Grant! I’m so, so, so sorry!” “I really made you that miserable?” He kicked me. “I never hit you. Never told you I hated you. Always did everything for you.” He grabbed me by my face, pinching my cheeks in so hard I couldn’t talk. He had such large hands, and I had lost so much weight. There was no way I could fight back. “No wonder you can’t look at yourself. You’re horrifying. I hope you really soak in every single second of suffering. That’s how every moment I spent with you felt.” He spun me around and shoved my face into the shattered mirror again, cutting my cheeks and my bottom lip. The metallic bitterness of blood dribbled across my tongue and then down my nightgown. “I hope I eat you alive.” The mirror. I turned and grabbed the mirror from the wall, spinning with as much force as I could to slam the glass into the side of his head. The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, the glass slicing open the left side of his face. As soon as the glass hit his skin, time froze. All at once, it was not the glass of the mirror that dashed across his face, but the glass from his car’s windshield. The headlights of the big rig bleached his face out and his muscles contorted from the force. And then we were back in the empty room. The mirror’s frame danced across the floor as it slid into the corner. He looked at me, his smile swimming with blood. He lunged. “Grant!” I pleaded. “Grant, stop!” We danced around the room, the broken glass on the floor cutting open my bare feet. I grabbed a piece and wielded it at him. “I’m going to follow you every waking moment, Claire. You won’t be able to look at your face ever again without seeing yourself as I saw you in the end. As the bitch that told me to take my life.” “I was wrong, Grant. I was confused !” “You weren’t confused , Claire. You were hateful. You hated yourself and couldn’t stand the ugly bitch you had become, inside and out, and so you took it out on everyone else.” He came at me again, and I lunged at him with the same ferocity. My arm jutted toward him, glass in hand, skin burning from the deep laceration that was forming there from gripping the shard so hard. But I moved past him. I moved my arms under his and I wrapped my arms around him as tightly as I could. I embraced him. “I’m sorry Garrett,” I cried, tears mingling with blood as they trailed through my cuts, stinging them with their salt. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. My own hurt was never an excuse to hurt you in the way I did. We weren’t the perfect couple, and we tried. But I can’t let you hurt me anymore either.” I raised the piece of glass as his arms tightened around me, pushing every bit of air out of my lungs, and I drove it into my eye. * * * My body shook. Not shook, necessarily, but rattled back and forth. As I emerged from a fog, something pressed into my face, so heavy I couldn’t sit up. “I need you to call ahead to Denver General, let the surgeon know we’ve got a self-harm suicide coming in with severe head trauma.” I didn’t recognize them. “Oh, thank God! Hey, hey! She’s breathing!” Grant. No. Not Grant. Garrett. Someone squeezed my hand. “Garrett?” I asked. My throat felt like I had swallowed sandpaper. “Jesus, Claire,” he replied in the darkness, his voice shaky with sobbing. “Why’d you go and do something so damn stupid?” “I’m gonna make you a promise, Garrett,” I croaked, attempting to turn my head. A hand promptly stopped me from doing so. “I screwed up our lives. I shattered our whole family. I shouldn’t have yelled at Grant so much.” “It wasn’t all your fault, Claire. Grant threw shit at you, too. Don’t forget—” “It’s okay. None of it matters anymore. I’m going to fix this shattered life. He doesn’t have a hold on me. I’ll never see his reflection – or mine – ever again.”


Sean has a problem. He isn’t ideal. He doesn’t like the reflection in the mirror. Sean's days unfold like a monotonous reel, each moment overshadowed by the persistent weight of dissatisfaction. The mirror. Oh, you unforgiving portal! You reflect not just the physical form but also the echoes of unmet aspirations and broken promises Sean made to himself. As he stands before it each morning, there's an unspoken dialogue between Sean and the mirror—a silent confrontation with the version of himself he wishes were different. Yet, Sean's journey is not just about appearances; it's a pilgrimage through the corridors of self-perception and resilience. The reflection he despises conceals layers of untold stories. The romances, the failures, the sweet victories, the incessant battle for some self-esteem. Each perceived flaw is a scar from the wars he has fought, a testament to the struggles written into the very fabric of his being. It is dark out. In these quiet hours, Sean contemplates the subconscious split between who he is and who he longs to be. The desire for change simmers within, a flame flickering in the shadows, only the darkness seems to creep up upon him like those shadows in the movie Ghosts , the playful creatures from the underbelly of hell. It's as if the very shadows that dance on the periphery of Sean's consciousness take on a mischievous life of their own. They play with his vulnerabilities, whispering doubts and temptations that echo louder than the voice of reason. So where do we begin about the allure of the cheeseburger which has got Sean in a mess? The cheeseburger, in his eyes, is an enchanting feast that beckons with an irresistible allure. It is a symphony of scents that serenades his senses, a harmonious composition of sizzling meat and bread. It is a seductive symphony. It is Al Pacino doing the Tango . It swirls through the air like an intoxicating virus, infiltrating every corner of his consciousness, leaving an indelible mark on the desires that lurk beneath. This olfactory virus is more than a scent; it's a parade. It is flamboyant and loud. As Sean breathes in the fragrant tendrils of the cheeseburger's allure, he finds himself ensnared in a sensory tale, where each aromatic note contributes to the crescendo of desire. Sean falters. Each layer of the cheeseburger, like a love letter penned by Romeo, reveals a story of flavors and textures that harmonize in a passionate embrace. Sean tries to reclaim control over his senses. It's a battle waged within the confines of his own desires. He summons the strength to resist, clenches his fists and steels himself against the pervasive aroma that threatens to compromise his resolve. But the yellow of the melted cheese is too much to ignore. Like a dream, Sean falls into the decadent cascade glistening in the warm embrace of the cheeseburger, its vibrant hue is like a visual symphony, an artistic masterpiece that dances with the sizzling notes of savory anticipation. Yet, as he confronts the cheeseburger's golden delight, Sean's internal conflict intensifies. The yellow becomes a metaphor for the sunshine of momentary pleasure, casting shadows on the path toward losing weight. Sean wants to chart his own course but the yellow of the melted cheese, its radiant hue, like a beacon of indulgence, casts shadows on the path he aspires to tread. As he contemplates the molten treasure, the yellow takes on an ominous significance, a symbol of falling deeper into the abyss of habits from which he fears he may never emerge transformed. “Well, well, Mr. Cheeseburger, you sure know how to make an entrance. Why don’t you come with a warning label? May cause sudden cravings, impromptu debates with oneself, and occasional fits of food poetry,” he said, chuckling at his own jest, refusing to turn on the lights, he sits there in the dark acknowledging the absurdity of this internal struggle. “Seriously, though, if you were a motivational speaker, I'd be in trouble. "Unlock your inner potential with every bite!" I can almost hear it. Sean stands on the precipice, recognizing the yellow of the melted cheese not just as a visual feast but as a symbol of the internal abyss he fears—where the pursuit of change may be lost to the gravitational pull of familiar comforts. Suddenly, a sense of helplessness cuts through the witty façade and sweeps over him. The aroma, rather than being a playful adversary, becomes a relentless reminder of a struggle that extends beyond the culinary realm. Sean, in a moment of vulnerability, lets out a sigh, his jesting tone giving way to a more somber reality. “It is not just about you. It's about me. About this endless dance I'm stuck in. It's like, I'm wrestling shadows. The more I want to change, the more I find myself sinking into this pit. “It's not just about not giving you up; it's about the willingness to fight. And lately, that willingness feels like it's slipping away, drowned out by this overwhelming sense of despair. It's like standing at the edge of a vast abyss, and no matter how much I want to climb out, it feels impossible. “You're a mirror reflecting a fight I'm losing, and it scares the hell out of me.” The cheeseburger, it is a love story, after all. It eventually ends in a savory embrace. Sean, with a quiet determination, takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the cheeseburger. “This may be the greatest love story after all. But not the kind where I surrender; it's the kind where I learn to love myself a bit more,” he says, with a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he acknowledges the complexity of the journey. “So, let's dance, you and I. Even if you are just a fleeting indulgence.” As Sean takes that first bite, there's a sense of acceptance, not of defeat but of understanding. The cheeseburger, once a symbol of despair, becomes a momentary ally in his ongoing battle. He is victorious tonight.


“You told them,” Hannah Gregor said to the woman at her front door. “I can’t believe you told everyone about our extra supplies.” The cool night air blew in through the open door. Light from the flashlights and cellphones shone at her like a spotlight in the dark. “Hannah, they don’t want any trouble, but you have to share,” Rachel Andrews said. “You’re hoarding food, and it’s not right.” Shouts and grumbles came from the people behind her. The group had started as a few random individuals, but more neighbors had filtered out of their houses to join the fray. “We gave you food,” Hannah whispered to her once friend. “We gave you and your daughter food.” “You gave us expired food!” Rachel hissed. Spit sprayed from her bared teeth. “You gave us trash. I can’t feed Luna expired food. It could hurt her poor stomach.” “It’s canned soup. It’s still fine,” Hannah said. “We ate it ourselves.” “Children’s stomachs are more sensitive,” Rachel insisted. “But that’s not the point. You have more than enough food to share, but you’re hoarding it. You’re keeping it secret while people are starving.” “No one’s starving,” Hannah said, trailing off. The neighbors looked angry, though not emaciated. Her husband, Victor, stepped up to the door. “We gave you food because we felt bad for you and your daughter,” Victor said. “And this is how you repay us? I told Hannah you’re a user. You were a terrible friend before the apocalypse, and you’re worse now. People don’t change.” “Enough with the talking,” a skinny man with a small gun said. “We ain’t here to debate. We’re here to redistribute the wealth. We all gotta pull together to survive. We all gotta share. It ain’t right that some have more while others starve.” “This is our stuff and our private property,” Victor insisted. “You can’t just come in here and take it. We have no idea how long the power will be out or when things will get back to normal. We need this food, too.” “Then you probably should’ve invested in some firearms,” the skinny man laughed. “Because there ain’t no way you’ll keep what you got without them.” Hannah glanced around at the group. No one else in the group seemed to have a gun, though a few people had baseball bats and golf clubs. “Rachel, where did you find this guy?” Hannah sneered. “You really do have the worst taste in men.” “Jimmy is here willing to take care of us, you judgmental bitch,” Rachel snapped back. “You and I were never really friends. I just hung out with you because you live next door and gave me free babysitting.” “You’re a great mother,” Hannah snapped back. “Whoring around to all hours. At least we gave her a safe place to stay.” “Fuck you, you barren bitch!” Rachel screamed and lunged at them. “Get out of the way! We’re taking your shit.” The crowd of neighbors surged at that, pushing to get into the house. In their haste, they stumbled up the steps of the front porch, a tangle of limbs and scrambling bodies. Victor was able to slam the door and lock it, but not before Jimmy and Rachel tumbled in. “Don’t move!” Jimmy screeched, holding the gun in front of him. His thin arms shook with adrenaline and nerves. A greasy stench of body odor and fear emanated from him. A lilac-scented candle on the coffee couldn’t cover the smell. Victor and Hannah froze, sweat dripping from their foreheads. The fire in the fireplace cast a hot orange light around the dark room. “You’re going to kill us?” Hannah held up her arms. “Come on, it hasn’t gotten to this, has it?” “You WILL share,” Jimmy said. “Listen to that crowd out there. Your neighbors are starving. They aren’t going to stand for this.” “We’ve been giving to the communal pot,” Victor protested. “We’ve been giving just as much as the others. It’s barely been two weeks. How could people not have enough food to get them through two weeks? They’re hoarding, too. They just won’t admit it.” “Well, they don’t got enough,” Jimmy said. “They know you got more, and they want it. They’re going to tear your house apart.” “What if we can reach an agreement?” Victor asked. “What if we hire you to guard the house?” “Why would I need to work for you when I can just take what you got?” Jimmy waved his gun. “I’m the one with the gun here. You are going to give me whatever I want.” “But how are you going to get it out of here?” Hannah protested. “Those people are going to come in here and tear everything apart. They’re going to destroy everything in the process, and no one’s going to get anything. Even if you try to take food out of here, they will take that too.” The four of them looked at the mob pounding on the door and shouting obscenities. “Stop them, and you can stay with us,” Victor said quickly. “We have plenty of water from the rain barrels and wood for the fireplace. It’s warm here. There’s tons of food. We’ve been cooking on the camp stove and the grill.” “You can defend this place,” Hannah agreed. “You can help us protect the house.” “I could just kick you out and take over,” Jimmy pointed out. “Yeah, just kick them out,” Rachel agreed. “Kick them out, and we’ll live here in their perfect house.” The pretty crackling fire gave the gray interior a happy, cozy feel despite the mob outside. “What are you going to do, murder us?” Hannah argued. “The people out there aren’t going to let you get away with that. And what if things do start back up? They might forgive a little looting, but murder is going to get you put away.” Jimmy paused at that. The tip of his gun lowered a few inches. “We have a very nice guestroom,” Victor said. “You two can stay in there. We’ll draw you a bath.” “I do need a bath,” Jimmy grinned. “This place is a lot better than your house.” He looked at Rachel, who glared back. “I’m a single mother,” she fumed. “I don’t have all of this disposable income to throw away on candles and fireplaces.” A large bang sounded against the front door. “We have to get them to go away,” Victor gestured to the door. It was steel with tiny windows across the top. Two of the little windows had cracked, and the molding around the door had become loose and crumbling. “I’ll take care of them,” Jimmy said. He went to the window near the door, opened it, and pushed out the screen, which clattered to the ground. He pointed the gun out the window. “Get out of here!” He screamed. He shot off two rounds into the front lawn. The people on the porch ducked and scrambled. One man tumbled over the railing and into the bushes. The mob stepped on a woman who had fallen at the bottom of the stairs. She screamed and crawled to her feet, then ran off. Jimmy pulled his arm back into the house and closed the window. He locked it firmly. “You didn’t shoot anyone. Did you?” Rachel asked nervously. “No, of course not,” Jimmy scoffed. “I just scared them. These city kid liberals are so scared of guns that they run at the first shot. Now, be a dear and run that bath for us.” Jimmy sauntered over to the couch and sat down. He picked up one of the two glasses of wine on the table and took a sip. “Nice vintage.” He tapped the gun on his knee. Rachel walked over and sat next to him. She took the second half-finished glass and sipped it with a smug grin. “Maybe we could get a little snack?” she asked. “Do you have more of that amazing salsa from the farmer’s market?” “Yeah, I think we do.” Hannah went to the kitchen and prepared the salsa and chips. She returned with a large bowl of salsa and a bigger bowl of tortilla chips and set them on the coffee table. Victor hauled water from the rain barrels up the stairs and poured them into the bathtub. He heated a kettle on the fireplace and poured it in to warm the cold water. Jimmy and Rachel drank and ate on the couch, laughing and making out. Jimmy set the gun on the armrest next to him. Whenever Hannah or Victor came by, he picked up the gun and tapped his knee. Hannah went upstairs to check on the bath and came down with two bath bombs in her hands. “Would you like a bath bomb?” she asked. “We have rose and lavender.” “Why not both?” Jimmy said extravagantly. “My baby deserves it.” Rachel laughed as he grabbed at her chest. “Why not?” Hannah said with a thin smile. Jimmy and Rachel opened another bottle of wine and went upstairs to the bathroom. Jimmy kissed her neck as they went in. “Rachel, where’s Sarah?” Hannah whispered as they passed in the hall. “Oh, old Mrs. Henderson is watching her tonight,” Rachel giggled. “She’s fine.” Hannah and Victor went to their room and closed the door. The room was pitch black without any streetlights or alarm clocks. The only sound was the laughing and splashing coming from the bathroom. They got under the covers quickly as the house was chilly away from the fireplace. Victor wrapped his arms around Hannah as they snuggled deep into the bed. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Victor whispered. “I can’t believe Rachel did this to us.” “I can,” Hannah scoffed. “Do you remember how she threw me under the bus at the Halloween party? She was always shady.” “That’s true,” he frowned in the dark. “What are we going to do?” “Do you remember the poison I bought last year to get rid of those mice that were chewing the internet cables?” Hannah whispered. “Yeah, do we still have it?” Victor’s voice was barely audible. “Well, not anymore.”


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire with the death of Avinash. The blood was still sprinkling from his neck. He was under that old cherry tree. Winter leaves were falling from the tree. People were already gathered around him in the early morning. I never thought it would end like this. He was a neighbour of mine, a very dear one. It started with his longing for money. He had been too greedy. He never thought where he was heading. A vicious circle of friends had acquired him by preaching the overnight rich method but he didn't understand that nobody can be successful overnight without doing any illegal jobs. His father was very proud of him. One educated boy he was. Every demand was fulfilled by his parents. I can say he was a very pampered boy in his childhood and young age also. He was the only child of his parents. They thought their children would be a respected man in this neighbourhood. In fact, he was already in the right direction. He was known as a good boy in our locality. We came here 2 years ago. Our locality is very peaceful. Small houses are surrounded by small gardens. Even the colour of every house was lightly painted. In front of our house, there is a small Cherry tree which looks so beautiful in spring. I heard that this is older than the others. No horns, no hustling and bustling of the city, though it is not a village. We enjoy the place. This place is remarkable at the time of spring when new leaves bloom on every branch. Birds chirping in the morning give this a different dimension. Though I was a little jealous about his good boy image in the locality, we were good friends. He used to live just beside our house. His father was an engineer by profession and mother was a teacher. His upbringing had been well nurtured. I remember when I first went to his house. I remember I went with Avinash. Aunty opened the door. Aunty - Hi Atul, how are you? So, how's your new home? I – good, aunty, it's been a great place for us. Very peaceful it is. How are you? Aunty - good, how're your parents? I - they are good. With asking the question, she went to her kitchen. Their house is well decorated. Avinash told me to sit on the sofa and he sat on a chair. We were conversing about a function which was going to happen soon in our area. She came out with a plate full of sweets and snacks and put it in front of us. Aunty - You have just shifted here, right? Avinash told me a little about you. You both have been good friends within a few days. I - yeah, just a 2 weeks ago. Actually, my dad is a railway employee and has a transferrable job. So, we have to migrate frequently. I am a very shy person, so couldn't eat anything but a bit of the snack and coffee. I met Avinash just 2 days after we came here. He has really been a very kind friend. Aunty - what are you doing then? Studying? I – yes, aunty. I'm still studying. This is my last year in graduation. Aunty - oh, that's great to hear. We had already finished our snacks. Avinash was silent in our conversation. He didn't say anything. Now it was his turn. He said, let's go to my room. I have already been accustomed to his chain-smoking habit. His room also was well decorated. It seemed to me he was a very creative person. Everywhere was paintings, writings. I asked, "Is this yours?" Avinash – Yes, I like to do this in my spare time. Do you like arts?? I said, yeah, of course. I know the value it gives us. We became very good friends within a few months. I used to be their regular guest. We were already accustomed to each other’s behaviour. He was already confronted with my calm attitude. He saw my aggressive side also. One day he told me why I hit my head at an aggressive time. I told him that was my childhood habit. It can't be changed easily. It was already concreted in me. A long year passed. In the meantime, I saw some changes in his behaviour. He was being aggressive for little matter. His frustration was not hidden from his family also. I found that he had started to take marijuana. Within a few months, he got too much addicted to heroin. His interests started to change. There were no creative activities. His mind diverted. The most important thing in our broken friendship which departed us is a lady. I fell in love with the same person he loved. She lives near our house. It is just a 5 minutes walking distance. I didn't even talk to that lady but felt a terrific longing for her. My desire for her grew rapidly. I tried to express my love but failed. The manifestation of love was not an easy task for me. Our friendship broke within a few days when he came to know about this matter. We had already stopped talking, though our parents would communicate with each other. I knew that he was running after money. He was being involved with a smuggling gang. I could understand his changed personality. As he passed out, he wasn't interested in jobs. He wanted to start his own business as an artist. It was not possible overnight. His dream was not being successful and finally, there was a friend who supplied the first marijuana to him. I knew the person. When I came to know that he had been accepted by the lady I became more jealous. Avinash started to come back to his good life. He was rehabilitating himself. He never thought the future of his destiny was in my hands. Nobody knew about his exact activities but me. Still, there is no trace of the killers. Everybody suspects that he was killed by one of his gang members, though I knew the truth. Hahaha! I felt an eternal happiness. The police came to know later about the murder within a few days. So, I had to go behind the bars.


“You better beat me down there. I don’t like wife beaters, and I don’t like men who touch children,” said an elderly-sounding man. The phone disconnected, and the line went dead. “What the hell?” I muttered, my hand frozen on my keyboard. “What just happened?” Alicia asked, swiveling her chair toward me, her voice edged with concern.

“Check the update,” I said, rubbing my temples as I tried to piece together what I had just heard. Calls like this one always left a pit in my stomach – a mess of fear and danger lingering in the air. The adrenaline that hit when you knew something was about to go very wrong.

Alicia’s brow furrowed as she leaned over her screen, reading the latest update aloud to the officers already en route to the call. Her voice, usually steady, held a slight tremor. We’d been through some rough calls in this windowless 911 center, but something about this one felt different. Alicia and I had been working together for almost five years, sitting side by side, monitoring the chaos as it played out on the other end of the line. Over the years, we’d learned each other’s rhythms—the unspoken language that formed between two people who spend too many late nights wading through tragedy and disaster. She was sharp, quick with her words, and always had a calm presence when the world was falling apart. I’d seen her manage everything—from multi-car crashes to missing children—but nothing ever shook her like domestic calls. Maybe it was because those were the ones that stuck with you, the ones that haunted you long after the shift ended. Alicia once told me, after a particularly brutal call, that it was never the emergencies you were prepared for that got you—it was the ones that felt like they’d been building up for years. “That voice,” I muttered, my mind circling back to the phone call. “Jim, the neighbor. He sounded old, but angry. Like he’s been holding onto this for a long time.” “Yeah,” Alicia agreed, her voice low as she transmitted more updates to the officers. “And it sounds like he’s about to snap. Do we have anything on the address?” I tapped a few keys, pulling up the files we had. “Jessica and Matthew. Married for at least five years. There’ve been a couple of noise complaints, one domestic disturbance call—no arrests.” “Figures,” Alicia said, shaking her head. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening. Just means they weren’t cooperating with the cops.” I nodded, feeling a twist in my gut.

It’s always like that . The signs were always there if you knew where to look. Jim’s call wasn’t just frustration. He’d probably been watching this unfold from his front porch for months, helpless as the system failed Jessica. Maybe that’s why he was so angry. I didn’t know much about Jessica, but I could picture her standing in her hotel room, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the wedding ring she likely still wore. I imagined her on her wedding day, smiling nervously, twisting that ring as she made her vows, believing that this man, Matthew, was her future. That he loved her, that their life would be full of promise. Back then, the ring must’ve felt light—symbolic of the love she thought she was building. But now? Now it was a chain. A burden. With every hit, every scream, the weight of that small band must’ve grown heavier, binding her to him, making it harder to leave. I imagined her staring at it, the metal cold against her skin, the love long drained from it, leaving only a hollow symbol of the violence she endured. The phone rang, jolting me from my thoughts. I picked up. “911, what’s your emergency?” The voice on the other end was calm, unnervingly steady. “It’s me again. Jim. I shot him.” My breath caught in my throat. “Who did you shoot, Jim?” “Matthew,” he said, like he was stating the obvious. “He’s dead in the driveway. I warned you guys to beat me there. I wasn’t going to wait. He would’ve killed her.” I glanced at Alicia, who had stopped typing. Her hands trembled as she scrambled to give the officers the new update. The tension in the room was palpable, the kind that sat heavy on your chest and made it hard to breathe. “Where’s the gun now, Jim?” I asked, keeping my voice as steady as possible. It was important to keep him talking, to make sure this didn’t escalate any further. “I gave it to the bartender,” he said, the calmness in his voice unsettling. “I’m sitting at the bar, waiting for the cops. Just wanted to let you know—he won’t hurt anyone anymore.” There was a long pause. I could hear the low murmur of conversation in the background, the soft clink of glasses. It was surreal, this calmness in the wake of violence. “Okay, Jim,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Stay where you are. The officers are on their way. Keep your hands off the gun.” He didn’t say goodbye. The line just went dead. I sat there for a moment, gripping the mouse so hard I thought I might break it. Alicia’s voice hummed in the background, updating the officers as the situation unfolded, but I barely heard her. I couldn’t shake the image of Jessica, hiding in some dingy hotel, her fingers tracing that ring she probably didn’t even want anymore. Later, after the dust had settled, we learned more about Jim. He wasn’t just a nosy neighbor—he was a good man, trying to protect someone he cared about. Matthew had been beating Jessica for months. Jim had called the cops a few times when he heard the fights, but nothing ever came of it. Jessica never pressed charges. She was too scared, too stuck. One day, Jessica finally confided in Jim. She told him everything—how she felt trapped, how she didn’t know how to get out. Jim, being the kind of man who couldn’t stand by and watch someone suffer, had helped her leave. He paid for her to stay at a hotel, just until she could figure things out. He thought it was enough. But Matthew had found her. Somehow, he always found her. Our first call that night was for a domestic disturbance at the hotel. The officers were on their way, but they were too far out, tied up on another call. Jessica must’ve reached out to Jim, told him Matthew had found her. That’s when Jim called us—when he decided he wasn’t going to wait for help. I later watched the body-cam footage. Jessica sat in the detective’s office, recounting her story. Her hands fidgeted with her wedding ring, twisting it around her finger, back and forth, the diamond catching the light as she spoke. That ring had once been a symbol of love, a promise of a future she thought she’d have. But as Matthew’s violence grew, it had become something else—a reminder of the life she was trapped in, the life she couldn’t escape. As she finished her story, she slid the ring off her finger and dropped it on the floor. I watched as it rolled across the tile, the sound barely a whisper in the silence of the room. She stared at it for a long moment, then stood up and left without picking it up. I couldn’t help but wonder if, in that moment, the weight of the ring had finally disappeared.


"May God have mercy on our souls"  Were the last written words of Jeremiah Watts. "There is an approaching storm!" The ethereal voiced preacher said over the static filled radio. "Something the likes the world has ever known! You all that can hear my voice, you better repent!" His voice crackled with intensity as the rain outside the car continued to beat against the car, as if were trying to get at the occupant inside. The man did his best to stay on the road. He hadn't seen another car in miles, and he wasn't concerned with seeing one. He had other, more pressing matters on his mind. "Please God, forgive me." The man in the driver's seat whispered softly. He drove for a few moments before deciding to stop the car. He closed his eyes and said a quiet prayer to himself in an attempt to calm his wrecked nerves. When the prayer didn't work he opened his eyes turned his attention to his bible laying in the passenger seat. As he reached for it he took care not to pay attention to the barrel of a shotgun sticking out from the passenger's side well. Or the vague smell of sulfur that emanated from it. As he grabbed his bible he opened it and began reading, until the sound of thunder made him jump and drop the bible at his feet. He began to weep at that moment. "God, why?" He sobbed, "Why? Why have you made me carry this burden?" He cried into his hands. "They weren't, right, Lord. I just..." The preacher's hollow, forlorn voice crackled through the car radio again, causing the man to pause momentarily in his suffering. "You know you have sinned. You all have!" The preacher said before pausing. The rain outside coming down so hard that the man could not see out any of the car windows. "When the almighty makes his return, he will wipe all the filth from the land! But before he comes, before he comes, a wicked evil will appear, In fact, I would say it has already appeared. Which is why, the storm is approaching." The man looked up from his hands and stared into his own bloodshot eyes. The man he saw before him was not the man he saw just 48 hours ago in a laboratory bathroom. That man was a confident man, a man who thought he knew the world and everything in it. But after last night. He became the broken, hollow shell of a man he is now. Part of him believed he was still sane, so much so that he decided to park the car in this downfall. But the greater part of him knew, that something, fundamentally deep down on a base level, he was no longer sane.

The rain and thunder outside the car picked up, so much so that the man turned up the volume on the car radio to hear the preacher. The man quickly jerked his hand back from the radio as if it were a viper when he began to hear the preacher's gravely voice laughing. "But you know what you have done. I'm not talking to those in my flow before me. No, I'm talking to the ones out there. The ones out in the godforsaken world. They know not what will befall you! Repent! Or your damned souls will forever burn in the lake of fire!" Even over the preacher and the rain, the man sitting in the driver's seat, began to hear the sound of scratching coming his backseat. When he slowly turned to look, he saw nothing, but he knew there was nothing in the backseat. Tiny sobs began to leak from the man, like a rusted pipe. He knew the scratching sounds were coming from "behind" the backseat. He knew something was in the trunk. "Why." The man sobbed. "Why have you placed this...this, curse upon me lord? Why?" the man said as he began to beat the steering wheel in frustration. The static of the radio and the intense sound of the rain began to drown out his own thoughts. He took a glance over at the shotgun, took a deep breath and grabbed it by the barrel. He felt the warm metal against his palm as he pulled it out. He opened his car door to the pouring rain, and slowly walked toward the trunk, not caring that he was getting soaked to the bone. As he reached the trunk, he could hear the sound of scratching even over the sound of rain all around him. As he reached for the handle of the trunk, he mentally prepared himself for what he knew he was going to see. As he opened the trunk, the man sobbed again as the body of a woman in a lab coat with a gunshot wound to her stomach laid there. Next to the woman was a silver case the size of a small shipping box. On the box and on the woman's lab coat were the letters A.R.C. The woman's lifeless eyes stared upward at the man in confused agony. "It made me do it!" The man screamed as he raised his shotgun "It got into my head and it made me do it! It got into you too!" He pointed the shotgun at the woman in the trunk and stood there for a few moments, letting the rain completely soak his body. His finger hovered inches away from the trigger. His mind flashed back to the moment he used this gun before. He remembers the flash, the recoil of the gun, and the being in front of him being hit But when he ran over to whatever it was to finish it off, to his horror, the was woman lying there, looking up at him with those sorrowful eyes. "I don't even know, what I am seeing anymore." The man said in a shaky voice. "I know, what I saw, and it wasn't....it wasn't you. It wasn't you! That thing got into my head, you knew it got in yours too!" The man lowered the shotgun, as his will began to drain from him. "Lord forgive me" He said in a pitiful voice, as he closed the trunk on the rain soaked woman. The man slowly headed back to the drivers seat and he sat back down, completely soaking the seat. The radio just continued to spew static the entire time as he reached over and opened the glove department box. Many papers spewed out and covered the seat and the floor, but he picked up a single sheet, grabbed a pen, and began to write: "My name, is Jeremiah Watts, this note is for anyone that find it. The woman in the trunk of the car was a colleague of mine. If the police find this first, and I pray you do, you will be able to piece together the scene. Yes, I shot the woman, Helena Goe, in a fit of insanity. I cannot tell you what I saw when I pulled the trigger, killing her. I know I didn't see a woman, it was something beyond the horrors. Something truly and utterly so imposturous, that you would dismiss this entire, note, as the ramblings of a mad man. So I will live on with what I have seen, and I will live with what I have done. The container next to the woman should be put into a highly secured vault. It is with the utmost importance that this is achieved and once this happens, call this number 418-267-0978." As he continued to write, he began to feel the dread he felt a few moments ago began to melt away. With each word, he felt the weight of the world gradually lessen from his soul, as he felt as if this were penance for killing his co-worker. When he was finished writing, he placed the note right in the seat next to him and laid the shotgun across the backseat. He started up the car again and began to drive, this time in silence. While on the road, a passerby noticed a car was involved in a car accident. The car crashed sideways into a pole and was completely wrapped around it. Knowing that if anyone was in that crash they would surely be dead, the citizen called the police and they arrived on the scene. The two officers that arrived accessed the scene as the fire department began to use the jaws of life on the car in an attempt to unwrap it from around the pole and help tow it away. One officer was already on the scene as the other pulled up. "This is a rough one." One officer said joining the other officer watching the scene. "Yeah, a real rough one, How fast do you think he was going?" The other officer asked "Hmm. Probably 75, or more." He replied. "Yeah, I was thinkin the same." He said, he took a look over at the officer before continuing, "You know they found a body in the trunk, she was completely mangled. As well as a damaged shotgun." "The two related?" "More than likely since she had a hole the size of a cantaloupe where her midsection should have been." "Where's the driver?" "That poor guy." The officer said taking off his hat and brushing his short hair before replacing it. The sun overhead began to hide behind a few incoming clouds casting an ominous shadow over the scene as the two officers watched as the firefighters continued to work. "He was found a few feet away. Clearly he died on the spot due to his landing. It wasn't a particularly good one." "Ah." The officer replied "That's not even the crazy part. There was this note found in this bible not too far from here." The officer pulled out the note and handed it to the officer. "The bible was soaking wet along with the guy, but as you can see, there ain't a reason why he would be wet."

"He was wet?" "Like soaked to the bone. Even the car showed signs of water damage." "What? How?" The officer asked "Don't know. Read the note." His eyes scanned the entire thing as he mouthed the last words: "May God have mercy on our souls." "Spooky ain't it?" The other officer said "You really want to raise some hairs, turn it over." As the officer did, he noticed there was a second note on the back, this one was written in a state of madness. Words were scrawled in a writing that the officer struggled to read. When he did, he looked confused. The note read as follows: P.S: The container in the trunk of the car must be thrown in the nearest incinerator, preferably at its highest setting. I was going to do it myself, but it prevents me. Since it has, been inside and it knows me, but its sleeping now. And im doing this. Throw the container into the hottest fires you can find. If you come across this container, and it is damaged in, even the slightest way, then I truly pray for us, You will know when you are near it, the weather patterns around will be completely erratic like extreme rai The letter stops abruptly. "What in the world? What container is he talking about?" The officer asked "That's the thing. We don't know what he is talking about. We are still looking for the thing and- "Hey! I think I found it!" One of the firefighters called out. He was in the field a few feet from the crash. He reached down and picked up what appeared to be a shiny object. As he approached the officers he held it out to the officer that was already on the scene. "Here you go sir. We found it." As the officer held the damaged container in his hands, the one thing he took note of was the damaged letters A and R. Where the C would have been was a long, jagged gash, exposing the inside of the container, which was empty. "What do you think was inside it?" The officer holding the note asked "I don't know." The officer said turning over the container in his hands. "But for some reason I have this feeling of..I don't know...dread? Like something being wrong, but you cant figure it out? I get that feeling when I hold this thing. Here wanna hold it?" The officer said, holding it out to the other officer "Nah, I'll pass on that one. Uh, look. I'll go and check out the two bodies so i can make a better report, and uh, you okay there?" The officer noticed his colleague wasn't paying attention to him, but was staring intently at the container in his hands. "You should put that thing in the car or something. "Yeah, I'll do that." The officer said as they both separated. As the officer put the container in the backseat of his car, he took notice of the city skyline in the distance. He noticed a great storm was rolling in. And something deep inside him felt something he had never felt before. A simple, but primal fear of the coming storm.


Every morning I wake up one minute before my alarm goes off. The first thing I do is roll over to cancel said alarm before the siren blares, giving me the worst migraine a person could possibly imagine.

I take a moment to wake up, rubbing my eyes and stretching a bit. After all, it feels good to get moving after a full 8 hours of sleep. This is the second thing I do every morning.

Next on the list is opening the drapes. I look out the window and onto the roofs of the other old buildings in town. I see the ocean in the distance and can nearly hear the sound of its waves.

And then I notice the weather: the weather that so happens to be perfect for that day. If I wanted an outdoor wedding to be inside, it would be rainy. If I wanted to go for a run, it would be sunny. If I wanted an aesthetic day in a coffee shop, it would be foggy. The weather had not interrupted my plans for a long while.

From there I dress accordingly, eat accordingly, and think accordingly to what the rest of my day looks like.

And through this morning routine that I experience every single day, I never hear dogs barking or loud construction, my phone doesn’t ring unless I expect it to, I don’t spill coffee on my blouse, I don’t discover a leaky faucet, I don’t step in a puddle of water while wearing socks. I never leave home too soon or too late. My internet connection is always stable. I get the same amount of sleep every night. I never walk to my car to find I am out of gas or that my vehicle had been broken into. The stoplights are always green, my lane of traffic always moves fastest, I never get cut off or pulled over. I never have to work longer than I want to and don’t need to attend events I don’t want to. I never burn food. I don’t get sick. I never wake up hungover. The weddings go smoothly. My clients are happy.

Every day. This perfect rhythm has occurred nonstop for as long as I can remember. It has been at least a few weeks.

It became so extreme that I started to test my good luck. I would try to change this odd routine that ruled my life, but I was never able to. No matter how hard I tried, I kept having good luck.

Every. Single. Day.

I should be happy, right? Most people would kill for just one day like mine. Where everything is flawless. Where everything gets off to a good start and ends the same way, over and over and over.

Well, to be honest, this was a curse. The best curse anyone could receive, but a curse nonetheless.

Simply enough, it gets old. You stop planning for contingencies because you know there won’t be any. You stop having anything to talk about that doesn’t make you sound like a privileged jerk. You know exactly how your day begins and ends, and you lose any sense of adventure or wonder. You long for curiosity and fall into a never-ending pattern of perfection.

But, this seemingly immaculate routine made me develop a theory.

“Let me tell you if this makes sense,” I shared with my best friend and assistant, Tara, one day while we were helping clean up a wedding venue, “I think every person has the same amount of good luck.” “Really?” she asked skeptically. She might not have been convinced yet, but she always loved to hear my crazy ideas about what made the world go ‘round. She loved to debate them and prove how I could be wrong. It was one reason why we were such good friends.

“Hold on, this is going somewhere,” I said, encouraging her to be patient while we started folding tablecloths. “I think each person’s luck is spread out in different ways. I might hit every green light, and you might hit every red one.” Tara scoffed with envy. She always made me drive because of this. “But, you go home to your dog acting all cute and your husband making you dinner. I just go home.”

“That almost makes sense. Go on.”

“Your daily luck is in the form of living things, like your dog and your husband. My luck is in the form of sequences, or daily routines, or whatever you want to call them, because I don’t have anyone or anything special,” I said. It sounded much sadder than I had intended, but she didn’t seem to notice.

She pondered the theory. “That would mean my husband and dog have the same amount of luck as your perfect days do.” She took a moment more to contemplate the idea. “So you’re saying that everyone has the same amount of good luck, it’s just placed differently every day?”

“Sure. I don’t trip on my own shoelace, and you are married to a hottie. Seems fair, right?”

Tara laughed. “I am married to a hottie, but don’t sell yourself short. You have had these perfect days for so long...” Her voice trailed off as she seemed to imagine what it would be like to live as I had been for weeks on end.

“Because I don’t have all of the things that you have,” I said with a smile.

“I guess we’re both lucky.” “The same amount of lucky.”

We chuckled and went back to work.

At that moment, I became jealous of Tara. If my childlike idea were true, I would much rather sleep a little less than normal and wake up with a dog jumping on my bed than sleep the same amount every day and wake up to a dark and empty room.

But it was just an idea, after all. I shouldn't have taken it so seriously.

This always happened, and I should have known better. I always came up with some outrageous explanation for whatever was going on in my life at that time. I would fixate on that idea and how it could solve my problems.

I wasn’t going to do that again. It was for the best that I was done with crazy ideas and explanations, truly. I needed to find peace with what I had. I needed to learn to be happy with good luck.

---------------------------------------------------------------- A few weeks later, I still experienced the same good luck every day. The streak had gone from weeks to a few months.

I was starting to wonder if this was going to be the rest of my life. The same process… it was a bit depressing. I mean, I had tried to change it. To make my day bad. But it wasn’t possible. It always turned out the same way, with me alone, and started the same way, with me alone, the next day.

Maybe I wouldn’t be like Tara, with the happy little family. I would simply just have my lucky routine.

I quickly decided that that was enough of an existential crisis for the night. I rolled over and picked up my phone to check the time. 10:05 p.m. It was five minutes past when I normally went to bed.

No matter. I would wake up the next morning at 6:05, then. I would get my 8 hours, like always. And this time, I would be thankful for it. Even if I wished my luck were different. I took a deep breath and went to sleep.

---------------------------------------------------------------- I woke the next morning to the glorious sensation of the sun on my face. I could see its bright rays peeking through my drapes. Still, it was odd to feel the sun on my face while lying in bed.

And then I realized- why was I feeling the warmth of sunlight? It was 6:05 in the morning; the sun wasn’t up.

I checked my phone. 7:45. Holy guacamole.

I could have jumped up and down. Something finally changed from my neverending good luck.

And then I remembered why the alternative was called ‘bad’ luck. I was late. I had a meeting with a client in 45 minutes.

I quickly got in the shower. It was too hot. And then too cold. And then too hot.

I tried to blow my hair dry and the power went off.

I tried to put my soaking wet hair in a bun, and the hair tie snapped. I got another tie but at this point there were strands of hair protruding left right and center. I had to start over.

I couldn't find any bobby pins. Where were my bobby pins?

I checked the time and relaxed a bit. I definitely couldn’t read the news or go for a run this morning but I was not going to be late. Yet.

I hurriedly fixed my hair until it was good enough, changed clothes, and looked in the mirror. A new stain on my pants that I hadn’t noticed. A new zit on my forehead.

To disguise such a zit, I needed makeup. However, somehow, I put on the ugliest makeup look I ever had. The eyeliner was hideous. The shades didn’t look right.

It was probably because the power was out and I could barely see what I was doing.

I checked the time again. I would have to forget about the makeup. I needed to go.

I went to the kitchen to grab a bagel, but I was out of bagels. And out of cereal. And bananas. And I couldn’t make much of anything else because the power was out.

I forgot about breakfast. I wasn’t that hungry anyway.

I grabbed my purse and everything fell out of it. I scrambled to pick it all up and stubbed my toe on a bookshelf in the process.

I walked out the door and shortly ran right back inside. Shoes. I needed shoes. I put on the first thing I could find and was out the door.

I sprinted to my car. The parking garage was quite busy. Everyone was leaving for work. I passed by lots of people rushing around like I was.

I couldn’t find my car. Where did I park?

After running in a complete circle around the entire garage I found my car. I hopped in and started it, and sure enough, my tire pressure sensor came on.

I jumped out and saw that a tire was flat.

I took my phone out of my purse to call Tara to come get me. But my phone was now dead.

I was on the verge of a breakdown. After ages of the same routine, when everything goes right, it is apparently quite the shock when everything doesn’t.

I would have to walk. The meeting place was just down the street, anyway. I hoped that the new clients were patient.

I walked out of the parking garage to find that it was pouring rain. Lovely.

I dashed down the street and every single pedestrian crosswalk was not only red when I got there but also took ages to change.

In my hurry, I bumped into a passing businessman and his phone fell on the ground. I could hear the screen crack.

“Are you kidding me? I just bought this!” he screamed. “What are you doing, bumping into people like that? Don’t you watch where you’re going?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said, retreating slowly. I could still hear him shouting at me as I ran away.

I finally got to the cafe and hurriedly looked around for a young couple. I didn’t see anyone matching their description and decided to get in line to order something when I noticed Tara at a table in the corner. I darted over to her and left watery footprints in my trail.

“Hi,” I greeted Tara. I couldn’t say much of anything else.

“Good Lord! You look horrendous!” I could feel her staring at my zit, then at my drooping eyeliner, then at the stain on my pants that I had forgotten about. And at the fact that I looked like a wet rat.

“Thank you,” I said, plopping down in the booth beside her. “Where’s Tim and Julie?”

“I called you, like, six times and you didn’t answer. I was actually really worried about you. They canceled this morning because Julie got sick.”

“Oh. Okay.” I was so flustered. So much had happened already, and the day had just begun.

“Are you okay? What’s going on?” Tara asked with genuine concern. “I never beat you to meetings and I have been here for at least 15 minutes. Why are you late?” “I’m fine. Rough morning,” I admitted with a chuckle.

“You finally running out of luck?” she asked me, smirking.

“I guess so.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No, I kinda just want to sit here for a minute. I think I need to calm down.”

“Okay. I have somewhere to be, so I’ll leave you to it. You sure you’re okay?”

I sighed and met her eyes. “I’ll be fine.” “Okay,” she said, still concerned about me but content enough to leave.

As soon as she was out the door I let my head drop onto the tabletop. I slammed it up and down a few times. I started sniffling heavily and was worried I might begin to cry.

What a morning.

I suppose I was creating more of a ruckus than I thought because some guy walked over to my table.

“Are you okay?” he asked sincerely.

I lifted my head, embarrassed. I wiped my eyes and sniffled some more. “I’m sorry, I must be quite noisy. I’ll get going in a moment.” I tried to gather enough dignity to stand and leave.

“No, don’t worry about it.” He stood there awkwardly. “May I sit?”

I was uncomfortable but gestured to the open chair on the other side of the table.

“You look terrible,” he said, not in a rude way, but gently.

“So I’ve heard.” I wiped my eyes again and laughed painfully. “You know, I have had the worst morning. I stubbed my toe, the power went out, I haven’t eaten a thing, I was late, my phone died, my tire was flat, it is pouring rain…” my voice started to trail off. I’m sure I sounded crazy.

“You want to know something?”

He looked at me so purely that I wasn’t afraid of him. Which was unusual, because if any other random man sat down at my table and asked me questions, I would be quite frightened. But he had a bit of a reassuring presence.

“What?”

“I had a terrible morning too. I woke up to a jackhammer right outside my window and couldn’t go back to sleep. I spilled jelly all over my tie, and I slipped in some water on the floor while I tried to clean that off. My internet went down in the middle of an online meeting, so I had to come in to work. While I was driving there, I not only got cut off a million times, but I hit every red light too!”

I laughed. “So did you not make it to work in time?” I asked, wondering why he was in a cafe when it sounded like he should have been in a meeting.

“I actually just got fired, if you can believe it. Not because I was late today but because of overstaffing.” He shrugged it off and smiled, seemingly unharmed.

“I’m sorry, that really sucks.”

“It does a little bit. I mean, I really liked the job, but it just wasn’t meant to be.” He paused, trying to figure out what to say next. “I guess it’s all right though, because now I have a free rest of the day, and I got to meet you here!” He was very enthusiastic.

We both laughed. “Misery does love company,” I said.

“I’m sorry that you had such a bad morning,” he offered. He was so obviously warmhearted and charming.

“Well, I’m sorry you had the same,” I told him. “It seems like we both have some bad luck today.” “Bad luck? No. Well, yes, we both had a wretched start to the day. But I don’t think it’s bad luck. I just think the luck is somewhere else.”

I thought back to my theory from weeks ago. That everyone had the same amount of good luck every day, it just presented itself in different ways.

My perfect luck wasn’t running out today. It was just changing.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”


“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat,” Chris said cautiously. The four boys, Evan, Calan, Owain, and Chris were all standing in the viewing area of the curling club, warming up for their quarterfinal game. They’d scraped by the round-robin with a win/loss record just good enough to get themselves into the final, and were facing a team of older juniors. Calan has a track record of getting in his head, and it usually leads to him not playing well. The four boys are sitting on the carpet in the lobby, gazing out longingly and nervously at the ice shed, knowing the challenge that lies ahead. The boys have been playing well, curling over eighty percent in all their games so far, but the catch is always their mental game. If they get in their heads, like all sports, they’ll lose their confidence.

The team dynamic has always worked out for the boys as well, they all know their jobs on the team and what they have to do to support one another. Chris throws first and hangs out with Calan for his shots at the end of an end. He’s the joker on the team, the one that’s the most mentally resilient, and his job is to keep the rest of the boys out of their heads. Owain throws second, his job is to make shots and work hard. Evan throws third, his job is almost the same as Owain’s, with a little bit of mental support, helping Chris out. Calan, the strongest thrower on the team, has to make his shots to win games. The whole team’s job is to keep him out of his head, and he’s already started here before the game. As the boys continue their warm-up, they’re all preparing themselves for the game. They stretch, then they have a short talk with their coach, Craig. “Alright boys, play like you can,” he says, confidently. He always says this before the game, it’s become one of his phrases the team knows well. Inside everyone’s heads, the nerves are kicking in. These guys are the Nova Scotia provincial champs, they’re gonna be tough, and the boys are going to need to bring their best. The short practice before the game begins, and the four boys take some slides and throw some rocks to get a feel for the ice. After their time is done, the opponent goes out to the ice and starts their run. They’re all at least six feet tall, and out there on the ice, they look quite menacing. They’re all at least three years older than the oldest on the boys’ team, Evan, with the age gap being as large as seven years to the youngest. It’s incredibly hard not to get in your head; they can throw the rocks so hard out there, it’s hard to hide anywhere from them. As the boys watch the practice, they make some remarks about the ice, and some light mocks of the team to try and lighten the pressure. Even though they’re all reacting differently, they’re all thinking the same thing: we gotta play well. Chris leans over to Calan and jokes around a little, Evan makes another remark about the opponent team to Owain that makes his eyebrows raise and he smirks. While it feels different in the moment, they’ve played these guys before. In the bigger picture, if the boys played like they do in their club league when there’s no pressure, they would win everything, always. Craig always says, on the way home from games: “there’s nobody in this whole province that scares me; nobody’s unbeatable for us.” It always feels so good in the boys’ heads on the way home, if only they could get that kind of feeling in these pressure games like the one that’s about to start. They all know their roles, and the chemistry works well, but somehow the pressure at the moment still gets the nerves going. They make their way down to the ice to start the game, and they get going.

The boys are playing alright, but it’s clear there are some nerves out there. A small miss here and a rock short there isn’t enough to lose the game, but it does keep it very close. Points go back and forth for both teams, as they make a few misses here and there as well: it’s clear it’s going to be close. At last, Chris makes a breakthrough partway through the game; a song. It’s nothing serious, just a strange country song. At the moment though, it doesn’t matter. The game is close, coming to an end, and the boys need something to take the nerves away. Partway through the second last end, While Owain gets out his rock to throw the next shot, Chris makes his move. In his strange, quirky, farmer boy voice, he starts singing along to the chorus of the song. Evan and Owain, the two boys closest to him, recognize it instantly: it’s All my Friends are Drunk , and all the boys know the words. Everyone instantly collapses in laughter; it’s exactly what they needed. The mental game fades into the background, it’s all fun and games now. After Owain throws his shot, making it perfectly, Chris goes down the end where Calan is and does the same thing, with the same result. Calan’s nervous posture instantly collapses as he giggles like a four-year-old out there in the quarterfinal.

The rest of that game went exactly as planned: the boys played like they could. Their mental game and posture were undefeatable, they were making everything out there. After the game, Craig had no idea what had happened, just that the boys had played an incredibly strong back half. As far as the rest of the spiel goes, the pressure only went up, but not in their heads. At the start of every game, they blared that song in the locker room, had it running through their veins. No more defeats were planned, defeat wasn’t even on their minds. They went out in both their semifinal and final games and knocked their opponents out of the park, they were to win it all; success at last.