"- and occasionally I drink milk out of the carton, I KNOW. I'm me," I replied sharply, turning my wrist slightly to test the cuff that held my hands to the table. The fuckers had arrested me- at least that's what they claimed it was. But they were Home Office, even had flashed credentials, and I was an American in fucking America. A few sharp questions about my friend and BAM, face down on the dining room table, hands up near my shoulder blades and cuffs on. There was no question that they were dead, I was an internationally licensed operative, upper class, and did I mention that I was an American in fucking America- where and when this was going down? But did they really have to torture me by trying to impress me first? As long as they kept their hands to theirselves I didn't necessarily have to blow up their country, but with their attitude problems it was starting to sound tempting. They were going out of their way to let me know they were monitoring me- like I didn't fucking know. I turned off my cellular, my mic, my security system, and played YouTube if I wanted to fuck- and that was just for privacy during sex. I was aware of the fact that every Tom, Dick and Harry in America wanted to sell my info, especially the Dicks. "Your mother debatably had dementia before she died, claimed it was from psychics. Do you suffer from similar ideas?" Bob asked me, his ugly mug rendered intolerable by his smug British expression. "My family was fairly openly psychic. Barring fiction, I don't believe I've ever expressed similar notions. I'm a Christian Reverend, but I imagine you already know that." The fucker punched me. People think capture and escape scenes in movies are funny, they're not. We only laugh and make jokes because the people who are holding us are dead and we're just making time until that happens, and walking away with a decent story instead of a traumatic experience. By this point I was probably going to crack Intelligence one as well, just for letting the country work itself up into a state where an Operative was considered vulnerable. Between Privates thinking we were their own personal vending machine for wishes, and their bullshit reaction to their own mercenary programme, they had it coming. "Tell us a little more about the man you were sheltering," Tom said to me. He didn't look inbred, but he had the slightly off accent that Americans associated with it. His brown hair was curly, but not every dude sprang for the gel, even in Europe. Blue eyes cruel. "Well, he refused to fuck me. Which is a crying shame, given that he's a whore and he owes me money." Bob and Tom both looked disgusted. I didn't know their real names, but I was trying to construct a framework to track them, so I could politely suggest that someone who cared infinitely less about their reputation remove them from their government positions and explain to them everything that was wrong with what they'd done. If possible I wanted teeny tiny little Christmas trees planted over their remains. I'd deliberately adopted a lower class accent. It made mouthing off easier and hunting them down afterwards even easier than that. They'd run their wrong ends about me. "Are all Americans this belligerent when dealing with Intelligence?" Tom finally asked. "I wouldn't even say that it's belligerence," I answered poking the inside of my mouth with my tongue as I paused. I was bleeding. "It's more like a natural camo. I don't think you can classify it as anything but specious." Tom got up and dragged his chair around to sit far too close to me. I was insulting him in English and he knew it. Bright one, Tom. "Domhnal McGregor. How do you know him?" Tom said. His breath was natural smelling, which shouldn't be a scent. He hadn't brushed recently, or too far in the past, and apparently didn't drink coffee. "Cor, when did we cross paths? I think I rolled the poor bastard back when you idiots were trumpeting off about your political power so badly that the EU kicked you out of your own party. You should probably show up the next time we have a war. It's slightly more intimidating than just advertising that you sent a unit in all over the telly." Bob shot to his feet so quickly that his chair tipped over. He looked impressed that I didn't flinch. I was genuinely starting to believe that I could kill these fuckers with my wrists cuffed to the table but, like I said, that sort of shit is only cool in movies. They fuck you up pretty badly if you miss. It's better to just get through it and keep the damage to a minimum. I wished they'd start questioning me about American Intelligence already, instead of my contacts. I actually needed those. Data I could trade. "Could you be more specific," Tom questioned me crisply, showing more English restraint. I eyed the cuffs, musing over the differences between American and English security devices. I had friends who were cops back in the day, I could slip them, but not quickly. "Right before you buggers got politely invited to leave, took umbrance, and declared Brexit before standing like an unruly cat with your ass in the house and your head out the door, I had the pleasure of running into one whore, Domhnal McGregor, who knocked me up, stole my plane ticket, and headed for the O.Z." "And you continued your acquaintance, despite this... indescretion?" Tom ask, distastefully appalled. "It's how Americans make friends," I answered cheerfully, "I thought he wanted to marry me." They exchanged looks. My file would have told them that I have a genius level IQ (so do some truck drivers, it's a question of what you do with it), but I was also female. Dudes still haven't gotten to the point where they believe that genuinely smarts are stored up top. They probably thought I was joking. I was actually deliberately being serious. In America, that's how he would have done it. In England, he was playing me pretty hard, it's why I still talked to him- he'd genuinely just been on a job. Tom placed the foot of his chair on my own and started leaning forward. It was painful. I also liked my feet, you know, functional. "You realize your life is at stake Ms. Jindra," He told me solemnly. "I'd like a priest," I responded, handling the whole situation with aplomb. Some of the pressure eased off as he lost control from shock. Mind you, first he leaned forward, but he backed the chair off. "A priest?" He asked incredulously. "Why on Earth would we go **fetch you** a priest?!" Bob chimed in, leaning across the table out of habit, trying to press the intimidation factor. "Well, if I'm in fear of my life, I've the right to a priest, according to international law. Also, I keep a blog, so I'd like to be able to go back and have a reliable source for recounting. I'm told you're not technically a reliable witness at a scene if it's centred around you, but I have other theories." "You're threatening to BLOG about this?" Bob lost his shit and threw his chair at me. It wasn't made of goose down. "It's billed as fiction," I explained calmly, plowing straight on, "As true Gonzo Journalism, this doesn't work at all -- and even if it did, I couldn't possibly admit it. Only a goddamn lunatic would write a thing like this and then claim it was true." I'd read them their rights, up was the only way out now, Tom punched me for forms sake but they fell back to conference. I'd have a ride out in about a half an hour, I was far to well informed on international policy for their taste and it had finally dawned on them they couldn't just dump a body (not mine anyways) and they were going to pay out the ass for everything they'd just done. In a moment of sheer lucidity they left the room, no longer wishing to add to the tab. Before the door clicked shut, my mouth opened. It happens if you pissed me off badly enough. "Return the whore as well, he owes me money. I'd hate to have to find you to collect.


I am at the top of the world. I swing and land perfectly on my feet, the cloud cheers, I can barely see them through the lights flashing on me, but I see enough. I hear the sound through the soles of my feet and jump, bringing my entire body down to the floor in one flawless movement, then I am back up again in a flash, the crowd goes wild. I love this.  I am 5 years old, kneeling on my balcony with a piece of rock bigger then my hand resting near my feet. I am waiting for him to come, I wait endlessly for him to come so that I can drop this on his head.  I just turned 18 today, it is magnificent, the world is whatever I want it to be, my friends are cheering me to come and join them, we are all going to have a great big party today, one to end all parties I am told. Today, we are adults, and the night and the world is ours.  I am back at the stage, with what feels like a million eyes on me, everyone is cheering me on, it feels good, I do a back flip and almost fall on my ass, shit, no time for showing off, stick to the choreography.  I am 12 years old. I am speaking to this girl I met at class, I was always too shy around her, and here she is, talking to me like we are the only two people in the world. I hear her words like music from her to me, a love letter of epic proportions, I don't know this, but this is the last time I will ever speak with her.  I just woke up, I have the worst headache of all, I cannot think properly, there is so much pain, I try to look around only to stop due to an excruciating pain that goes through right side of my face, I look around, my eyes adjusting to my surroundings, its cold, its white, I see the face of my mother who seems to have just woken up with tears in her eyes, I want to say something but I can't, something is stopping me from doing so.  I am 14 years old, I just told my best friend something and he betrayed me like it was nothing. I am heart broken and I have nothing to live for, I stand at the edge of the roof looking down, thinking how much it will hurt if I jump.  I jump... The crowd erupts in wild applause like they have seen nothing like it, I can hear their thunderous roar through the air, I smile and let my body go into a slow rhythm, letting a wave of predictable motion take over it to get ready for the end, they will love the finale.  I am 80 years old, I look at my 6 month old great grand child in my arms, the people I love have surrounded me and keep talking, but I cannot hear any of them, I just look at this beautiful angel holding on to my finger and looking at me quizzically, like I am some new toy she has to figure out.  I am 27 years old, I keep falling and missing the timings, its just me here at 3:43 in the morning, I get up and try again, its so exhausting, maybe they were all right, maybe I can never do this, I think to myself as I am lying there covered in sweat and my body just telling me to let it be and rest. Just go home and rest. I stand again.  With one final triumph I finish my song with the best moves that we had planned, and the entire crowd stand up in unison and starts yelling something, I can finally see them now as the lights have come up in the auditorium. I am sweating profusely, but my body is still electric, I feel I can do the entire thing again and again without stopping, someone comes on stage and tells me something, I cannot understand them, the adrenaline is pumping through my body making me feel light headed, but I shake their hands, and bow in front of the audience, I am crying right now, but my tears are mixed with my sweat, I don't think anyone notices. No one but her.  I am 19 years old. I am told I will never hear again. It won't be till much later that I learn, that the damage to my nerves and ears was so bad that I cannot even use any artificial hearing devices. My mother keeps crying, but I don't shed a single tear, I have to be strong. I hold on to her and tell her I love her, as I say this, I cannot hear my own words, but when I hug her I feel her small frame shivering against mine, I smile and tell her its ok, that everything will be alright.  I name my great grand child.  \  Hi, thank you so much for reading, even if you didn't like it, in that case, please tell me what you didn't like. I am writing after a looooong time, and reddit feels like a second home now, so, would love to hear what you guys think.  All criticism welcome, constructive or otherwise, but I would like to know where I went wrong as I am not really a, "writer" in the conventional sense of the word.  Please tell me what you though, what could have been better, did you see the ending coming? was there something I could have done to make it better? or any other questions I might have missed.


It had a black plastic handle, there was no grip along the handle, along it, it ran smooth. It had a serrated edge that was used for cutting and with a small curve it ran along for about four inches where it came to a point. That was it, the knife. How I had come into possession of the knife remained a mystery, a further mystery was how I had come into the hospital ward itself. Everything had been a haze, the last few days that is. I had been doped up on valium and every moment seemed to pass from one to the next. I remembered talking to a few people. Visitors. Family and friends that cared about me. The knife couldn’t have come from one of the other patients. It had to come from one of them. Why had they given me the knife? What were they expecting me to do with the knife? To those who knew me, they all knew the reason for my admission into the psychiatric ward. I had found myself in a deep roll of depression and in amongst that depression had begun to cut myself. It wasn’t noticed at first. But over time, for each day, I would chalk up a new strike up along my forearm. The cuts weren’t that deep. Nothing that required urgent medical attention. But they were enough to let myself bleed. Somebody had reported the incident, or rather incidents, to a psychiatric evaluation team. They had come to see me in my home and then it had been decided that I should be taken to this place for treatment. I had acted out, screaming and throwing furniture around my apartment when they had decided to do that. And then had to be sedated and dragged to the hospital. My arms had been a long list of cuts up along my forearm before anybody had decided to do anything about it. It seemed that the world had grown weary of this sort of behaviour. I had now been in the hospital for several days. I had been sedated for the majority of it. And now I was in possession of a knife. Not the one from my home, but someone, someone had given it to me. They seemed to be delivering the message for me to finish the job. To end it, to slash my wrists and get it over and done with. It seemed that the world was like that now. It hadn’t always been like that. But it seemed that the world and the people in it were growing weary of these sorts of things. I was in one of the rooms on the ward, locked up with another inpatient and they had just turned the lights out. I could hear the other inpatient mumbling to himself. Something that I couldn’t make out. It was indecipherable at first and holding the knife I looked from out under the bed sheets across the room to where he sat. He sat on the side of his bed, in his boxer shorts and wearing a white singlet. He had a lighter in his hand and was lighting a cigarette. “They don’t bloody well let you smoke in these places anymore, this is about the only chance I get to have a cigarette.” He looked over at me with the tip of his cigarette blazing in the darkness. “I saw him give you the knife.” “Saw who give me what?” “It was the security guard, none of the nurses were present when he did it. You were drugged up and half out of it. I guess it’s payback for punching him in the head when you were admitted.” I held on to the knife, using my thumb to feel its sharp tip. The other inpatient blew smoke out of his mouth after inhaling his cigarette, the smoke was lit up briefly by the moonlight that shone in through the window and then dispersed, disappearing into the darkness. For a while there was silence. Neither one of us said anything. He just kept on smoking his cigarette there in the cover of darkness as I watched, gripping onto the knife more tightly like a comfort toy. “I’ll explain something to you. In case you haven’t figured it out already,” the other patient explained, “You’re the scapegoat of society now. Because you have a mental illness, everyone that you talk to, everyone you find yourself in contact with… They will all blame you for all of their problems. Anything that happens. It will be your fault. Because everyone else is perfect and there’s something wrong with you. The doctors and psychiatrists have confirmed the fact, so there’s no point in arguing with it anymore. Whenever something goes wrong and it always will, it will be your fault.” “I’m in here because I’m depressed and because I cut myself…” “Yes, there was probably a reason why you were depressed. You were probably bullied or never socially integrated well. Anybody who comes in here has some sort of problem, because the truth of it is that nobody’s perfect and everybody has something wrong with them. You will either be isolated from the rest of society and nobody will have anything to do with you. Either that, or if you attempt to rejoin society in any meaningful way people will blame you for even the smallest thing that goes wrong in a situation, regardless of whether or not it is your fault or not. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes you will make errors and it will be your fault. But because this institution, the mental health system, has declared that you have a mental illness. It will always be your fault. People will blame you and ignore their own duty of responsibility. Nobody will take anything you say or do seriously. You have been marked out as a scapegoat of society. People need you so they can keep on ignoring their own faults, so they can tell themselves that they are perfect.” I held the knife now, clutching the plastic grip in both hands like a teddy bear. He kept on smoking his cigarette, blowing out smoke into the moonlight. What he was saying… It didn’t help. I was already depressed and now he was forcing me to confront the stigma of mental illness. “How do I get around it?” “You can’t.” He blew out some more smoke and finished his cigarette. Stubbing it out on the window sill and hiding the cigarette butt in his pocket. “But what you have to deal with is that knife. The guy who gave you that knife is one of society’s perfect people. I mean, you punched him in the head. He has a right to be angry. But you have to deal with the fact with how he and the rest of society now view you.” “How do they view me?” “As a burden on the rest of society. To them you’re not the scapegoat, society has been using people like you and me in this way for so long now that they are fully convinced that you are the problem. In the past, they’ve attempted to sterilize people like you and I so that we couldn’t breed. They would cut our skulls open while we were still alive so that they could examine our brains. To people like you and me who understand it, you’re the scapegoat or the whipping boy that people blame for their problems. To other people, you are the problem. Do you understand?” “Are you saying that there’s nothing wrong with me?” “Of course, there’s something wrong with you. Normal people don’t cut themselves. But you, cutting yourself is a symptom of your accumulated life experience. People bullying you, women rejecting you, people shifting the blame onto you, using you as a figure of ridicule or objectification so they don’t have to confront their own internal problems. For one reason or another, you didn’t blend in, didn’t integrate. It all has its pressures. And those pressures culminated in the act of you cutting yourself.” “Well, what can I do about it?” I asked. “There’s nothing you can do about it.” The other man, the other patient then lay down and pulled the blankets of his bed around him and rested his head. “Get rid of the knife and try and get some sleep.” I went to the bathroom to relieve myself, taking the knife with me. My head was full of thoughts of what the other patient had said to me. The sheer weight and magnitude of it. It was a life sentence. I thought about it, even if I didn’t have a mental illness. The stigma that was associated with the mental illness would be a problem in itself. I relieved myself in the toilet and then flushed it. The white ceramic walls and the light that bounced off them gave everything a look of sterility. The smell of the bathroom that had been cleaned every day, smelling of bleach, everything in the vicinity looking so sterile and clean. I took the knife with me to the wash basin to wash my hands. The knife dropped down the sink and clattered up against the ceramics, making the sound of steel against its surface. I looked into the mirror, above the basin, to stare at my own reflection. My eyes were red and I had stubble from a few days without shaving. In those moments, staring at my own reflection, I looked at the events of my life for what they really were. A series of mistakes and errors that were never forgiven. A boy who had never been popular enough, who others viewed as worthless and having nothing to offer the world. Who was denied the rites of passage into adulthood because of how others viewed him. Who escaped into drug abuse, seeking the solace and companionship of others like him, those rejected and scorned. I saw it all. Society needed people like me, so that they could secure their own position in the social hierarchy of society. There was the upper class, the middle class, the lower class and somewhere below that existed the mentally ill. Those who were forced into extreme isolation as a result of the constant competition that was the human race. And those who were mentally ill would always be replaced by a new generation as a symptom of society’s functioning as a whole. Mentally ill people committing suicide or death by overdose, being consistently replaced by each successive generation by a society filled with individuals who had a deep seeded need to feel superior to those around them. It all accumulated in a pit in my stomach, this feeling. This feeling that I could not wash away. And internally I heard the voice of the other patient, repeated over and over again, ‘There’s nothing you can do about it.’ And then I grabbed the knife and in one swift motion stabbed at the corners of my eye. Getting right behind the eyeball and then plucked it out. My eye was bleeding and my eyeball, hanging on by the optic nerve, dangled above my face. And then I began to scream and howl. Dropping the knife onto the floor that clattered, but could not be heard above my screams.


It all started when I was 5. My dad was picking up my sister from her preschool and I was coming along. Chopin was playing on the radio and I had a big cheese steak in front of me cut into bite size pieces. We turned the corner and I saw my sister. I waved maniacally to get her attention and she did a dance of recognition. I jumped out of the car and was about to go hug my sister when I felt a strange feeling in my arm. A burning sensation. I looked down and screamed. A wasp 5 times the size of a normal wasp had landed on my arm and began jabbing it repeatedly, lacerating it with skin tears and bathing itself in my blood. It cut a bone deep gash and started peeling off the inner layers of my skin. The weird thing was… I didn’t feel anything except a pleasant tingling. Nothing was hurting. I even laughed and ticked the wasp’s wings, which prompted it to stab my head repeatedly. I didn’t mind. When I was 9 years old, 45 doctors from 14 different countries would examine me daily, and on my 10th birthday, they diagnosed me with chromosome 6 deletion and subsequent nerve damage, described by them as the “Superhero Glitch.” From then on, I never felt pain. I was a playground legend. Day after day, I would slit my fingers with scissors until they turned white. I would purposely fall off monkey bars and rip the skin over my knees. My teacher had no clue because I would never cry, I would never yell. I would just take the hit. Bullies were no problem, neither were broken bones. In Grade 5, I had accumulated 17 doctor visits and feigned pain to get out of school. Life was perfect… until my 12th birthday. I was lying in my bed, devouring multiple slices of chocolate blackberry cheesecake when a thought occurred to me. *What is the pinnacle of pain? How can I test myself to the absolute limit? Or are there no limits?* Day after day, I began… experimenting. It started with a simple concussion. I felt a little dizzy, but still no pain. The next afternoon, I hit my wrist with a brick. Nothing major, just a few metacarpal fractures. For months, I confronted the world’s greatest pains, and each time I came out unscathed and relatively bored. The question had to be asked, and I asked it out loud while standing in the middle of the freeway, looking for snakes. Could I die? *Surely not,* I thought. *Dying is just a lot of pain at once. What if I didn’t? Better yet… what if I did?* The stage was set. I had walked to the nearest train station and waited. I looked at my watch. The express train was arriving in a minute. I took a deep breath. *Whatever happens here, you’ll be free of wondering. Think of all those years you took for granted. Think of all your memories. Think of all the mistakes you’ve made, all the pain you’ve endured for others. Think of how selfish, how self-centered you’ve been. You lived a hero, and now you will die a hero’s death. You won’t have to watch as others die around you. Whatever happens here, you’ll be free.* *I’ll be free.* I stepped forward and bent my head over the tracks. I could hear people screaming. I could hear the train, rushing towards me. But I felt nothing, dropping off onto the tracks. It was painless. I would never be free. Every one of my cells was screaming for death, every one of them slowly dying. And yet, I was still alive. Through all this pain, I would never die. I felt helpless, yet, ironically liberated. Because that day, I finally felt pain. I felt pain in knowing I would see my mother, my father and my little sister grow old around me before death finally took them away and I would watch as they were shackled and lifted to Heaven. I felt pain knowing that this torture would never end, I would grow old but never pass on, I would never die physically, but my soul and will to live would have vanished far before. My mind would be nothing more than an animal sent loose in a fenced paddock, I would never know freedom again. As my family picked me up, as I woke up in a hospital bed with cameras and distressed people all around me, I knew my time had finally come. I felt pain, and so I finally died.


Right after we got engaged, before we ever got married, my groom-to-be and I went shopping at a discount department store, and I found these darling ceramic drink coasters with gold “H’s” painted in the middle. H for Harp, our soon-to-be shared surname. They were one of the first things I ever purchased for us. For our life together. He told me they were silly and that “no one uses coasters anymore.” But *we would,* I thought. I used to daydream that we would be the kind of couple who lounged on the couch together on Sunday afternoons, noses buried in books, with our teas or coffees or what have you placed neatly on our personalized coasters on our coffee table before us. We would be that couple that everyone was envious of, because down to the last detail, down to our coasters, you would be able to sense how strong our bond was. How committed we were to each other as people, and how committed we were to each other’s dreams. I loved those coasters, and what they represented. We were stylish and cool, with better, modern versions of old stuff that “no one uses anymore”. We were the better, modern versions of our parents, committed for life but with a sleek new spin. We had that old school love but with fresh, new, gold paint. When I bought the coasters, we were in college. Freshly engaged and sketching plans for our lives together. So full of dreams for ourselves we were rarely present in reality. We had it all figured out, and I had my coasters packed away in a box in a closet in my mother’s basement, tucked away from the clumsy carelessness of everyday life. I remember when we moved out of the dorms and into our first house, a trailer in the woods outside of our college town. The coasters were transferred, coming out of the box and into a cupboard in the kitchen of our new home, a black ribbon still tied around the four glass disks, still with the price tag attached. We were busy working on our degrees and were rarely home. The calm afternoons of coffee and reading would have to wait. The coasters gathered dust. Over the next couple years, big changes happened. We had jump started our lives and were running beside them, trying to keep up. We went from a trailer to an apartment with lofted cathedral ceilings and a big back deck. He graduated and got his first job. We started hunting for houses. I was chipping away at my degree at a steady pace, counting the days till graduation. We were talking about kids. So much was happening, our afternoons were the furthest from calm, almost hectic, with no end in sight, but we were excited and in love and blinded by our dreams igniting into reality before our eyes. We were busy, but so happy. And the coasters stayed tucked away, in the spare room, still with the ribbon, still with the tags. Still with my dreams attached to them, and every time id pass over them while looking in boxes for something else I needed, I would smile. Because I knew my calm days were coming. 2015 was a big year for us. We purchased our first house. We moved in on the evening of my 22nd birthday, and spent our first night in our first house. It doesn’t feel real, saying it now. How perfect that moment was, like something from a movie. I remember we slept on an air mattress on the floor, exhausted and covered in paint. We were so tired, but we were happy. Sometime in the following weeks, I unpacked the house, including the coasters. I proudly displayed them on our cheap particle board coffee table from Walmart. They were the only thing besides the remotes I wanted sitting there. I remember setting it up, and taking a step back to just take it all in. It was mine. I was building my space and this is what it looked like. I happily went back to work decorating and unpacking other parts of the house, making it our own. It strikes me now how organic that moment in our lives was. We created a home from some walls and some paint. We grew into our environment, and expanded, and reproduced, and made it our own. It really was a beautiful thing. But in our growing, we made messes. Got careless. Our coffee table turned into a dining table, a work table, a counter, and with as much stuff as we were constantly putting on and taking off of it, he must have moved the coasters to the desk in the foyer, because one day I just didn’t see them there. But, what you don’t see cant trigger memories, and such the coasters slipped from my mind just as they slipped off the table and into a quiet, undisturbed space, pushed back against the wall behind his computer monitor that collected dust and blocked them from view. The dream I had for us slipped silently from my mind. Our daughter was born, and suddenly things like glass coasters wouldn't have been okay to have around her anyway, so the thoughts of the golden crested coasters never crossed my mind, until the day that he accidentally knocked them off the desk. He was moving the monitor over to make room for something on the desk, most likely his printer, and in the commotion, the disks slid off the desk and onto the hardwood floor. Immediately he started apologizing, and as he picked them up and turned them over in his hands one by one, he discovered that one had chipped. A perfect “V”-shape out of one of the coasters. He clicked his tongue in slight disappointment, turned to me and said “Sorry” again, before discarding the chipped coaster into a plastic trash bag on the floor. I don’t know why those coasters meant so much to me, and I realize now that I finally understand why he wasn’t as silently devastated in that moment it broke as I was. I kept searching his face for a mirror of what I was feeling, but all I saw was sheepishness. I never told him what they meant to me, I’m sure to him they were just cheap coasters we never used. But to me, those coasters represented how uninterested he was in utilizing the space we built for peace, how little he cared about the small details. The worst part of this story is that there isn't a happy ending. Sometimes in life, you plan your future down to the very last detail. These dreams you build for yourself grow and change second to second, and small details get left behind. But when you grow up and realize that what you thought was a small detail at the time actually turned out to be a big, significant detail, and you can’t get closure on it, what you're left with is a disappointed hollow feeling. Sometimes, in life, you will work your ass off to achieve a dream, and all you will be left with is a broken coaster. And you have to learn to be okay with that.


“Excuse me sir, are you using this chair” “Oh, I’m sorry. No, I am not. It is all yours Ma’m” Pulling the chair from my two top, the woman proceeded to awkwardly drag the leather seat back to her table of five. Tipping my hat in her direction, she received my gesture with a half hearted grin, as did her companions. They were an older group, gayly enjoying lunch. What they did not know was that they had just taken the seat of the hotel manager, Mr. Parchivald who I was expecting to meet with at 12:00pm. Or in other words, 15 minutes. Fortunately, I knew he would not arrive on time to our meeting. The manager would instead send over a member of his staff, to falsify his truth. This I estimated would all take place within the next 10 minutes. For all intents and purposes, I did not give a shit, about his absence. You see, when you’ve lived long enough with my condition, you learn to develop trust in the ways of the world. As it had happened over years of dealing with chronic deja vu, I have found that things always seemed to fall into place the way they were intended to. Mr. Parchivald would not arrive as planned, it was my job to accept this. 9 times out of 10, things usually worked out. The original plan went as follows. On this day, January13th, 1932, we were scheduled to meet at his hotel, The Bell View Baton Rougue. Mr. Parchivald was the manager of the establishment. He was a proud and dapper man, whose full name was William Robert Parchivald.. Full disclosure his mother called him little Billy for short. As the Vice President of Sales for Country Clear Bath Essentials, it was my job to sell this man bath products for his hotel. We would be agreeing on next years contract, and also introducing new products for our fine Shampoo, Soap, and Conditioner line. Mr. Parchivald did not know that we were having this meeting, he did not know that we were raising our prices equivalent to 2 cents a room either. He definitely didn’t know that I knew his mother called him little Billy. The following true story was all coincident. Or... was it intended to happen? ….. Understanding the difficult state of the economy, I knew I had brought a back up plan in case of desperation. In my suitcase, were two fine 2 bottles of Scotch, distilled 15 years off the native land. In addition, I had the ability to throw in a full year supply of our new body lotion if necessary. Pondering as to when and how this whole situation might unfold. I thought back to the vision I had earlier. When suddenly the messenger arrived. She was wearing a white collared shirt, with two pins. The top pin was circular, and read “SR,” while the second one read “Lobby” “I am so sorry, Mr. Writworth. Mr. Parchivald had an emergency, and will need to reschedule your meeting” “Hmmmm. I’m sorry who are you Mrs.?” “Oh, its actually Ms., and my name is Sue. Sue Randy.” “Nice to meet you Sue. When can I expect Billy to be available? I apologize but my schedule is quite busy, and I must be out by train first thing this evening” I responded quite directly. “Oh, did you mean Mr. Parchivald?” She said this with a puzzled look on her face. Sue was short for Susan, and Randy was a name given to her by her father. Sweet Sue is what he used to call her. “Yes, please tell Billy Parchivald that I can only meet with him today” “Right away. And Mr. Writworth, is there anything I can grab for you sir?” “Now that you mention it Sue. I would like a cappuccino and one of your chocolate croissants” “Certainly, Mr. Writworth” Walking upstairs into what I expected was Mr. Billy Parchivald’s office, I marveled at Ms. Randy Sue. She had worked for The Bell View for over 10 years, and this seemed to be the first time she would take matters into her own hands, pressing the urgency of my arrival. Most importantly, she would acknowledge Mr. Parchivald, and his true child like demeanor.  If only 50% of the world was as dependable as her, maybe we’d be out of this great depression.  ........  All would be well as soon as I got my cappuccino or so I thought. Stomping and climbing down the stairs, red like a chili pepper was a deranged Mr. Parchivald. Steam fuming out his ears, I took a deep breath, and hoped for a moment of deja vu to kick in, but nothing happened. Blazing Billy pulled out his colt 45 pistol, aiming the cold steel revolver to my head. “Who the fuck do you think you are, walking into my Hotel, naming me by my first name” The hotel fell silent, as gasps were heard around the dining area. Peering at the gauntly faces of the party across from me, I knew the joke was up. Staring up the metal shaft in front of my face, I traced it back to Billy's blood shot eyes. I could smell the whiskey under his breath. Normally a well put together, dapper man, Mr. Parchivald seemed to be all out of sorts. His grey hair usually fine combed looked thinner and unmaintained, sticking up in places that defied gravity. Trying to respond, I felt a lump in my throat and clog in my brain. I couldn’t help but admiring the man Billy Parchivald had become. Clicking the hammer back he looked terrifying, like a child who had forgotten how to dress himself. Every accent was askew. Notably were his missing cuff links, his crooked bow tie, and his stained white shirt. In his typical green and gold pin striped suit, he looked more like oversized lepraucan than a man. “God damnit answer me you good for nothing pansy ass!” he screamed. “Um, my name is William Writworth. I am hear from Clear Country Bath Essentials” I responded cautiously. Snarling back at me, he put his revolver back in its holster and attempted to retract his aggression like a psychopath. “Come to take more of my money I expect? ha ha ha ha” Laughing to himself, he terrified everyone around him, including Sue. Trying to meet his gaze, I couldn't help as my eyes kept drifting to his blistered red lip. Half of his mustache burnt away, my guess from a cigar that remained in his mouth after passing out. Yes, that was it. I could faintly smell the scent of burnt hair. Billy Parchivald was certainly having a hell of a morning. Tucking in his shirt, he looked down to see the missing chair. “Well then Mr. Whitworth, sounds like we got a bit of talking to doooo. How about you company’n me to my office where we can discuss the terms of our new deal” “Yes, why certainly Mr. Parchivald” I responded and we proceeded into his office. ....... Over the next hour, we would not discuss a dime of the actual contract or new agreement. Instead we would talk and drink the bottle of Scotch I had brought. What we did discuss was the price of travel out of the country and that I could only call him Big Billy, and I must always go by Little Willy. Signing our names as so, he agreed to the terms of our new contract, no lotion needed. As I closed the door to his office behind me I coughed abruptly as my lungs adjusted to the fresh air of the hotel. Walking down the stairs I smiled to myself as the world had once again worked out for the better. The last words I remember from Big Bill Parchivald were notions of fleeing the country. His two top destinations were Germany or Scottland. As I exited the rotating doors to grab a cab, a thought like the whisper of the wind came across my mind. It had been sometime since things had not worked out in my favor... 9 out of 10 I thought to myself. Then I heard a scream. “Wait ! Mr. Writworth!” Frantically I turned my head, and expecting the end of a gun. Peachy in the face, just as she was when I met here was Ms. Randy, croissant and cappuccino in hand. If only the rest of the world was as dependable as Sweet Sue.


My eyes slowly blink open. I’m awake. I try to move my arms and stretch, but I realize I can’t move at all. Ah, sleep paralysis. I’ve experienced this so many times before. What gruesome apparitions am I in for this time? My paralyzed eyes are fixated on the opposite site of the room, where the moonlight cascades in through the window and bathes the room in a twilight glow. A figure walks in from my peripheral vision and sits in the armchair in the corner. But this figure isn’t like the “shadow people” I normally see when I have sleep paralysis. In fact, she looks pretty familiar – holy shit, is that my mother?! She looks much younger than she did when she died six months ago. The hollow cheekbones and dark circles that her cancer gave her are gone. Instead, she looks just like she did in old photos I was looking at just the other day, from before I was born. I realize she’s holding a baby in her arms, rocking it and singing, though I can’t hear the words. I try to scream out to her, but I can’t make a sound. After a moment, she is gone. That vision left me nervous and breathless. I hope I can wake up soon. Suddenly, a figure skips in from the periphery. Then another. And another. They’re jumping from the bed to the chair to the nightstand. I can make out that it’s three small children, two boys and a girl. They look vaguely familiar but I can’t place from where. “The floor is lava!” the one that appears the oldest says. All three of them laugh, then run out of my peripheral vision and I can no longer see them. Alright then. That was weird. Three children is less creepy than the demonic figures I usually see when this happens, so I’ll take it. I’m still feeling out of breath from seeing my mom though. The figure of a young boy appears in my plane of view. He looks to be around 8 or 9. I can’t place who he is, but he looks so familiar that it makes me feel uneasy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadowy figure – I can make out the shape of a man, but not much else. What I do know is that a sense of deep unease and fear has settled over my body. I see the figure go up the boy and push him down to the ground. The boy is struggling against him but the man is holding him down, his hands traveling down the boy’s body. I realize what’s about to happen and I want to close my eyes. I want to scream for help and I want to wake up. This is so much worse than anything I’ve experienced before during sleep paralysis. Just when I think I can’t handle it anymore, they are gone. What a relief. Maybe I’ll finally wake up now? No dice. Another figure walks into my vision. But this time, I know who it is. This apparition looks just like me in photos from high school. Clearly I was going through a grunge phase. I’m walking up to another figure at the other side of my visual field, close my periphery. I’m handing him what looks like a wad of cash. Even from here, I can see the tremor in my hands. He reaches back to give me something in return but before I can see what it is, both figures are gone. This is getting weird. I’m finding it harder to breathe. Finally, something comforting appears. A tall woman with long, flowing chestnut hair strides into my vision. Right away, I can tell it’s Molly. God, I always did love that hair of hers. She’s in a white dress and she’s holding a bouquet. A second figure joins her – it’s me. I’m in a tuxedo but my hair is disheveled. The sight of this fills me with regret. I was drunk and high that day and she somehow forgave me for it. Forgave me for being drunk and high on our wedding day. The two figures lean in to kiss but before their lips meet, they’re gone. My motionless eyes are welling up with tears. Why is this still going on? Sleep paralysis has never lasted this long for me before. More scenes flash in front of my eyes, each one shorter than the last. Showing Molly my 6 month Narcotics Anonymous chip. We embrace. Finding out she’s pregnant, joy lighting up our faces. Standing next to our little girl’s bed in the neonatal ICU, after she was born at 22 weeks. A grief-stricken Molly walking away from me for the last time because I just couldn’t handle it. Mom in a casket. Picking up the bottle again. I try to scream at myself not to do it, but the sound just won’t come out. My eyes are welling up with tears, but I can’t blink them away. And I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?! And all of a sudden, a sense of overwhelming peace fills my mind and body. Thank God that horror show is over. My eyes, no longer immobile, blink away the tears. I look around the bed. Next to me is an empty prescription bottle. I squint to read the words. “LORAZEPAM 0.5 MG.” Didn’t I just get that filled yesterday? My eyes dart to the side and I see the empty bottle of wine. I smell the vomit. And then nothing.


[11:00AM] Ugh… I hate this place. I can’t wait to go back to college. Only a week left and I’ll be on the road to my final year and the next step to my dream job, which is not a frozen yogurt cashier. I am happy, though, after tonight I will have a day off and I can spend time with my mom before I head back. Just one double shift and I will have a free day. [2:00PM] Now that I am on lunch, I can finally check my phone. I hate that my boss makes me put my phone in her office. Like, I am old enough to keep it in my pocket. But, I just have to keep my head down for this week and then I will be on my way. [8:00PM] I can’t believe she wants me to clean out the freezer tonight. I am going to be here forever, and the new person can’t stay and help. So I will have to stay here and close the shop then I have to clean the freezer out, all because the new person spilled yogurt all over. At least I will be getting paid overtime for staying late and I still have tomorrow off. [10:00PM] The shop is finally closed and the new person is gone, so I can hurry and get this done. The hardest part will be taking all the boxes out and putting them in the back freezer where we keep all the spare food. I have to turn off the freezer, then I’ll have to mop up the mess and then I can leave because the ground will need to dry before I move the boxes back and turn the freezer back on. I rush to prop the door open on the spare freezer, it is stuck. My boss has had a broken key inside for as long as I can remember. [11:00PM] Taking the last box to the freezer and I am sweating. These candy boxes are so heavy. When I put the last box on the shelf I noticed the door to the freezer latched behind me. This freezer always gets stuck and you have to push pretty hard to open it. I wasn’t too worried about it. I put the box on the shelf and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I walked back to the door and tried to open it but it wouldn’t budge. I pushed even harder but still wouldn’t open. My shoulder hurt a little but I had to keep trying. I wipe my hands on my pant leg to get the sweat off, and continue to push but the door won’t move. I am starting to panic, if I can’t get the door open I will freeze in here. [12:00AM] The door must be frozen shut, I can’t get it open. I feel my heart racing as I reach for my phone, forgetting it is in my boss’s office. I sit on the ground and look at my watch. 12:32AM. The shop doesn’t open until 11:00AM. So I will just have to keep my blood pumping until then. I stand up, and as I start jumping in place, it’s so cold that I can see my breath. [1:00AM] I am doing jumping jacks every five or so minutes, but it’s getting so cold that it is hard to breathe. I am having trouble breathing but I cannot tell if I am just out of shape or it is just cold. I start to hop around and shake my hands, because they are getting tingly. I bounce some more and can barely keep my breath. I stop and squat down; I put my arms and my head in my shirt. I blow on my hands and rub them together. I look at my watch; it’s now 1:42AM. I sigh and think about how long it felt since I looked last. [2:30AM] I am bouncing around and talking to myself now. I heard that talking while doing physical exercise helps you keep your breath. I am not sure if that is true, but anything to make time go by faster. I look at my hands, and I swear they are turning purple. It might just be from rubbing and clapping them a lot. Or maybe I am dying, who knows. I put my hands in my pockets and keep walking around. I am starting to feel tired, but I know I can’t stop moving. If I do, I could die in here. Freezing to death would be so painful. I don’t even want to think about it. But it keeps coming up in my head. A chill goes down my spine and I think about my mom and what would happen to her. She would be left all alone because I am all she has left. I shake the thought from my head and keep moving. [4:00AM] I am rocking back and forth on the ground. My chest is so tight. I feel like my lungs are barely working. You know the feeling when you run a mile for the first time and your chest is on fire but you can’t seem to catch your breath? I am starting to panic, and a pit in my stomach starts to form. I might be hungry; I look over at the boxes I loaded in here hours ago. There are only yogurt toppings and that just doesn’t sound good. I feel like I could eat my own hand right now, I stare down at my fist and push the thought from my mind. I am not that desperate. I look at my watch and I can’t tell if the hands are moving. Or maybe time just stop when you are close to death, it gives you time to remember the good days… and the bad. I try to stand and stumble a little. I am feeling weak. I have been nonstop moving for about five hours now. I feel like there are 500 pound weights on my legs. I lean against the door and try to shout but I know no one could ever hear me. I slide down the door and rest for a bit. [5:00AM] I start to jump around to get my blood moving. My feet and hands definitely are getting frostbitten. I can feel my chest getting tight again. I lie on the ground, and try to focus on my breathing. It is now becoming impossible to stand on my feet. The pain is too much for me to keep jumping. I turn onto my side and curl my knees up to my stomach. I think about my life and wonder if people will miss me. I know my mom would, she is my best friend and all I have left. [7:00AM] I feel something drip on my face. Was that water? I can’t believe I fell asleep my head is swimming and I can barely keep my eyes open. My body is so cold and my heart rate is slower. I know I need to increase it but I just can’t deal with the pain of standing up. My knees are shaking as I fall back to the ground. I lay on my back to do a sit up, but the pit in my stomach hurts more than it did before. I am so scared I can’t help but cry. My breathing increases uncontrollably and my chest gets even tighter. I lay flat on my back and try to calm down. My body is shutting down, am I dying? It is almost 11:00AM and I am going to die before someone can get me out of here. I just need to make it three more hours. I rub my eyes and start to see discoloration. [8:00AM] I try to stand and prop myself on the wall. I try to walk towards the door, and I feel my feet slip from under me. I feel a sharp pain form in the back of my head and starts to travel to the front. I am so scared, I can’t stop crying. My body is so numb, I can’t move my legs. I feel warmth over my head and touch my wet hair, I pull my fingers back and they are covered in blood. I start to panic, my breathing increases and my mouth starts to go numb. My whole body is paralyzed; I close my eyes one last time. [10:30AM] I arrive for my shift and notice Greg’s beat up car still in the parking lot. I wonder if his car broke down again and had to get a ride home with the newbie. I walk up to the door and notice the inside lights are still on. I wonder what else he forgot to do last night. I walk to put my stuff in the office and notice his keys and phone still there. I walk to the back of the store and notice the freezer a huge puddle of yogurt on the floor. I am not cleaning that up. I shiver and close the door, why did he have the door propped open to clean it but leave the freezer on? I walk to the spare freezer to grab the topping and the door seems to be stuck. I pull as hard as I could and hear something fall. I look down and see the broken key sitting by my foot. It has been in there since I started and always caused the door to stick. I open the door and the first thing I see is a pudding of red. Did they spill yogurt in here too? As I pull the door open even more I see him lying on the floor. I freeze in my tracks, my legs won’t move. I need to get my phone I keep thinking. I blink and take off running towards the office. I call 911 and they ask if he is breathing. I rush to him and kneel down next to him. I am scared to touch him. I place my finger on his neck and feel no heartbeat. The door closes behind me and I start to sweat. I look around and see that things are melting. I rush to prop the door open and see the control panel. The freezer is off. The paramedics arrive, along with: the cops, my boss and some woman I don’t recognize. Maybe that is Greg’s mom. The cops keep us back until the paramedics declare that Greg is gone. They completed an autopsy and found that Greg had died from a heart attack. He ran out of oxygen and couldn’t breathe. I quit my job at the yogurt shop. I couldn’t bear to see the freezer and pretend that I was okay. My boss eventually closed her shop and moved out of state. I still visit Greg’s mom and she tells me that she still feels Greg with her. I will never forget him.


I looked around the store to see what else I could steal before I had to make a run for it. This was the first moment I remembered being aware of after I came back to life. Carlos (the name embroidered on his shirt) was rapidly bleeding out on the floor behind the counter. “You … fuck.” he said, eloquent in his last moments. His eyes bugged out at me from his bloodless face, then he groaned and went slack on the floor.. I could still taste his blood in my mouth as I grabbed two packs of cigarettes and the pistol he’d used to shoot me. It didn’t help him a lot, but I thought it might come in useful when the cops inevitably caught up with me. Which I assumed they would, probably sooner than later. I tore open the pack of smokes and stuck one between my broken teeth. Rifling through the back of the counter, I found a box of bullets and stuck them in my coat pocket. It was the jacket I’d been buried in not that long ago, all torn up now from digging my way out of the coffin and from where Carlos shot me. Not that I blamed him, I’d been awfully hungry, living dead (you know how that is), I must have looked a fright. I went to check out my reflection in the mirror in the corner of the store. Oh. OH. Not good. Worse than I thought. I lit the cigarette sucked in smoke and blew it outta my nose like a retarded dragon. When I looked at my reflection, I realized exactly how much my clothing hadn’t held up, not to mention that I looked like a walking corpse. The jacket was filthy, my shirt had holes in it, I was covered in blood, but worst of all my pants were hardly even there. I thought about that for a second. I was dangling balls down south. I’d been Donald Ducking it when I busted in and ate Carlos. “Aw, I’m sorry Carlos. That was wrong, man.” I said, as if he’d been reading my mind. You should at least try to dress well if you’re going to kill someone, I think. It’s the little details that so many murderers overlook. “I … umm … I don’t want to kill the next guy pantless, so you don’t mind, right?” I said, unbuckling his belt. I waited for a response, half thinking he might get up and tell me to go fuck myself again. Carlos didn’t move. I took off his pants and pondered stealing his tighty whities too, but thought that might be too much. After sliding his pants on, I found his wallet and car keys. There was thirty two dollars in small bills and a credit card. Sweet. Was this a good omen? Probably not. Fuck me, right? I grabbed a crappy tourist t-shirt from the spinny rack by the door to the store. It had a picture of Devil’s Tower on it, with “Gillette, WY” written in a vaguely 80’s retro looking font. Somewhere in the back of my undead brain, I felt a memory stirring. Gillette Goddamn Wyoming. Why do I remember this place? I am pretty sure I didn’t spend much time here when I was alive, but I’m sure it was important to me for some reason. Was I buried here? Home is where you die, I guess. Fuck it, I would think about this more later. I stripped off my old jacket and shirt, marveled at how disgustingly dirty my bare torso was, and slid into the size large tourist t-shirt. I put on a windbreaker I found behind the counter, filled its pockets with my stolen items, and headed outside the store. Some asshole was pumping gas outside and waved at me. I waved back trying my best not to look like an inhuman monster as I walked quickly in the opposite direction from him. I’d noticed there was a Jeep logo on Carlos’s keys, so I headed over to a Wrangler that was parked towards the back of the little lot. I pressed the little beep-beep button on the keychain, and heard the car unlock. I got in and spent a little minute figuring out where all the controls were. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the guy at the gas pump staring at me. “Shit.” I thought. “That looks like a guy who’s gonna call the cops the second I pull out of here.” I thought about going back to kill him and eat him, but just started the Wrangler and pulled out. Where was I gonna go now? And … how did I get here exactly? Look, reader. I gotta level with you, at that point I didn’t know. I ended up going to find my ex-girlfriend Janice. Not immediately at that point, but spoiler alert. As I’d later decide, I’m a ghoul. I drink blood to keep myself alive, mostly. So, sometimes people assume I’m a vampire. Not true. I love garlic. Much bigger dick than Bela Lugosi or that fruity Gary Oldman. No fangs. And the whole “vampire” label comes with cultural preconceptions and baggage and shit that I’d rather not deal with. If I’m really hungry sometimes I eat brains too, but fuck you if you call me a zombie. That’s just insulting. How it works is, I get my mojo from eating human life. So, the human brain or heart pack a lot of power for me. Blood, obviously. I can even just straight-up eat human flesh, but it’s more filling than you’d think and pound for pound it’s more trouble than it’s usually worth unless we’re talking about someone who really pissed me off. When you’ve been nursing a grudge there’s nothing quite like making eye contact while you devour some motherfucker alive. Oh, and in case you’re wondering … yeah, eating babies is also probably a powerhouse ghoul move but I’ve never done that no matter what anyone tells you. Oh, and sex is its own form of power, but definitely not enough to keep me living dead on its own. Back to my first moments, though. I drove away from the gas station slash country store and headed for Interstate 80 going east towards the Black Hills in South Dakota. As I was driving, I couldn’t help looking at myself in the rearview mirror. In my gut, I could feel my body absorbing the blood I’d drank from Carlos. Ghouls like me don’t have a heartbeat like a living person but we do have blood moving through our body. After feeding on an empty stomach like I’d done, it repaired my body and I quickly started looking like a living person again. The transformation was amazing to watch the first time it happened. I couldn’t focus on driving, so when I drove by a small lake I pulled over the Wrangler into a scenic lookout and got out. I stripped naked and jumped into the water, washing myself off and going for a brief swim. The water felt cold and clean on my skin, almost like it was purifying me. I turned over in the water and floated on my back, looking up at the clear blue sky. I heard the muddy rumble of a large group of poorly-tuned American made motorcycles approaching. As they got nearer, I made my way to the edge of the lake and climbed out of the water. I put my clothes back on, positioning the Wrangler between myself and their approach. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror of the truck, and noted that I looked passably normal now. By the time I was dressed, the bikers had pulled into the overlook area and were milling around. I had been awkwardly sitting behind my Jeep trying to decide whether to go talk to them when a biker nodded at me and gave me a friendly wave to come over. Well, shit, that made me feel like I had to go over and talk to them. I started walking their way. As I got close, a heavily tattooed, bearded fat dude called over to me “Hey Brother! Have you heard the word of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ?” he chuckled and smiled at me while a female biker next to him opened an ice chest full of bottles. “Come on over, and do you want a drink? We have lemonade, sodas, or water!” My emotions felt conflicted. They seemed charming enough, but proselytizing Christian bikers without beer? You heard me, WITHOUT BEER.


I awoke with a start, in pain, in the dark. Everywhere, pain. The biggest aches came from my right side and the inside of my mouth. I forced myself to roll over and try to spit out the blood. Like syrup, it slowly oozed out and gave the stone a slick, black coating. I wrestled my body into an upright position, sitting on my knees. Through my gaping mouth I took a long breath. Only now did I notice the rain. The heavens had decided to wash us away, our empire dissolving like dust across a window. I was humiliated as God pissed on me. I sat there, drenched and frustrated and in pain for a while. It might have been minutes or seconds or hours. My armor constricted my limbs and weighed me down. What an irony is it that a device created to protect the wearer and advance his strength anchored him to his humiliation. As I sat, I stewed. I pondered the post-modern foolishness and corporate greed and false security that we existed under and within. We had conquered a galaxy filled with strange and wonderful life, and in our pretend fantasy we lived in peace. We lived in peace and security and harmony; we made a country whose borders meant safety except for the unsafe. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I discarded my bracers, first the left arm, then the right. I tore off the chestplate, with a pure exertion of my will. I similarly removed my right pauldron, and my left. I was about to hurl it away, as I had before, but I stopped. It was decorated with a coat of arms, my family. I had painted it myself as a child when my father wore it to battle. Now, I pondered this. This was much of my identity. It was the old way, the way that lay in shambles around me, the way that had been demolished. I tucked it under my arm as I attempted to stand. I braced myself along the wing of a crashed starship, whose thruster had caused a small flame to start despite the rain. I stared at the will-o-wisp for a moment before I heaved with all my might to stand. For a couple of seconds, I was whole again. I held my own, before surrendering once again to the rain, falling forward in the mud. I exclaimed in my frustration. I moved myself to where I had been, on my knees, and from there I let loose my feelings, in a vulgar display that we would have hated before. I breathed in. I breathed out. Then, I tried again. This time, baring my emotion to the world before my attempt to stand. Urging myself on, I stood, shakily, before staggering forward a few steps. A low, crumbling wall supported me. The rain slowed. I took another step, holding the wall as the sky began to lighten. I stumbled and caught myself, as the sun forced the clouds apart. The now soft rain washed the mud and blood from my face, and in one hand I gripped my family tight. The other held the wall. As the rain wished itself goodbye, I stepped forward towards the beacon that lit the sky on fire, making the starship’s flame look like a cinder. With shaky steps and deep breaths I let go of the wall and straightened my posture. My back soared despite the ache in my side. Maybe I could meet some other survivors, and we could begin anew.


Jerry was dragging his suitcase down the alley. The broken wheel driving him crazy. Not his fault, by the way. Fat-ass Linda had literally squashed the suitcase when trying to land her juicy bumps on something so that she could pull on her tights. They’d just had sex that morning. And then Linda decided it was the proper moment to break up with him. After the breakup, Jerry had a very clear idea of how he wanted to spend the last summer before graduation. Far away from his bachelor’s den in Liverpool. But he couldn’t even imagine how far it would be. America! Aaron, his sexually desperate friend, had found a job for both of them. ‘You put on mirrored sunglasses and look at chicks as much as you wish,' he said, demonstrating to Jerry his new Ray-Ban glasses. They were going to be beach lifeguards in California. ‘Early in the morning you see them in their crop tops running along the beach,' Aaron was daydreaming with a silly expression on his face. ‘And you know what, they love a British accent!’ ‘Yes, if you’re Tom Hiddleston,' Jerry felt like being tart. Though some knot in his stomach tightened when it came to ‘crop tops’. But instead of gratifying his eyes with the sight of alluring , athletic girls, Jerry was doomed to spend his summer on a distant island with just five hundred inhabitants. Aaron, lucky bastard, got his place in San-Francisco. When Jerry hopped off the ferry, old silver-headed biddy Mrs. Partridge arrived in her van to show him his bungalow. That was a lady Jerry would never want to see in a crop top. So, he was dragging his suitcase towards the bungalow on the top of the cliff while Mrs. Partridge was chirruping about the fresh air and clean sand. At the beginning of the alley, Jerry stopped before a notice board with six photos of missing people. ‘Wow, that’s a lot of mispers for such a small island!’ Jerry struggled with his unruly suitcase. ‘What was it, hun?’ Mrs. Partridge turned to him her hugely magnified eyes blinking behind the thick lenses. ‘I say you have many missing people here.' ‘Oh, yes’, either she or Parkinson’s shook her head. ‘They say the currents are very strong here. In a matter of seconds people are gone. And we never even find the bodies.' And she proceeded to the bungalow, clinking a bunch of keys. ‘So, you’re from Liverpool, hun? Do you like the Beatles?’ Gosh! Not again! Jerry sighed. The bungalow inside was neat but smelled of rotting seaweed. A couple of ugly fishing trophies decorated the walls. The draughts made the wooden hut groan restlessly. However, the windows offered fantastic views of the bay. As soon as Mrs. Partridge scurried away, Jerry got down to unpacking his stuff. A pair of Ray-Ban mirrored sunglasses was there among other things. \* \* \* The ocean’s lullaby cast Jerry into oblivious sleep or maybe the second can of beer did it. It was after midnight when he suddenly woke up. That was a kind of an awakening, whose reason Jerry was still trying to unriddle while brewing some tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil and drumming an AC / DC tune with his fingers, Jerry understood why he had woken up. There was another sound entwined with the noise of the ocean. He turned off the gas and listened. It was a howling, even the lamenting of a madman. Or a madwoman. A chill went down his spine. Jerry switched on the searchlight and its huge beam groped around the beach, lumbering over the sand. Nothing. On second thought, it could be just the wind blowing through the caves. Chuckling at his own paranoia, Jerry brought the kettle back to life and had his midnight cuppa. \* \* \* The cave was right under Jerry’s bungalow. Inside, dark waters were splashing on the jagged stones and the wind swooshing past Jerry. With no reason he was standing there, staring at the waters. That frightening abyss seemed inhabited, vibrating. At some point Jerry even thought he saw something moving down there. He leaned over the water. Yeah! There was definitely something pulsating. Jerry strained his eyes. Some kind of light rising from the abyss far below the surface. Getting closer. Closer. Closer. A bunch of bubbles agitated the surface. Jerry jerked back when right after the bubbles a rubber head emerged. Goggles. Protruding lips enveloping tightly the mouthpiece for breathing. A diver? Here? The man took off his goggles and reached for Jerry’s hand to help him get out of the water. ‘What are you doing here?’ the man asked right after taking the mouthpiece out. ‘Me?’ Jerry watched as the diver was taking off his protective suit. ‘I’m a lifeguard. Are you aware that it’s not allowed to swim here?’ The man chuckled. ‘I told them the waters were dangerous. But they never listened to me. And now six people are dead’. Jerry eyed the harpoon gun attached to the man’s belt. ‘You hunt big fish?’ The man was standing now before Jerry only in his underpants. He followed Jerry’s gaze. ‘Yeah, very big one’. ‘Here? In the cave?’ No answer followed. Having packed all his belongings into the waterproof bag, the diver put on only baggy linen pants and was ready to go. ‘Oh, sorry’, Jerry suddenly recollected. ‘I’m Jerry’. ‘Patrick Nyman’, his suntanned hand clasped Jerry’s. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t stand that close to the edge’. His flip-flops sloshed towards the exit from the cave. Jerry followed. ‘Do you know what happened to those missing people?’ he asked. Patrick, all muscles and tattoos, didn’t even slow down. ‘That’s not the currents, right?’ ‘No’. ‘What then? Man-eating shark? Venomous fish?’ When Patrick suddenly stopped, Jerry literally bumped into him. ‘I have lived here all my life. I know these waters better than anyone else’. He was mincing words. ‘Believe me you wouldn’t like to swim here. So, just don’t’. ‘But why?’ Jerry was insisting. Patrick resumed his stroll along the shore. ‘And if you smell the rotten seaweed, you’d better be somewhere far away from the place’. \* \* \* Scorching heat and salt chapped Jerry’s lips brutally. He was standing there down the alley leading to his home, applying a thick layer of chapstick. The wind was rustling the corners of the papers pinned to the notice board. Six people. Faded photos and heart-rending words written by their loved ones. But one of them caught Jerry’s eye. ‘Melissa Nyman’ he read the name under the photo of a smiling young woman. ‘Nyman. That was his wife’. Jerry took the plates, which read ‘Danger! Absolutely no swimming at any time!’, and headed for the beach. He couldn’t help thinking about those poor folks from the notice board. What happened to them? What happened to Melissa Nyman? ‘They don’t come here to swim’, Jerry started at the woman’s voice, which came from behind. If only he had those stupid Ray-Bans right now! The girl’s nipples were ready to pierce her shirt. ‘Audrey’, she offered her hand, taking it out from the back pocket of her mini, actually, the miniest denim shorts Jerry had ever seen. ‘Jerry’, he squeezed her hand slightly. ‘I say they don’t come here to swim’. ‘To do what, then?’ ‘To have sex, of course’. ‘Oh, right!’ as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Gee, it’s a tiny island. Everyone knows each other. If you wanna fuck, you don’t go to the inn’. Jerry swallowed. ‘Why?’ ‘Cause the owner of the inn will know everything, silly. And if he knows, everybody knows. Get it?’ ‘Oh, yeah. So, sex then’. What if Patrick Nyman’s wife came here for the same reason? And her husband saw her with another man? For a couple of minutes Jerry had been gripping the shaft of the sign so hard so that now he could feel a dozen splinters eating into his hand. ‘So, you’re British, right?’ Audrey’s tucked her hair behind ears. ‘Yep, from Liverpool. Did you know that the Beatles come from this city?’ suddenly this fact was something to boast of. ‘Oh, sure! Yellow submarine’, she livened up. Then an awkward beat allowed Jerry to feel a couple of new splinters in his right arm. ‘Well… see you around’, Audrey was ready to go. ‘I have some beer, so you may drop by sometime later’. ‘Great! Tomorrow evening maybe’. \* \* \* That night the lamenting was even louder, coming from the depth of the caves at the foot of the cliff. Jerry was in search of a nice icebreaker before Audrey’s arrival when he heard it. He directed the searchlight at some dark spot on the sand far below. Two bodies entwined, one moving over the other. ‘Whoa!’ he drew the beam of light aside immediately. ‘Freaks. Some pleasure to have a handful of sand between your cheeks’. Suddenly, one of the lovers crept into the light and dashed with an awkward crouching gait into the water, dragging its lower limbs behind. There was a splash. Jerry’s numb hands dropped the searchlight. When he took the lamp under control again, only one of the beach lovers was lying on the sand. The other one had disappeared into the ocean. ‘Hey there!’ Jerry’s voice cracked. The person on the sand wasn’t moving. And then Jerry recognized those miniest denim shorts. Jerry took a gun with signaling lights, the only weapon he could find, and ran to the beach down the stairs two steps at a time. Dark waters were licking the beach closer and closer to Jerry’s feet. When he reached Audrey she was lying motionless. ‘Audrey. Are you all right?’ Something was wrong with her face. Covered with slime. Jerry’s trembling hand found the button on the torch. ‘Fuck!’ He started back. Forced himself to have one more look. ‘What the fuck!’ There was no face. Like it was smashed or… eaten. Covered in a sticky substance. Jerry shone the torch at the waters. Something was moving there. Diving and emerging again. Diving. Emerging. Moving in Jerry’s direction. He darted headlong to the stairs. Heavy thumps followed him together with that lament he already knew. His feet felt like lead. The sand was treacherous. ‘Jesus!’ Bony fingers wrenched Jerry’s arm. In a moment the slimy body wrapped itself around him from all the sides. The moonlight let him see a deranged greyish face and bleak strands of hair. Sharp pain pierced Jerry’s shoulder at the place where the thing bit him. It ripped a piece of his flesh. ‘Aaaa!’ Jerry was crying. ‘Somebody help!’ He tried to reach for his pocket. The creature made another bite. And then Jerry took out the gun from the pocket. The shot threw the thing away. It let out one more terrifying groan and died. Pressing one hand against his wound, Jerry eyed the creature. It was not a human. Head, body, hands, but no legs. Fish tail instead. And that awful smell of rotting seaweed. \* \* \* ‘So much for this crap’. Bleeding, Jerry was looking for his passport and wallet when the lights went out. ‘Shit’, he went gropingly to the kitchen to find a torch. The entrance door made a creaking sound and tapped against the side-posts several times as if disturbed by the draught. The house was constantly making noises but something else made Jerry freeze. Rotting seaweed. The smell was closer now. A dark figure crawled into the bungalow, moving its body only with the help of upper limbs. Sweat started pouring down Jerry’s forehead. The thing was looking at him and he was staring back. Slowly, Jerry took the knife. The creature charged him. Jerry made a stab but its tail knocked him down. He hit his head badly against the table and fell to the floor. When Jerry came to his senses, the thing climbed onto his chest and broke it. The ribs cracked. Jerry yelped. When dragged through the house, he tried to grab the legs of the table. Jerry was thrown out of the window like a rag-doll. Falling, he begged for it to be just a nightmare. But the moment the cold waters embraced him, dozens of hands pulled him into the depths.


Grell was hunched down among the willows and shrubs, hiding among the shadows of full moon. Watching the tall elven priestess bathe under the light of her goddess. His heart burned with a passion, knowing the scandal their affair would create. That was how Ashen found them, appearing to Grell as a voice in his head. "What do you hope to accomplish, throwing your lives away?" At first, Grell froze in his heart, believing himself discovered. "Do not be afraid. If I wanted to hurt, I could pick a better vessel than you." The voice was almost mocking. "Are you a demon? Or my imagination?" Grell thought. "Neither. Your definitions change so much, but demon is inadequate." The voice replied. "She is a lovely creature in your eyes?" "And I in hers." Grell replied, taking the defence at this intrusion. "Who are you, and what do you want?" "Forgive my rudeness, but I am Ashen. I have always been, and will witness the last god of the last star die." Ashen responded. "Sounds like a demon to me." Grell thought. "No demon, and not a god. I am simply Ashen." "Go away." Grell thought fiercly, starting to sweat, trying to remain silent and still in his hiding place. "You can't dismiss me. And if you like, I can decimate your love to a regretful memory in her long life if you don't tell me what I want to know." The voice turned threatening. "I don't have to be polite." "What do you want?" Grell demanded in thought. "Only what I asked. Why throw your lives away?" Grell replied, "for love." "For love you say?" Ashen teased, back to a mocking tone. "What is your love to her? You will age before her eyes, withering in decades. She will be finally be old when your great grandchildren's teeth fall out." Grell suddenly became sick at the phantoms words. Was this the goddess Seline tempting him? Or his own god Reroic trying to deter him? "I'm not a god of any kind." Ashen responded to his host's thoughts. "You have no secrets from me, Grell, son of Breen, who fought the Star-Men from the ocean, and married his own half sister to produce you. A xenophilic human with a taste for hallucinogenic roots, and long legs." Grell was stunned, Ashen continued, "your first murder was a black bird, and you killed it thinking your father would approve, but instead he reprimanded you for taking life without need." "Stop!" Grell nearly shouted. "Answer my question then." Ashen responded. "Love doesn't need an answer." Grell replied. "I've asked myself a thousand times why. The answer is still the same. Love." "You would rip her from her people, and her goddess, and you call it love?" Ashen asked, accusation sharp as a knife. "Love will last longer than my life." Grell replied. "Love will outlast our gods, and your star gods. Love will remain when all else is gone." "Love eternal?" Ashen asked. "Yes. Love eternal." "We shall see, Grell, son of Breen." And with as much indication as his coming, Ashen left. Let the human and his elf have their love.


Dr. Anthony: Project door way, Day 7,301, test subject 1 did not re-enter from void, current location unknown. Sphere dissipated. The Dr's excitement was short lived due to this trial, it was the first time the portal actually opened. His persistence, dedication, and ambitions has driven him to a secluded, maddening state. He hardly bathed, his body withering away. He carried himself very well in the beginning, but now his face was masked with facial hair and heavy bags under his eyes. Determined to find out where his little friend went he decided to inject his next subject with a tracking device. As he jumped on the controls, the loud humming of the machine began to send waves of vibration outwards. The room quickly illuminated by the collapse of matter into a perfect sphere that sent happiness into his depressed body. He embraced the test subject then launched him into the sphere like you would a bird to take flight after recovering from an injury. Glancing at the screen, the tracking signal was still strong but motionless. The sphere began to rumble, shaking his laboratory in the process and then vanished along with the signal. Defeated, the Dr decided to shut down for the night. The difference in these two particular trials was the rumbling after the test subject entered. Before he could grab the bottle of his favorite whiskey, the sphere reappeared sending him across the room as if someone through a grenade at his feet but without the following death. As he sat up he saw his other little friend crawling out but behind it was a trail of liquid and as he drew closer he saw the tips of the hairs singed along with scorched eye balls. Terrified the Dr came to the assumption of there being a sun that was orbited closer than our own and a body of water that laid in the wake of the doorway. He had no choice but to see if a stronger life force could sustain the conditions of this new virgin environment. He grabbed Petey an annoying yet qualified chimp that been the labs survivor of many ground breaking experiments. His credentials were substantial. Luckily enough for the Dr the chimp once visited space and had a suit on hand. Preparing the chimp for the experiment, the Dr finally felt he had made progress, happily he pressed the keys to open the door. He immediately grabbed the chimps favorite toy and threw it into the sphere. Petey walked up closer to the doorway, grazed his hand along the surface and partially inside of it, then pulling it out to look at it and admire. He scooted closer and poked his head inside then retracted to look back at the Dr. He smiled, jumped up excitedly then followed it up by a quick burst of clapping his hands. Pointing into the void, he ran into the light, but this time there was no rumble after its closure like the trial before. The Dr once again looked at the screen to check the tracker, this time it was strong, pulsating and rapidly moving in various directions. Graciously re-opening, Petey walked out. There was a trail of the same liquid but he wasn't harmed just slight discoloration at the bottom of his boots. Eager to tell his master what he saw Petey began to sign with so much joy, the Dr couldn't make out what he was saying. He quickly remembered Petey had a translation device and equipped it onto his arms. Dr: Tell me what you saw!!! Petey: Water, Land, Paradise. Petey happy. Dr: Were there people there, or any animals or plants?! Petey: People, yes. Animals, yes. Plants, yes. Remembering the condition of the first rat, the Dr had a few more questions of concern. Dr: Was there a sun? how big was the sun. Pete: one big, one small. Dr: Was it very hot? Petey then pointed to his feet. Petey: Ground, hot. Water, hot. He then assumed the rats arrival on this new world was on a watery location and the heated liquid partially boiled him. But Petey, beneficially bigger could sustain the conditions. The evidence of the life forms could prove to be habitable for himself Needing more answers the Dr was going send Petey back to bring back samples. Dr: Petey I need you to go back and get some things for me can you do that. Petey: Yes Dr. please, paradise again, happy. Gathering the necessities for the next trial, he needed a sample of the land, water, temperature, and readings of the air. They began the process and immediately as the sphere appeared, Petey with no hesitation zoomed into the new world, and as before the door closed. With the computer beeping the active tracker, the dr decided to have a toast. He picked up the bottle and took a couple of swings. They were followed up by Peteys return of all the requested items. The Dr went to embrace Petey, and as the chimp moved away from the void a womans hand reached out to touch him. He smiled back at the Dr. and began to sign. Petey: Stay, Paradise, Bye Dr. Petey happy As Petey handed the Dr the tray of findings, he turned his back to him and faded into the void. Instantaneously the rumble emanated from the collapse and threw the dr into the furthest wall of the lab. He scurried to collect the findings to witness them evaporating into nothing except for the containers and the meters Dr: The air is like ours, the temperature matches up as well! But why couldn't the other samples exist on our side? As the he sat on the ground where he saw his friend say goodbye, the door way reopened. He stuck his hand into sphere and he felt the life he lost over all those years flow back into his body ans he couldn't help but to smile. Like Petey had done previously, he pulled his hand out and admired it. Suddenly he could faintly hear a voice. the words were expressed like a child beginning to put words into sentences Faint voice: come Dr. Paradise. The Dr thought to himself, "Petey?!?" but the voice wasn't digital like his translator. The more the voice continued to talk the more they sentences began to flow. He began to grow confident that it was Petey speaking to him from the other side. Petey: Come in Dr, Paradise awaits you. This is your lifes work, how can you deny yourself the fruit of success? All those years I sat in my cage and watched you tirelessly shatter your mind to unlock the potential you see before you. Dont deny yourself, and join me. Petey's hand appeared, no longer encased by the suit. It was free, and he was more than alive. Petey: Take my hand Dr. Dr: How is this possible? How are you speaking to me with such intelligence? Petey: I don't have time to explain, and I'm growing impatient with you. Do you not want to see paradise? Dr: I need more time and you, you can't be the same chimp I just saw crossover. Petey: Like I said Dr, I am in paradise now. This world does not operate on the limitations as your world or universe for that matter. Dr: No, I need more time and I need you here to help me understand before I take that leap. The Dr began to feel a sudden gravity towards the sphere. Fumbling towards it in attempt to keep his distance. He could not fight it for long. Petey's hand motioned into a ball and the gravity became immense. As the Dr. grew near the sphere both of Petey's hands were exposed and caught his head. Petey grasping the Dr's head between his palms, began to emerge the top half of his body from the void. Both locked eyes and the Dr witnessed evolution at a rate of demonic acceleration. Before his eyes Petey transformed from lab chimp to a human with a savage aura that would make any apex predator urinate itself. Petey began to speak to the Dr, but his lips never moved. Petey: Dr, you have chosen to deny my request, and now paradise shall feed on your world. Goodbye! Petey along with the void vanished, dropping the Dr to the ground. He heard screams from the outside, then an earthquake began. He rushed to the outside to see the consequences of his choice. As the earthquake continued, cracks in the city streets began to form. From them a liquid started seeping out. Street signs, and building began to collapse. The bottom of people's shoes began to evaporate. A lady ran and fell into the stream off fluid before and you could see the flesh falling off the bone until she was no more. He looked up to the sky to see the sun pulsating from large to small as if it were alive. This was Petey had described in the beginning. The happiness that illuminated the Dr and Petey was just bait, like an angler fish attracts its prey. Paradise was alive, it was feeding. It didn't matter if the Dr crossed over or not. All those years of trial and error, it was just poking at it and woke the beast from its dormant state.


This is you. You are standing still. The smell of the sea breeze scratches at your nose. The salt mixes with the drying algae and the burning refuse. You are looking in the distance, at the gray bridge. Cars are stuck there, and you cannot tell if they are moving forwards or backwards. The waves crash in front of you. You drag your gaze around. There is trash everywhere - plastic bags, pieces of plaster walls, bricks, metal rods. A box of flares is still lit under some sand and gives off a sulfurous, oozing smoke. A pile of driftwood is ablaze downwind. You cannot smell it but you see the people gathered around it. Your heavy coat is wrapped tightly around you. The cool wind whips it around you like a cape. You used to enjoy superheroes. Capes and leather and magic, somehow coalesced into something more real for you because you used to wear shirts with their logos. Everything was possible then. You wrap the coat tighter around you and stop it from flapping. The horizon is a flat line in front of you. From the street you could see a sailboat, but it is gone now. The water is the same color as the sky, and it looks sick. The gray is everywhere. Your wife used to have blue eyes. Like the sea. Both are gray now. Up the hill behind you, a woman walks by. She is talking on her phone. Her laughter rings loudly and its echo resonates in your head. It pulls you out of the grayness. You look down. Your old work boots are dirty and scuffed. Sand has pooled in the creases. You lift your feet and shake the sand loose. She always said you couldn't keep yourself clean. Just like your father. As you bend down to remove the last grains you see a rock buried in the sand. You dig it out with a pleased grunt. This will fit. You put it in your coat pocket. It does fit. Its weight reassures you. Next to you is the old carcass of a destroyed boat. No one bothered to pick it out of the rubble. Its flank is split open like a beached whale. You used to think that you would conquer the world with her. Now, she is gone, and the world is gone as well. You are left with nowhere to go and nothing to see. You pick up an armful of rocks and put them in your pockets. The people are gone from the fire. It is still going strong, but not for long. Without people to care for it it will fade from existence. Only its bleached bones will remain, like elephant tusks in an forgotten graveyard. Your hands are cold and cracked. They are white and red and blue and purple and black. They are not used to this temperature. They hold each other and support the cold. They run each other for comfort. The waves crash around you. You are numb. Cold and tired. Sick and grieving. You close your eyes. You know that the water should be cold, but it only feels like a soft embrace. You breathe slowly. You try to match the rythm of the waves. As they come to you and wash over your head, you sink. The grayness pulls you down. You know you should be feeling bad but as you sink you can only feel peace and calmness. Some waves disturb you but you ignore them and go deeper. You have closed your eyes and can only see darkness, but somehow there is darker blackness creeping in the corners. The nothingness spreads over your head and mind and soon you are nothing but the tingle in your extremities. You open your eyes. You dump the stones in the dry, cool sand at your feet. The bridge is still an ashy gray, set against the gray clouds. It is still full of cars. You think they might be the same cars as before. Still moving in no particular direction. You shake your head and curse at yourself. You think about the fire, dying as it is, without anyone to fan and feed the flame. It is still burning its fuel, even if no one is watching it. No one celebrates it but the white bones burn on. You walk back up the hill and climb in your car. You drive away.