For the fifth time this year I had managed to stub my toe on yet another difficult decision. What was I going to do next? After all, my mom was really getting irritated by my constantly changing spectrum of things to try. The last thing I wanted was for her to start making complaints to my dad. What can I say? I am just an adventurous soul looking for something to feed my energy, I thought as I scrambled to collect the last few ants that had scattered along the hallway. This time I had literally stubbed my toe and fell with the entire box of my new found hobby, collecting fire ants. Come to think of it that was not a great idea to begin with. Mom was deathly allergic to them and was currently in the bathroom weeping her eyes out after one had bitten her and she was forced to take her Epipen. I knew she was tired of all the near misses from everything I had decided to try out this year. Almost drowning while surfing, parachute failure while skydiving and almost losing our dog while dog training had definitely taken it’s toll on her. She had started to form wrinkles along her forehead and a few grey hairs had started peeking through her scalp.

“Mum,” guilt laced my voice as I whispered that one word.

She did not answer but instead remained quiet. I knew she knew what I was going to say next. After all, this had become our new routine. I do something foolish and then I apologize to her for doing something foolish. I knew she wanted me to stop but she would never say the words because she was always supportive and encouraged me to try new things.

“I am sorry, I will get rid of them,” I uttered. I think by now my apologies were played out.

 Still there was silence. A soft sigh left my lips as I slowly walked towards the front door with the box.

***

“Amina,” My dad yelled angrily.

 My body quaked and I struggled to recollect myself. Painting had not gone how I had planned. How can such a simple task turn into such a disaster? I thought I would have had things under control by now. After all, I had matured, Right? Ollie my one year old Labrador puppy had gotten into my paint supplies and now the entire hallway of dad’s apartment has been covered in painted paw prints. Taking in the scene, I chuckled a bit. Now the dull apartment had a little more color to it.

“Is this why your mom sent you to live with me, to destroy my belongings?” He said annoyed at my response to the situation. “Amina, after all these years I thought you would have matured by now.”

“Dad, I am sorry. I will clean this up.” I said as I watched him walk away.

Not again, I thought to myself as I began to reminisce on how I had almost sent my mom to the hospital because of my selfishness and inability to reason. Now I can only see her on weekends because I was deemed unfit to be around her. Even after that, I was still incapable of recognizing the issues I have with myself, was I using all these hobbies to fill some form of subconscious void? I mean, I have never managed to stick to one thing for more than a few weeks.

***

“Are you okay Amina,” A soft voice interrupted my thoughts.

 I turned my head to look at the tall lean figure sitting on the couch across from me, unable to read her facial expression. Was that pity I saw? Or maybe it was disappointment. I was always unable to tell. I studied her a bit before turning my head back to look at the ceiling.

 “I think so,” I say a bit unsure. I mean, was I really okay? I had been here for a few weeks but was still unable to figure out my obsessive and impulsive behavior towards exploring the things the world has to offer. After almost setting Grandma’s kitchen aflame for the second time she decided I needed to talk to someone. My parents were completely terrified of me and really didn’t want anything to do with me. My last hobby had caused them to lose everything. I guess that’s why they say gambling is a game of chance. Dad had gotten beaten up and somehow the police got involved and so here I am, staying with grandma. She too wasn’t very fond of me but I was her only grandchild so what could she do?

 Many people would think I am troubled and I am starting to think so too. Things were not so bad a few years ago. It was just me trying to figure myself out. Things only got bad when finding a dream hobby became my obsession, I would stay awake nights after nights, weeks after weeks trying to find something new to do. Every week it was something else and it was always something detrimental to the people around me. I just could not help it. I always imagined myself doing all these crazy things... and I did, however it all brought great suffering to the people I love.

***

   I never in my life thought I would be admitted to a psychiatric ward. I watched as my parents spoke to the lady at the front desk. They had come to visit. By now, mom’s hair had completely grayed and the years were printed on her face. Dad had just started showing his age. He always seemed to wear a sad expression whenever he visited.

“Hi sweetie,” Mom said reaching out her arms to give me a hug.

 I pulled away from her. I was mad, why did they put me here; there is nothing wrong with me. Dad came up beside her reaching out his hand for me to take. I looked at him skeptically before grabbing on to it and standing up. Were they here to take me home?

Over the years my interest in trying new things became more and more dangerous. Life threatening they said, for me it was more exhilarating. That’s what the doctor had said, I was addicted to adrenaline. I wondered... was that even a thing? “It’s time to go home sweetie,” my mom said jerking me from my thoughts.

***    I felt a hand touch my shoulder and my eyes flew open as I emerged from sleep. Is that where I would end up? I thought to myself as I watched my therapist walk back to her place on the couch.


In many ways, an orchestra is like a jenga tower, for its success rests equally on all the individual parts. A few missing pieces and it collapses. Leonard’s job as a conductor was holding together that delicate construction. He kept a clear view on each and every part at all times. Aware, that the smallest disequilibrium could bring the entire structure tumbling down. Tonight’s program was Johannes Brahms’ third symphony. A challenging piece for a young conductor like himself. To get into the right headspace, Leonard followed his usual ritual. He arrived at the theater a little over an hour before the show, which meant he still had some time to sit down at the piano in his changing room and clear his mind. Then he took a shower, shaved and put on his white shirt, black tuxedo suit and bow tie. He sat down again, this time facing away from the piano, the sheet music on his lap as he scanned the orchestration for the more challenging parts. He settled on a selection of passages to rehearse. While he acted them out with his eyes closed, the first bell rang—fifteen minutes until the beginning of the concert. He closed his eyes again, now it was crucial not to hurry. The conductor is the one who decides when the concert starts after all. As the second bell rang, he rose from his seat, did some light stretches and went to the restroom. The third and final bell rang, while he was washing his hands in the sink. He took a deep breath and winked at his reflection in the mirror. Then he calmly approached the concert hall, Leonard could hear the musicians tuning their instruments through the thick, wooden doors, a smile spread on his face. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. The audience’s whispers turned to silence. As he walked toward the podium, the audience now applauding, he caught a glimpse of his father sitting in the first row, smiling right at him. Leonard panicked, his face flushed red, his throat constricted. In that split second, his composure dispersed. He stepped up to the podium, shook the concertmaster’s hand, turned around and bowed down to the audience. As he turned back towards the musicians, he closed his eyes for an instant, if this was a dream, he’d like to wake up right about now. Nothing happened—he sighed and grabbed the baton. Why? I never use the baton. Too late to set it down now, isn’t it? Leonard lifted his arms hesitantly. His hands were trembling. What followed is the most overlooked aspect, when it comes to conducting. The moments of silence before the music start are just as important as whatever follows. A frown encroached on his face, but he immediately regained his composure. The musicians needed to put their complete trust in him now. They had their own ways of reaching the state of togetherness, that they needed to hold throughout the entire performance. The last thing they could use right now, was to pick up on his insecurity. He took a deep breath and gave the brass and woodwind section the signal to start. The second his hands moved, his heart dropped into his stomach. This buildup is way too slow. It was going to be a long, difficult battle. Brahms’ third symphony builds to an imposing climax within the first three notes, by which point the orchestra beams in its full brilliance. Now that he’d initiated at such a snail-like pace, he had to stay committed. He could speed things up after the peak, any sudden overcorrections would throw off the musicians. Maybe it wasn’t actually his father watching in the front row? Wasn’t he supposed to be living somewhere in Belgium or Sweden? He fought to keep his mind clear, but the thoughts kept pushing at the veil of his consciousness. He noticed he was now crawling through the orchestration. The baton in his hand felt unusually heavy. If this is my dad, why would he show up now? Oh crap— . He’d forgotten to signal for the oboe players to start their phrase, a few of them had begun playing regardless. For once he was thankful to the individuals that never seemed to care much about his instructions. He signaled to the others players that they should join in on the next phrase. Leonard worked his hardest to stay focused. If this was in fact his father was watching, he wouldn’t let him have that power over him. It must be him. Although he had never seen his father, he knew exactly what he looked like. Leonard closed his eyes before launching the next movement, he tried to give himself up to the flow of music. He must’ve noticed my mistakes, being a concert pianist and all. Leonard felt rage build up in his chest. His father’s gaze was like a knife in his back, draining him of attention. Why would he sit in the first row of all places? He should know that would distract me. How could he be so inconsiderate? My father never cared for me when I was young, why would he care now? Did something happen? Was he sick? Leonard drew his attention back to the orchestra. Oh my god, I’m playing way too fast now. He needed to get it back together. With the music so quiet, he couldn’t afford another mishap. Pearls of sweat dripped down his temples. By the third movement, Leonard’s Anger had subsided. Only a heaviness remained in his chest. Leonard remembered his piano recitals when he was a child, at the end of which, he always expectantly scanned the audience, hoping he would see his father. Every single time he ended up with his head hanging low on the car ride home. Good thing he didn’t show up to any of those recitals, I can barely handle it now. Oh shoot— . He almost missed a French horn entrance. His left hand gestured hastily. Perhaps he should’ve chosen to mess up one of my recitals, not this performance with the symphony orchestra. Leonard wasn’t going to let himself be distracted any longer. His father was just another audience member. In fact, if by chance one of his many babysitters was watching tonight, he would be in the presence of someone, that’d actually cared for him, as he was growing up, and they surely didn’t make him nervous. He pushed through the third movement with a resolve to enjoy the music and nothing else. Okay I’m playing super slowly now. Time to pull himself together for the final movement. Leonard managed to keep a somewhat clear mind for a few minutes. His face wore a blank expression and a lump lodged in his throat. He could’ve at least called me before showing up here. Why didn’t he try to contact me earlier? His mother had fought hard to bring him through. He never even had a stepdad. He’d blown on countless eyelashes and birthday candles as a child, wishing for a father. Any father would’ve done. His mother must’ve been too hurt to find a new husband. His sense of the symphony was completely broken at this point. He couldn’t establish a proper connection to his players. It felt like he was stuck in between a boulder and a cliff, unable to express the musical sentiment through his gestures. He was used to his coaches telling him to tone it down, that he shouldn’t be taking the attention away from the music. So naturally, he tried to hold himself back. But he couldn’t help himself. He just naturally moved to music. Now that he was experiencing the other extreme, he just wanted to go back to his own eccentric style of conducting. This felt way worse.

At the end of the concert, Leonard was panting, bathed in sweat. He gave a shallow bow and shot a glance towards his father, who sat in his seat, weeping. Leonard's heart raced as he scrambled off the podium. The baton still in his right hand. A quick shower later, he sat in the changing room, absently jingling on the piano to calm his mind. His heart was still beating loudly in his chest. He sighed and decided to rise from the chair. He grabbed his bag and walked towards the theater’s exit, nodding absently in response to the greetings he received. The moment he stepped outside, he froze abruptly. His father was standing on the sidewalk, holding a bouquet of flowers. Leonard stared at him in disbelief, he returned an awkward smile. Leonard had spent hours contemplating what he would say in the unlikely event his father ever showed up. Regardless, he was unable to open his mouth to speak. “Congratulations, it was wonderful.” His father stammered, as he walked up to Leonard. He extended his hand to his son, who shook it wordlessly. His father looked much older than he’d envisioned. Leonard raised his eyebrows, “Why are you here?” “Lenny,” his father sighed. “I understand, if you don’t want me here. I’m sorry. I can’t give you an apology that excuses my behavior.” His father pulled a business card from his breast pocket. “Please take this, if you ever want to reconnect, I just wanted to let you know how proud I am.” Leonard accepted the card and the flowers. He flashed a weak smile, as he turned and walked away hurriedly. Tears streamed down his face, he could no longer hold them back. Leonard chuckled at the fact his father thought of him as Lenny. He was still conflicted about his father’s sudden appearance. He’d quite badly thrown him off his game tonight, but whether he liked it or not, without his father’s absence, Leonard would never have worked so hard to become a conductor in the first place. In many ways, life too, is like a jenga tower, it’s unpredictable and the missing pieces eventually add up and decide your path for you. But who’s to say you can’t pick up those pieces and carefully slide them back inside? Ultimately, in life—unlike in a game of jenga—you set your own rules.


The Wedding The garden is the site of my aunt’s second wedding to a guy named Phillip. Phillip. Like the prince. May he rest in peace. Technically, the garden is not the site of my aunt’s second wedding to a guy named Phillip. It is the site of the reception of my aunt’s second wedding to a guy named Phillip. It was April or March or...um...sometime early spring. I was only 10. Time works differently when you’re a kid. I once read that childhood is like being drunk: you don’t have much memory of it all, but everyone keeps telling you stories about it so you desperately try to piece it all together. But this story is about my aunt’s second wedding to a guy named Phillip. We drove endlessly from our home in my mom’s grey minivan up the giant mountain top to a church nestled in pine trees and a blanket of sow. I stood freezing in my little white dress, covered in tulle and water color style pink lilies. Everyone could hear the desperate sound of my stomach screaming for food. I couldn’t feel my toes. The church was all brown brick and concrete floors. The very best part was the sound of my feet, safely strapped into Mary Jane style white shoes, as we took our seats in the brown wooden pew up front. “Family sits up front at a wedding,” said my mother in a hushed tone, her warm, coffee breath against my ear. A man in a suit began droning on about faith and love. A beautifully tall woman with chestnut curls stood by my cousin. They wore matching pink dresses. I tugged on the dark blue velvet sleeve of my mother’s shirt and demanded her identity to which she replied, “That is your cousin’s new bride.”

The man in the suit invites everyone to discuss the bride and groom. I looked to the wooden ceiling as I felt cold snow plop down on my button nose. The left side started first, strangers dressed in fancy clothes began speaking about Phillip. They called him handsome, intelligent, brave, and classy. I requested my mother to define the word, classy , “It’s a person with a lot of class.” I began to ask a follow up question, but she pressed a long index finger to her lips, and shrugged my shoulders because I didn’t know what class was so I sure as hell didn’t understand classy any better. Finally, the man in the black suit asked for us to speak about the bride. My Aunt. In her shimmering white dress. With the long veil which had a few pink rose petals, evidence of her walk down the aisle. She beamed. She glowed. It was in her I saw a woman in love for the first time. Her mother, my grandmother spoke. In her matriarchal elegance, she turned to face the audience. Her perfectly coiffed grey hair grazed the top of her beautiful magenta dress. “My beautiful daughter is an artist at heart. She flourishes in anything creative, finds joy in the little things, and is an incredible mother,” compliments gushed forward from her classic red lips. My aunt mouthed thank you. I leaned forward on my toes and popped back on my heels. Clack, clack, clack. My mother’s long fingers reached for my hand. I needed to stop.

We all processed out of the church and followed the trail of colorful cars down the long hilled driveway. We merged onto the highway. I was relieved when we could start listening to the radio again. Rain began to pour down our windows. I jammed a stubby thumb on the window and raced the drops of water down, down, down. A pop song about love filled the car and I began to wonder what life would be like once I got married. I would have a long veil just like my aunt. My gaze darted down to my shoes as I decided I would wear real high heels at my wedding. Like the one my grandmother wore. A smile crossed my face as I began to doze in the backseat. “We’re here,” announced my mother. We unpiled ourselves from the car. The backyard was much warmer than the mountain top and as we weaved into my grandmother’s home, extended family rushed Tasha and I. They gave perfumed hugs, lipstick filled kisses, and picked us up so we could feel their scratchy beards on our velvet cheeks.

Eventually, we were free to run into the backyard where Tasha and I made a beeline for the tree house. In our fancy dresses and perfectly white shoes, we climbed the worn rope ladder up the oak tree. Our cousins waited for us and we all rushed to the windows to peer out at the adults below. They rushed around with wine filled goblets and swarmed my aunt like moths drawn to a single porch light. They bobbed in and out of her orbit in a kind of dance. The garden was in full bloom behind my aunt. A sea of rose buds surrounded her. She looked like Venus in that famous painting my mother took us to see a replica of. Instead of cupids, she had birds and butterflies to create a crown around her. “Here,” Lily held out a wine glass filled with water for me. My mouth closed and I blushed with embarrassment. We all clinked our cups and pretended to be fancy while sitting cross legged on the scratchy wood floor.

The Birthday Bash The garden is the site of my uncle’s 50th birthday bash. 50. That feels old. I mean technically, not that old. “Given the fact that people live well into their 80s these days, I wouldn’t fret too much,” comforted my mother when I raised the question of mortality. We piled into the grey minivan and cranked on the AC as high as it would go. My uncle was born on June 30th so my grandmother planned a birthday/4th of July bash. We waited in traffic for ages. My sweat filled face searched for the best place to crane towards a little more breze. “This isn’t working,” huffed my mother as she tugged on the tiny spaghetti strap of her sundress which was falling off her shoulder. She turned off the AC and opened all the windows. I leaned my face out like a dog. The orchestra of beeps and honks from annoyed drivers along with the passive aggressive rush of traffic on the other side of the highway lulled me into a sense of exhaustion. The heat did not help. I pulled out my compact from my little black purse bought by my grandmother. In the tiny hand held mirror I stared in horrified amazement at the make up literally melting off my face. Desperately, I reached for my lip gloss and applied another coat. Strands of my long black, hair clung to it instantaneously. I blew raspberries out angrily.

We finally arrived at my grandmother’s house. I teetered up the long driveway in my very high red heels. I smoothed out my tiny black pencil skirt and adjusted my newly found cleavage before I entered the kitchen. Relatives swarmed us like ants on a picnic. However, I had discovered a new weapon and offered kisses on the cheek, “Just like the French,” praising my grandfather. His prickly face smells like cologne. I brush him off while heading for the white French door leading to the backyard. Outside is a picnic table covered in deviled eggs, crudites, and cold cans of soda. I load up a red plate with lots of goodies. Tasha trails behind me. She picks plain crackers and little wedges of cheese. We sit silently next to one another on a few lawn chairs. Our cousins toss bean bags in the yard, hollering at each other. “Hey, look,” says my sister. She had positioned an apple slice on her top lips and pursed her lips in a duck face so the apple is a big, red mustache. She giggles. The apple falls and I roll my eyes while whipping out my cell phone. It’s 12pm. I told Marcos I’d call him at 4pm. It can’t come fast enough.

My uncle and his father exit the kitchen side by side holding large platters of raw meat. They stroll over to the BBQ, chattering. I watch as they discuss temperatures and seasonings before they expertly toss the meat on the grill. My mother approaches Tasha and I with hugs. Tasha asks if she can have a soda. Cracker crumbs cover her little mouth which elicits more eye rolling on my part. I take a long, dramatic drink of my cola. “Of course you can have a soda,” my mother says while looking at me. She takes my sister’s seat, “Put that phone away. We’re at your grandparents’.”

“Why?” I ask. The phone feels hot and heavy in my hand. “We’re here like all the time,” I complain.

“Not all the time, now put it away,” responds my mother. The look in her emerald eyes means the conversation is over so I stand, toss my plate in the black trash can, and tuck my phone in my purse. I dramatically pick it up and walk across the pristine, green lawn to the garden. There is a stone path, lovingly set by my grandfather, which cuts down the center of the garden. I am greeted by bold pink and white tulips. Their waxy petals are enticing. A plastic, ruby red press on the nail falls off when I try to stroke one. A blush the color of the roses that follow fills my cheeks. The roses perfume the air with a romantic day dream filled scent. I lean down, imagining myself in a movie. A tall, handsome man in a suit will wrap his arms around me. We will admire my handi work together. “There’s a lot of work your grandmother puts into this place,” says a deep voice. Startled, I gasp and face my grandfather. His face is worn like leather and full of laugh lines. I dramatically raise my hand to shade my eyes. “Come on,” he says and he leads me around the garden. He shows me the cucumbers and the carrots. I recognize the veiny vine of watermelon. His voice is full of excitement and pride. I glance back at my sister as my stomach rumbles. “Um, Grandpa, can we just like, go eat?” I ask as my uncle calls everyone to the table. Grandpa smiles and kisses the crown of my head. We leave the garden behind.

I take a seat next to my mother. She is discussing school with my cousins. They’re sitting in a circle underneath the shade of the big oak tree. The one the tree house used to be. “Do you kids remember climbing up there?” asks my mother. Everyone looks up while I roll my eyes and sneak a peek at my phone. It’s 1:15. “What’s so important there?” inquires my aunt. She takes a bite of her cheeseburger. A hint of ketchup lingers on her lip. Phillip wipes it away. I blush and shove my phone away. “Oh,” responds my mother, “She’s just obsessed with her new boyfriend.”

“Mom!” I exclaim and feel humiliation fill my heart.

“Wanna see a picture?” demands my mother. She has placed her plate on the grass and is reaching for her purse. She whips out a worn out photo of Marcus and me from his homecoming dance. I am wearing a long, red, strapless dress that we bought in Cancun the year before and heeled sandals. Marcus has on a black suit, white dress shirt, and cyan colored tie. My relatives ooh and aah over the photo. I stare at the garden as tears fill my eyes. My lip burns with pain as I bite down and taste iron. I toss my plate on the grass and stand. Relatives surround me demanding to know if I’m ok. My mother calls my name and I ignore her. I tear through the living room to the guest bathroom and dab water on my cheeks. My mascara is running. My eye liner which I carefully applied this morning is smudged and runny. I dry my hands on the powder blue towel and take a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye, through the little bathroom window, I see my grandfather in the garden.

The Funeral

The garden is cold and grey. It is covered in a soft winter blanket that hangs on the brown leaves of my rose bushes. I stand in a sea of black. The faces around me are haunted like Halloween masks. They have deep bruises underneath their eyes and when I reach for my mother’s hand, it’s trembling. I take a deep breath. My aunt conducts all of us as we discuss the mountain of a man my grandfather was. My relatives take turns sharing stories. Their words crash against me like a raging sea. My own heartbeat rises with each person. Eventually, we break for food. Tasha loads up her blue plate with crackers and cheese before we take a seat on the living room floor. “Hey, look,” she taps me on the shoulder. I see my sister with a red, apple mustache and we giggle. A few tears escape our eyes. I don’t eat much, just push my food around. Tasha nibbles half heartedly. I decide I need some space and weave through the kitchen to the back door.

The air is cold and shocks my hot skin. Some part of my soul leads me down the porch and out to the garden. My arms wrap around the rough skin of the tree as I stare up at the shell that remains of our tree house. A graveyard of dead leaves peaks out beneath the dusting of Jack Frost. I decide that even mother nature is sad today. My black heels clack, clack, clack on the stone path. The tulips are hidden in a warm, dense, blanket of earth. The leaves of the rose bushes look green and cruel without their beautiful flowers. I lean down and imagine their perfume. Brisk snow tickles my button nose. I glance down the path to where I know the cucumbers will go. To the future home of the carrots and the watermelon. My legs fold underneath me and I sit on the cold stone of the cold garden. The one my grandmother and grandfather built over their six decades in this home. When I raise my head I imagine the laughter that filled this yard during barbecues and backyard camping nights. “I promise to visit her once a month, Grandpa. Granny will never be alone. I promise,” I whisper in the shelter of the garden.


We rushed through the wooden door and slammed it shut. The thing gave a loud thud against the door that shook the frames and made the hinges screech, but the door held. I quickly poured salt under the door's threshold. “I think this will hold it back for a time. We’re on the third floor so I'm hoping the thing won’t come leaping through the window,” I exclaimed with a sigh. Before I could catch my breath, I felt her lips and her breath filling my lungs and giving new vigor to a faint heart. “Thank you, I can’t believe you’d actually help me. I thought I was a goner,” she said with the shimmer of her tears in the pale moonlight. My heart had been racing from the chase, but now it was calm again. “I was wondering why you left without a word months ago, I figured you were ghosting me or something… didn’t think you were running for your life.” “You know me, lady of mystery!” she joked with a forced smile. “You don’t have to do this you know.” For a moment, the months on the run showed their strain on her face. The stress wrinkles around the brow of another wise young 28-year-old woman. She felt the weight of those months all at once and collapsed onto the leather chair by the bookshelf. “I know, but in all of those months, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You’re here in front of me now, and I’m not losing you again. Come sickness come hell or whatever,” I declared. The hell began to snarl from the other side of a wall across from us. “What is that thing anyway? I can hear it, but I can’t see it.” “It’s not here for you… but I can see it,” she responded with a despondent voice that trailed off at the end as if she wanted to keep the last part a secret. “I made a… a deal with someone I shouldn’t have and now this thing has come to collect… the debt is my life,” she proclaimed hesitantly. I felt my heart do a back flip, realizing that the reason my love was going to die. “It seemed too good to be true… I should’ve known that stage 4 stomach cancer doesn’t just go away. Julie… what did you do?” I asked with dread. “I wasn’t going to let you die. The things you do for the people as police captain, I think you’re a hero. No one else can protect this city like you, I can’t let this city and my hope fade.” She was trying to make the exchange of her life for mine logical to justify it, but we both knew it was a desperate attempt not to lose someone she loved. Before I could respond, there was a crash in the adjacent room and the shattering of a ceramic toilet. We were back in the trying pan and it was time to move. “Third floor huh? Guess the window's not an option. Back the way we came. Hopefully that salt will act as a red line it can’t cross and buy us a minute.” She nodded in a agreement as she joined my side again. We bolted out of the door and down the steps, hoping to reach the ground floor and make a mad dash to our car. We heard the hellhound barking a loud piercing sound that resonated through the halls. It reverberated off the walls and sounded even more fierce. The feet scraped on the hardwood. The beast was overzealous and struggled for traction in its excitement. “We’re gonna make it,” I reassured her as I squeezed her hand. We were on the stairs to the ground floor when I saw a shadow pass over head. I looked up but there was nothing there to cast the shadow. An ear-piercing scream erupted from beside me and for a moment my trip slackened. The hand so precious from me was ripped away from my grasp. I looked beside me, and she was gone. Behind me, I saw the impossible, she was being dragged by her shoulder, bleeding profusely, screaming relentlessly as she was punching the invisible assailant with her free hand. The dog began to shake her, and the bleeding became worse and she went limp from shock. Even at my distance, I heard the snap of her shoulder bone as that beast dug deeper and deeper. She wasn’t struggling anymore, but the beast was still unsatisfied. Fear had paralyzed me, staring at the air as it rips into my love and puts her into this agony. Then rage overtook me. Rage at the cruel fate that would push us to months of being hunted just because she didn’t want me to die and rage at myself for taking this long to do what was necessary. I was done running. Maybe Julia as already dead, maybe she was still holding on, but I wanted to make this thing suffer for all the months of suffering it had given her. The beast again disappeared, and as I looked around, I could only hear the wild snarls of the beast circling around me. I could feel its presence around me, but I could not see it. My heart began to race uncontrollably from the bubbling rage and fear. I closed my eyes to calm myself and listened.

It didn’t matter that he was invisible, I could hear the blood dripping from its jaws. I called out to it, “Come over here you God forsaken beast! I thought all dogs go to heaven, so what the hell are you? Cerberus, Barghest, or just some nameless mutt?” I drew my revolver from behind my back and readied the last bullet. There was no missing this time. I heard the bark come from the air ahead of me and saw the blood splatter. I aimed for the center of the blood and fired. A spray of blood exploded from where I shot, but the bullet disappeared into the nothingness. The beast gave a whimper and for a moment I felt sorry for it. I walked over to the pooling blood, knowing my felled prey was there. I walked forward hearing the steady drip of its blood and the rasping of its last breaths. The dripping stopped and so did the breathing. I was standing over the puddle of blood and gingerly pushed my foot forward, waiting to feel its body. My foot reached the puddle, but still nothing. I felt a cold sweat start and heard a low growl behind me. I tried to turn and face it but before I could, I felt its massive weight push me down. I fell face first into its putrid blood, spitting out the taste of iron with the smell of sulfur. Its claws were trying to pin down my elbows and I could sense it rearing back its head to bite. I rolled over with everything I had against its weight. I heard his body fall to my left. I clutched my empty gun like a hammer and started to furiously slam down the butt of the gun toward the ground. None of those swings reached the ground, they hit the soft stomach of the dog. It yelped and barked in pain. I followed the hammering up and felt the butt of the gun collide with the softer windpipe and then it was hard again. I found the face and I kept hammering until my gun and the floor was covered in blood and no more whimpers were heard. My arms and body were shaking from the strain when I finally stopped. I crawled over to Julia's body and listened to her chest for a heartbeat or a breath. I could feel her chest rising against my cheek. I scrambled to dial 911 and they came in time to save her from the blood loss. “We made it…” I whispered to her when she finally awoke the next day and I fell back to a tranquil sleep by her bedside in the hospital.

“We made it to tomorrow… Thank you for never giving up on us,” she whispered as she kissed me back to sleep.


14 February 1778 To my dearest Maria,

I sincerely hope all is well. How are you holding up throughout this war? I know I haven’t written to you in a while. I truly long to see you all once again. Everyday I miss you more and more. Remember when we were young? I often have memories of the fresh Philadelphia air filling our lungs as we lay on the soft grass in the meadow. While I am writing this, it is hard to suppress my grin while reminiscing on such simpler times… I miss my work as a teacher and all the wonderful children I taught. This treasured innocence is now thrown away, never to be resurfaced, for what I have seen at Valley Forge can never be erased from my memory.

My decision to aid the Continental Army may have been a grave mistake. The conditions here are so terribly dreadful. Soldiers are practically naked, on the brink of death, and starving. Watching all of these brave men slowly lose their spirits is nothing short of heartbreaking. With my brother now living with his wife in Massachusetts, Mother and Father have no one to take care of them. They are left to tend to the farmland by themselves (I fear you now know what the purpose of this letter is for). Because of these horrible conditions, I have decided it would be best to leave Valley Forge. I understand that leaving in the frigid winter is practically suicide, but I cannot die without trying to see you again. I can already imagine what a scolding you would give to me if you were here: “What a blithering fool you are! Why on EARTH would you ever think this is a good idea?!? I swear, if you make it back, it’ll be me that kills you!”. By the time you are reading this, I have already started my journey back (mainly so you will not be able to talk me out of it).

Please allow me to elaborate, Maria. Have you ever seen a man die? I have. Many times. Far too many times to count. I think us in the medical department try to pretend that it doesn’t bother us each time we watch a patient pass on, but it does. No matter how many times I’ve witnessed it, it never seems to get easier. It truly makes me feel grateful for what I have and the life I have lived so far. But also, it makes me think of all the things in life I wish I had done. Mortality is horrifying.

Watching men slowly meet their demise knowing there is nothing you can do to help starts to take a toll on you after a while. I often find myself thinking: Could that be me next? I will now include a few excerpts from my diary: “25 December 1777 Although it has only been a week at Valley Forge, the blizzards show no signs of stopping. Our living quarters (cabins) are crammed, only about 16’ by 14’ with dozens of men inside just one. With the harsh winters forcing everyone to stay inside, the influenza is spreading rapidly. The insulation is poor and it is freezing on the inside. The smoke from the fire is entering our lungs, making us even more run-down. Merry Christmas. 4 January 1778 With each day I spend at Valley Forge, I find it harder to believe in the Revolution. Today was no exception. This night when walking to my sleeping quarters, I overheard the lieutenants discussing how their force was shrinking at a detrimental rate. Over 1,000 men have died from smallpox, and this number will only skyrocket as the days go on. It fills me with despair to watch these brave soldiers die, knowing that their death may be in vain. Instead of dying a noble death fighting for liberty and freedom, they are forced to spend their final moments sick, vulnerable, and afraid. I never would have volunteered for a cause as hopeless as this if I was aware of what I would be getting myself into. If there is a Hell where mortals can roam, it is Valley Forge. God bless us all.” Life here is anything but luxurious, Maria. We are starving and malnourished, making it impossible to help sick patients. Men can hardly stand on their own and are being brought here only to die. I am aware that General George Washington is doing his utmost best with what he was given, but nothing seems to be working out. Even someone as influential as himself can’t

seem to keep up the morale. The soldiers haven’t said anything, but you can tell just by the gruesome look in their eyes that they’ve already given up. We will stand no chance against the ruthless British army if things stay the same. We are left with empty stomachs most days while the British eat like kings. Our army cannot even afford to buy enough for one full meal from the Patriot farmers. Ever since I came, I have even started to miss the taste of your dreadful pumpkin pie. That taste, no matter how insipid, would provide me with the comfort of familiarity, whereas here, there are only unknowns. Everyday I am here, it seems I get one step closer to my own demise and I am not willing to play with the odds of life and death anymore. With the statistics as they are now, around half of the soldiers are sick, and I might just be another body to be buried.

My lovely Maria, I know you would have wanted me to stay and help until the end, but I hope what I have written so far gives you a better understanding of my decision. I mean, I’m a teacher for God’s sake! I’m hardly qualified for this line of work. No matter how many times you write to me assuring me everything is fine on the homefront, it does nothing to ease my worries. Back in Philadelphia, it is now only me and them. They are old and can hardly take care of themselves anymore. They are extremely reliant on me to help around the house and I feel terrible about burdening you with them. I know you do what you can to help out my mother and father and I thank you kindly for it. Alas, they aren’t getting any younger. If something were to happen while I was at Valley Forge, I would never forgive myself for not being there. Furthermore, I miss you all very much and wish to be with you especially again, my love.

For the weeks I have been here, nothing has improved. General Washington has tried his hardest but his efforts may in fact be in vain. I have nothing but respect for Washington, but no matter how hard he tries there is practically nothing he can do to improve the conditions at Valley Forge. I genuinely have tried. I hope you know that. I am not one to quit, but this is not for the faint of heart.

The conditions are horrible and the whole army seems to be slowly withering away. My own health is at risk due to the lack of food and the chances of me contracting smallpox. This reason may be selfish, but my life at home is so dear to me. I want to die being surrounded by those who I care about. At Valley Forge, my death would be just another statistic. It strongly pains me to say this, but my time here has been proven to be useless. I do not like to see my fellow Patriots on the brink of death. I am embarrassed to say this, but I have completely lost faith in the Continental Army’s success. We stand no chance. I feel as though the most important lesson one can get out of this is that sometimes you must put yourself before others. Please do take care of yourself, Maria. Perhaps if I return home, we can finally be together again. Do not lose faith in me, my love. I know you will be disappointed in me leaving but I also know that you will be understanding of what I have been through. The chances of me making it back home are slim, but those odds are greater than me surviving at Valley Forge. If I do however face my utmost demise, I would like to say that I have no regrets. However, that would be lying. My biggest regret would be not telling you how much I truly love you. I would shout it from the rooftops if I could. Do take care of yourself for me. Hopefully we will meet again and laugh about this matter in the future. Please tell my parents that I wish them well. I won’t ask you to pray for me, but I may need it. I love you. Yours truly, Emelia Smith


Zinnah ran to her car at full speed. Her lungs burned more and more with each step on her gravel driveway. Her keys fumbled in her hands, she cursed whoever told her that having keychains would be fun and cute. She turned her head for a split second to see him: the man she knew, the man she loved, the man she was running away from. He was running at full speed towards her and with his long legs and track background, his dark silhouette was becoming closer.

“Please help me to understand Zinnah, what exactly have I done to deserve this?” Archer screamed as his hands thrashed in the air. Zinnah watched his hands move in a million different directions as she climbed into her car and locked the door. Pounding threatened to break her window causing Zinnah to jump out of her skin. A snake being hunted by the mighty eagle, one false move and Zinnah would be thrashing around in the air, ready to be consumed. “I love you, Archer,” she mouthed, tasting the salty-sweet tears that she had not realized were streaming down her face. Rain poured onto the windshield in large drops creating a once soothing musical on top of Zinnah’s roof. Archer’s eyes darted to the gearshift Zinnah was reaching for and started to become frantic. He pounded harder and faster, screaming for anything that would get her to come out of the car.

Zinnah simply placed her hand on the window in a symbolic gesture of forgiveness, then placed the car in reverse. Archer punched the hood of her car as she drove away. Zinnah was gone and he was raging. His fists clenched and his jaw tightened. Hurriedly he ran into his house, destroyed in a mess of rage. Plates broken on the floor, pictures of their time together smashed into the fireplace, blood splattered across the walls. Archer ripped off his shirt that was soaked red before and dyed a crimson color of agony in the rain. How could Zinnah have done this to him? He paused in front of the wall he had punched, staring at the dust-covered hole in his wall then back down at his bleeding knuckles. Then, he reached for his keys. Zinnah drove twenty miles per hour above the speed limit. The rain cautioned her balding tires to slow down but the foot on the pedal urged the car to live out its dream of joining NASCAR. Rain fell faster than Zinnah’s windshield wipers, but she did not care as she pushed faster knowing Archer would follow. Her cuts stained her shirt and seats with the red, thick blood Zinnah could not feel due to the adrenaline. Hot air rushed out her vents and tried to soothe her with a warm hug, but the cold rainwater on her clothes struck down any advances. A bloodcurdling scream escaped Zinnah’s lips followed by trembling cries she could barely hear over the sound of her own heart in her ears. Blood, anger, yelling, everything that had happened in the last hour made her nauseous. Suddenly, right as Zinnah started to contemplate pulling over so she could throw up that night’s dinner, bright lights flashing behind her caught her attention. A familiar, silver Ford Expedition was on her bumper urging her to either speed up or slow down- she could not decide. Archer waved his hand out the window pointing at the curb next to them. Zinnah only slammed harder on her gas pedal, racing the rain that was falling into Archer’s lap. Archer knew exactly where Zinnah was going. She was racing to her brother’s house faster than she should in the pouring rain. Thunder made itself aware overhead the two cars. Zinnah, scared of thunderstorms, let out a yelp Archer could see by the fast movement in her shoulders. The stop sign ahead cautioned neither one of the drivers; both decided they had seen too much red that night. “Zinnah you coward! Stop driving!” Archer yelled with a flick of his brights. He saw her eyes look back for a split second in her rearview mirror before she cried. A whimpered, pathetic scream, she screamed back in between sobs, “I will never stop for you again!” Archer could not make out the words over the pounding of water droplets on his windows and roof. Each droplet reminded him of her. How he had caused her so much pain, so much suffering in the end. Her light smile contorted into a sickening cry for help from the kitchen. Her box-dyed hair mixed with her own blood. Her once perfect skin open to reveal the muscle and tendons underneath. A hideous display of rage splayed across his floor offering only a feeling of numb desperation. Longing to hear her laugh, need to watch her eyes light up again, a want to feel her mouth against his under a clear, starry sky. A tear fell onto his cheek but was soon wiped away into nothing and mixed with the cold and seemingly endless reminders of what he had. Stinging his skin through the open window with a new memory. The rain may as well have been a thick and stinging acid because perhaps it would have hurt less. But the car trudged along in the neutral rain pushing against any impulsivity Archer was feeling.

The rain rushed Zinnah; however, whispering in her ear to drive faster. Every small thud against her windshield was a challenge to drive ever so slightly more reckless. She was not crying anymore. She was laughing. The bruise on her face ached with laughter as she thought about what had happened. The blind rage she experienced. The memory of a punch stung her face as she passed her brother’s house and drifted past a sharp turn. She had driven these roads too many times to count and now was when she could show her expertise. Her hands danced around the wheel with muscle memory while Archer fumbled behind, slamming on the brakes so he didn’t spin out. A ballet of movement from her fingers as she took another right. A symphony of audience cheers as she masterfully wound around a left turn. Asher’s car was no longer in sight and a sigh of relief escaped her lips, but a moment too soon.

Asher had not grown up in this neighborhood but he knew the roads to the bridge. Zinnah’s favorite spot was the gazebo by the river, which was calm in the daytime. He sped through a straightaway alerting a neighbor who had come outside to listen to the calming sound of rainfall. He saw headlights edging closer to the turn they were about glide gracefully around and his brake slammed against the floor. Skidding on the slick road, Zinnah’s car did not stop. Compared to a skilled drift racer or an experienced getaway driver, she was smoking both of them. Archer pounded his wheel knowing his car was begging for mercy. He was drenched with rain and exhausted from the mess he would have to explain to the police. But, he could not let Zinnah escape this.

She was the reason his knuckles were bleeding. She was the reason his clothes were permanently etched with splatter marks. She was the reason his stomach would grow nauseous at the sight of broken glass. But on she sped, into the darkness towards her happy place. The bridge that had carried her through more sad days and anxious periods than she could count. The sound of the river had a calming effect on her nerves. It was a happy movie on a sad night. It was a restful nap after a long day at work. It had kept her alive. Now, it was going to take it. The rain rushed down at an alarming speed onto the two cars. The river seethed with excitement as every drop hit its waters; the wind guided it along in a mass of cold, frenzied water. A roller coaster of emotion rushed through Zinnah as she stopped her car on that bridge. She had just enough time to rush to the edge and pause. The dark water below invited her in like a distant friend she had not seen in years. The adrenaline coursing through the river weaved around rocks and tree branches, jumping into the air with exhilaration. Zinnah saw in the black water a yellow light getting increasingly larger and knew she was running out of time, but her arms stayed locked around the wet railing. “Don’t do it! Don’t you dare Zinnah!” Asher yelled through the pouring rain. The cold rain pouring a thick layer of wet onto his skin shocked him alive. He wiped his eyes, salt mixing in with the water dripping from his hair, and slammed his door. She was just standing on the railing. He tried to walk slow so she wouldn’t jump, but the rain performed as a wedge between her and the rail she was clinging onto. Her arm slipped and caused her to lose her footing. She grabbed tightly onto the metal, bruising her arms and making the cut on her side gush with warmth. Her vision went blurry and she decided it would be easier to let go. A laugh sounded like a bell through clenched teeth as she loosened her grip. Red, chipping paint clung to her wet skin as she started to fall slowly into the roaring water beneath her.

An arm wrapped around her clumsily. Her eyes went wide with anger when she realized the river was not becoming closer to her. Thrashing around, like a snake caught by an eagle, she screamed for release. A thrown punch locked with something above her, but the arm did not give. “Let me go, Asher! Let me go!” she screamed in a hoarse, broken, degraded voice. A sob pushed more tears out of her eyes and into the disappointed river beneath her. Her back scraped against the side of the bridge in a painful reminder she was still alive. The falling rain formed a tight hold around her neck and constricted her breathing. Her clothes clung to her uncomfortably making her feel even more suffocated. “Let me go!” she punched. A loosening of Asher’s grip let her run toward the light, but the hold on her legs pulled her back into the dark void. He pinned her down on the dirty ground, his face red with frustration. The cold rain causing Zinnah to shiver was only evaporating off of him with the angry heat he was producing. “Why Zinnah, why!” he screamed. His face thrashed forward with every word so fast she did not even notice the crushing pain in her legs and thighs where he was keeping her rooted on the floor of the bridge. She whimpered in fear and exhaustion. Blood was overflowing from her side where the stab wound was, a stainless steel Kitchenaid knife flashed through her mind. “Zinnah why,” Asher cried. He deflated on top of her, weakening his defense to let out a cry. With one tear came another and suddenly grief overcame him and dulled his senses. Zinnah smiled. With a strong kick, he was on the ground next to her toying with the edge of the bridge. He reached for the rail but was too late. A kick to his stomach threw him off of his risky perch and his hand grabbed nothing but cold raindrops. The river below him cheered in excitement as it swallowed his warm body whole. His scream dulled in the frigid water and swam away with him into the night. Zinnah smiled. Why? Why had she left his apartment in such a rush, driving through the cold, rainy night to this death trap of a river? Why was she covered in bruises and slowly bleeding out of her side? Well, that was a stupid question. He was there. He had seen it all. He had seen her walk in on him cheating on her with the blonde girl from his work. He had watched her parade around the house destroying everything in sight that she thought would make a satisfying shatter sound. He watched her pull the homewrecker into the kitchen by her hair.

He watched her push a knife to her stomach, leaving her face morphed into a state of constant fear and regret. Months, they had been “dating” for months is what he told her in a blind rage. But seconds is what Zinnah had killed her in.

She had fought back with a loose knife Asher had been using the cut carrots but was no match for the raw emotion-filled strength coursing through Zinnah’s every fiber at that moment. Now, she had killed him too. Two years wasted away in minutes. A look of relief flew across her eyes and she smiled as she thought about the mess she had left for the police to clean up later. For now, she stood in the rain letting it hush the sound of her maniacal laughter.


“I won’t go back. The past is in the past. I won’t go back. The past is in the past.” It was no use. As Tobias slammed his eyes shut he felt his presence begin to slip. Warmth and tingles began to wash over him. Starting at his toes and then to his legs, the feeling rose. As the feeling hit his waist, he clenched his fist, his knuckles turning white in hopeless defiance. He was overcome now, his stomach in his throat and still he whispered, “The past is in the past.” But the sensation continued to engulf him and he continued to slip, as if falling forward while lying still. As his stomach settled and his fists eased, Tobias allowed himself to slowly open his eyes. For a moment, he considered not opening them at all. “Perhaps if I don’t, it will pass,” he thought to himself. After all, what was there to see? He knew where he was. He didn’t know when but he knew where falling down the rabbit hole had led him. To the same place it always did; his former self. Back to past moments of his life long-lived, no longer his, and no more than memories to his present self. Good memories, bad ones, absolutely pointless ones, it didn’t matter. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to why Tobias continued to tumble back into himself. “A bloody curse!” he mumbled, tears streaming from his still half-closed eyes. At first, he thought it was a gift. An opportunity to right the past, to truly live out the age-old question of what one would do differently if they could go back. But it made no difference. Calling the girl back, accepting the job that seemed too risky at the time… the past and the future remained unchanged. And the good memories? The ones you think you’d want to relive? Those made his heart ache the most. Nothing more than exuberant nostalgia tinged with the knowledge of the loss that was yet to come. His fingers curled around the edges of the cold porcelain sink. He wanted to scream. Instead, with eyes wide open, he stared at himself through the steam that was fogging up the bathroom mirror. A sopping wet former version of himself stared back. “Oh, c’mon! Are you kidding me?! I know this one. I know this one and no! No. I don’t want to be here!” His heart began to race. “Fuck!” His teeth clenched as he paced through his own puddle of shower water. Try as he might, he couldn’t will himself out of the moment. “Come on!” he yelled through gritted teeth, his frustration leading his fist forcefully into the mirror. Jan’s familiar voice called from just beyond the closed door, “Everything okay in there?” Tobias struggled for words, his breath taken away at the sound of her voice. “Um... I… I…” “Tobias? What’s going on? You’ve been in there for almost an hour.” “I’m… fine! I was feeling a little dizzy but I’m good now. I’ll be out shortly.” “Okay. Well hurry up or we’re going to be late. Your mom already drones on about how you’ve been late your entire life. ‘Always fifteen minutes late for school. Twenty minutes late for your own wedding, and —’” “’Two weeks late for my own birth,’” Tobias chimed in, a smile audibly settling into his voice. “Let’s not make them wait that long for you to show your face at their anniversary party,” Jan quipped. “I won’t. I’m almost done. Promise.” Tobias listened as Jan’s footstep trailed away from the door. “Fuck!” he whispered to himself. Pacing once more, he attempted to calm himself. He knew there was nothing he could do. These slips, as he called them, came as they pleased and were always just beyond his control. Ten years of slipping to and from himself and he still had no idea what was causing it or how to stop it. But this slip was different. It had been almost six months since his last slip yet this was the second time he had found himself in this bathroom, just finishing a shower, and on his way to his parents’ 50 th wedding anniversary party. He’d never had the same slip twice. “I just need to --” His thought was interrupted by the sudden turn of his stomach. His sight grew dim. “Well, this is new,” he mused to himself as he stumbled toward the sink. Typically, each slip lasted a few hours. “Think! Think! Okay, uh... This was what — Ow!” His vision began to fracture as a sharp pain surged behind his eye. “Um... Fifteen, twenty minutes tops! That’s not long enough. That’s not long enough! What is hap —” Tobias awoke to find himself face down on the bathroom floor, staring at the same black and white tile that he had just drenched when he didn’t bother to towel off after his shower. Well, his former self’s shower. “Did I slip? Like actually slip?” he wondered, but as he pulled himself up, he realized the floor was dry. He was also fully clothed. In clothes that he didn’t recognize. Drip. Drip. A warmth began to run down the side of his face and pool between the adjoining hexes of the tile floor. He smudged at the green-hued liquid on the floor. It didn’t make sense. He reached for his right temple. A wet, green-hued liquid stained his fingertips. “Clearly, I’m bleeding from the fall, but why is it green?” Still dazed, he steadied himself with the edge of the tub before pulling himself up to sit on the toilet. With his head resting in one hand, he reached back with the other and grabbed the hand towel near the sink. The fibers were rough in spots and overly worn in others. It was a terrible hand towel. It did nothing that a hand towel was intended to do. Nevertheless, he couldn’t throw it out. It was Jan’s first embroidery project. She was so proud of the tiny red and white flowers she had painstakingly stitched onto nearly every inch of that towel. He never had the heart to tell her she had robbed the poor cloth of any hope of ever being absorbent. It was comforting now, pressed against his temple, even if it felt mostly like sandpaper. He missed her. “This isn’t right,” he said aloud as he pulled the towel from his temple into his line of sight. He pressed one of the tiny green flowers between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s supposed to be red. It’s always been red! And blood is supposed to be red! What the hell is going on?” He wondered if his last slip had taken him to a different time, a different place, to a different him. “Jan?! Jan?!” he cried as he lunged for the door. “Maybe she’s still here. Maybe in a world with green flowers and green blood, she’s still here.” It wasn’t until the knob was within reach that he saw it. A small, yellow Post-It note right at eye level. He stumbled back toward the toilet as he read it, “SHE’S NOT HERE.” Thick and heavy, a sense of panic started to settle in. His chest tightened and his breathing shallowed as the acid from his stomach made its way into his throat. He reached up to the sink and braced himself to stand. His fingers curled once again around the cold edges of the porcelain. He used every muscle in his face to close his eyes as tightly as he could. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be where he was before either. He just wanted, so desperately, to live his boring, thirty-something, crappy-job life. A life where nothing exciting happened but at least it was happening for the first time. He waited. For tingles. For warmth. For anything to indicate that he was slipping back into his present. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears was unbearable. With an exhale he opened his eyes wide ready to confront a past version of himself in the mirror. But the mirror was devoid of any face. Instead, it was filled with Post-It notes. Meticulously numbered and completely covering the mirror. He pulled the notes off of the mirror one by one and read them aloud. “Number one: You’ve developed protanopia. (Colorblind) You can’t see red.” “Number two: The slips caused your protanopia.” “Number three: This is where you are supposed to be.” “Number four: Yes, you’ve learned how to control it.” “Number five: The bathroom, the party, Jan — all significant. It’s why you keep returning there. You don’t know why it’s significant.” “Number six: This is where you are supposed to be.” “Number seven —” A glimmer of light off the now exposed mirror caught Tobais’ eye. He didn’t recognize the face looking back at him. It looked like him but the hair, the face, it was wrong. This face had grey hair and time-worn skin. As he touched his face, a hand touched the face in the mirror as well. He pulled at his cheeks and pinched his nose. The hand in the mirror also pulled at the stranger’s cheeks and pinched the stranger’s nose. “How hard did I hit my head?” he wondered. “This isn’t me. I’m not old. My hair is black, not grey. What the fuck?!” The room began to spin. He reached for the edges of the sink but the note labeled number seven was still in his hand. “Number seven: THIS IS THE PRESENT.” “This can’t be happening. What happened to my life? How old is this person? Sixty? Sixty-five? I was in my thirties!” Tobias heaved at the thought. “This can’t be right. Okay. Think. Think.” All he could think about was how exhausted he was, his head still throbbing from the fall. Any thought of any possible solution alluded him. He sank to the ground. “A bloody curse!” he mumbled the tears spilling from his eyes. As he reached to wipe the tears, he realized one of the Post-It notes was stuck to his hand. He reached for it, violently pulled it from his skin, and tore it to pieces. He screamed in frustration and sunk his head into his hands once more. That’s when he saw it, on the floor, between his legs, note number four: “Yes. You’ve learned how to control it.” He sprang to his feet and looked at the old man staring back at him in the mirror. “This is not me. This is not my fate!” He felt warmth and tingles begin to surge through the tips of his toes. The feeling rose. One last defying glance in the mirror and a final remaining note caught his eye. “Number eight: The past is in the past. DO NOT GO BACK.”


“Cordelia...”A ragged voice called out.

Around me was a dark alley. Dim lights bounced off of brick walls and rain puddles. A cat rushed by me out of the alley and away from the voice.

“Hello?” I called out.

Glancing behind me, I don’t see any part of the street. There was nothing but darkness and black. A swirling void of black smoke, sirens, and yells. My feet splashed against the puddles as I walked down the alley.

The smell of rotting trash and piss and gasoline filled my nostrils. Something was burning close by, plastics and paper, and maybe food burning.

I looked up at the sky. The full moon was hidden behind dark smoke.

Music softly came from the very end of the alley. Frank Sinatra flowed through the air and danced around me.

“Delia...” The voice transformed into a sing-song, sweet voice.

Sobbing weaved with the song as well. I got closer to the corner of the alley. Instead of smelling burning trash and feces, I smelled something worse. There was something rotting, something worse than trash. Flies buzzed around me, growing louder than the music around. I stopped at the corner for a moment. A glow from a fire was up on the wall, flickering delightfully.

There was a single shadow in the middle of the wall. The shadow was lanky and unmoving, except dancing with the fire.

I pivoted around the corner.

A trashcan was set ablaze, the flame going about three feet into the air. A figure stood in front of the trashcan. A tall figure with long dark hair and a white suit. Despite the dirty alley and the fire in front of them, the suit of the figure looked spotless.

Behind the trashcan was a pile of lumps on the alleyway ground. The rotting smell was overpowering. As the flame flickered, I could see hands and legs and bodies behind the trashcan and the figure.

“Cordelia.” The figure said calmly.

They turned around and all I could see where burning red eyes, matching the flames.

I gasped awake, my head hitting the window I was previously resting on. Lights from the subway tunnel flashed by me. My eyes focused on my reflection; dark eye circles, messed up brunette hair, eye liner smeared around my eyes and mascara on my cheeks.

“Cordelia.” A voice said from next to me.

“Shit!” I jumped and looked over.

There was Blair next to me, wearing a tight dress, jacket and holding a clutch. Her hair was curled and slightly disheveled as well. She laughed softly at my reaction.

“Damn girl, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Blair laughed at me and patted my knee, exposed from the holes in my jeans. “How’re you doing?”

My head pounded softly, and my throat was dry. I remembered what it was we were doing before sitting in this subway car. Blair’s friends from her work really knew how to party. I was so close to beating her boss at a drinking contest. That probably wasn’t the best idea.

“Feel like shit.”

Blair laughed outright, “We’re almost home. The next stop is ours.”

I nodded and sat up on the stiff subway seat under me. I looked the subway car over. It was empty except for a man sitting in the far corner. His eyes were closed, and his head was against the window behind him. Around him were bags full of different nick knacks and clothing.

The subway car rumbled, and the lights flickered. My eyes went to the window at the door that separate the subway cars and there was a figure in the window. It was dark and tall. The lights flickered again, and the figure was gone as the train slowed to a stop.

Blair stood and held out a hand to help me up. Together, we walked out of the subway car onto the platform. It was deserted except for us, the lights were dim and flickered softly.

“Okay so do we want to go get food?” Blair said to me, stopping on the platform and pulling out her phone. “I’m thinking Chinese. We have that place three blocks from here.”

My stomach turned slightly at the thought of food. Rotting trash suddenly filled my nostrils, “Eh, I'll probably just go to sleep when we-”

There was a ding for the doors of the subway car to closed. I looked over to the window that the sleeping guy was at. Standing in front of him was the dark figure. I could see a pristine white suit and glowing red eyes. There was a dark void, without any features. The red orbs stared at me as a hand lifted to quickly grab the top of the man’s hand and a knife ripped across the man’s neck. The subway train started to take off as thick blood sprayed across the car and the window.

“What the fuck!?” I yelled and ran after the car, trying to catch the window again. The train disappeared into the tunnel and I turned quickly to Blair.

She stared at me in confusion, holding her phone in her hands. “Are you okay-”

“That guy!” I exclaimed. “He was just killed. Did you not just see that?”

Blair’s eyes glanced at the tunnel, “No?”

I snatched her phone from her hand and started to dial the police.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious, dude.” I said to her and lifted the phone to my ear.

After one ring, a woman answered. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi! Yes, Uhm, I just witnessed a murder on the G train.” I said, my hand shook slightly, making me hold the phone with both hands. “There was a man on the train asleep and we got off, but I turned around and there was this person in a white suit and he killed the guy.”

“Okay, ma’am, I will send something to that next station to check the subway. Are you hurt?”

“No. We’re okay.” I said. “I didn’t see what the man looked like, I couldn’t see his face. Just the suit. His face was really dark and maybe he was wearing a mask. I saw red eyes. I don’t know.”

Blair stared at me, watching as I spoke to the woman on the phone. She looked at me in complete disbelief. But I knew what I saw.

***

Blair and I were walking away from Dynasty, a box of to-go lo mien for each of us. Blair already had hers open and dug in with chopsticks. I kept mine in my hands, my eyes fixated on the box.

There was no murder. No one on that car accept to the asleep man, who was startled by a posse of police busting open into that subway car. No blood. No man in a white suit.

They questioned me. Asked me about what I saw and if I was sure. Blair told them we’d spent the night out drinking. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was my weird dream on the subway. But it felt so real. I saw it in front of me, but they didn’t see anything on the cameras either.

I was given a stern lecture about calling with an actual emergency and not something I saw in a drug induced stupor. Drugs was the only way they could make any sense of it, even with me admitted the only drug I took was alcohol that evening. They didn’t care. They didn’t believe me.

We came upon the stoop to our apartment building. Blair stood before them, turning to me.

“So, are we going to talk about this?” She asked me.

“I’ve already said everything I need to.” I shook my head. “I thought I saw it... I thought he was there.”

Blair sighed, “You’ve been having these dreams for a while. It’s getting worse.”

“I know what I saw.” I said firmly.

She nodded to me, “I know-”

“No, you don’t.” I told her, “I saw that man get his throat slit in the middle of the damn subway. Some person with glowing fucking eyes did it. I saw that plain as daylight.”

Blair nodded slowly, “You need to see a doctor.”

My hand threw my untouched to-go box in a trashcan. “I need to think about this.”

With that, I started to walk down the sidewalk. Blair called after me, but I just kept walking. She gave up eventually, knowing I would be back at some point. I would be back. I just needed to walk and think.

For months, I’ve had nightmares. They were similar to the one I had on the subway; rotting corpses in an alley, a fire, and some person standing over them. But they all stayed in my head. They never manifested themselves in front of me like that.

After walking for five minutes, I sat myself down on a bench. It squeaked under me and felt cold to the touch, but it was just what I needed. I gripped the seat of the bench and breathed deeply. I focused on the cold metal under me. The distant sirens in the background, echoing through the city. That’s where I was: the city. I was here. I was safe. Well, as safe as a person can be in New York City.

I closed my eyes. My heart slowed down a bit.

I knew I wasn’t dreaming. But I started to hear Frank Sinatra play from the alley behind me.


"Jules, come

on."

Carlos slumped on Jules’ bed, exasperated. "You have to come with us. It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance!" "Carlos, you can go to Times Square on New Years' Eve any other year," Jules said. "We might die between this year and next year," Carlos said dramatically. “Jesus Christ.” “He’s not wrong, though,” Altair said. He was leaning against the door, seeming a bit nervous to come all the way inside after… well, The Kiss. It had been almost a week since it had happened. Jules had been waiting for him to say something, mainly because she was too nervous to say anything herself, but things had gone on as usual. Jules hadn't dared to tell Carlos or Nailah, as that would only have proved them right about the “chemistry” they kept talking about. "Thank you, Captain Optimism," Nailah said. "I will go, as long as Fintan isn’t there.” "Fintan’s still moping,” Carlos told her. “He’s not going anywhere. So, Jules?" "Please." Altair cleared his throat and looked awkward. "I mean, it'll be bad enough third-wheeling Carlos and Nailah. If you don’t come too, I think I'm going to go crazy." Carlos smirked at Rebecca. He obviously thought that if Altair asked, Jules wouldn't be able to say no. Jules was about to prove Carlos wrong and say no anyway, but she realized that without them around and Akira celebrating New Year’s at her parents’, she wouldn’t have anything better to do. "Okay, fine. Let me change into something warmer. *** It was obvious to Altair that Jules was not used to the weather being this cold. It rarely snowed in her hometown. However, it had been cold in New York City since October. She’d had two months to get used to cold weather "I wouldn't have come if I'd known it was going to be this cold," Jules said, pulling her thick jacket tighter around her. Altair wasn't sure whether she'd let him wrap an arm around her, to try to warm her up. Things between them had been a little awkward since their kiss. Altair could tell she was expecting him to be the first to break the silence, but he had no idea how to do that. "Oh, please." Nailah scoffed and rolled her eyes. "This isn't even that bad. Besides, all of these packed bodies should warm us up." "You should never say 'packed bodies' again, but you're right," Carlos said. He grinned. "Hey! Look, we're on the Jumbotron!" He waved at the camera enthusiastically. He'd mentioned that he’d never been to Times Square on New Years' eve before, so this was a big deal for him.

Altair looked back at Jules, who was shivering and looking slightly grumpy. She looked up at him and asked, “You do this every year?” “Mostly,” Altair replied. “My sisters aren’t really interested in the ball drop, but they like the music.” Jules smiled. “That’s a nice family tradition.” She frowned over at Carlos and Nailah, who were whispering together. “What’s up, guys?” Carlos tried to look innocent, which wasn’t his strong suit. "Bathroom. Be right back." "Take someone with you," Jules said. "Buddy system. In case you get lost." Carlos grabbed Nailah’s hand since she was the closest person to him. "What are you up to?" Altair muttered, knowing enough about Carlos to know that he wasn’t going to the bathroom. "Just my best idea yet," Carlos said vaguely as he and Nailah went past. “You know what? Maybe we should all go,” Jules said. “Come on, Jules!” Carlos whined. “Don’t you trust me at all?” “Not a bit,” Jules chirped, grabbing Altair and Carlos’ hands. “But since you’re clearly not going to the bathroom, we should all go so we know if you get arrested.” As Altair had predicted, they did not go to the bathroom. They slipped right past security and ducked behind the Jumbotron. Nailah popped open the control panel and started messing around with it. Carlos pulled out his phone and started tapping away at something. "You know, this could be considered defacing government property," Jules muttered, glancing around nervously. "Is the Jumbotron even government property?" Carlos asked, not even stopping. "If it's not government property, it's public property,” Altair said. “and I'm pretty sure that's still illegal." Nailah laughed. "If it's public property, then —" a wire sparked, and they all jumped. “Jesus,” Jules muttered. "Sorry. If it's public property, then I'm sure nobody will mind." "I don't know why I let you do stuff like this,” Jules mumbled. “Because deep down, you know you love us." “I’m supposed to be the responsible one,” Jules lamented. “I think we all know Akira is really the only responsible one,” Altair said. “True. She’s got the one brain cell between all of us.” “And now she’s gone.” ”And now she’s gone. She’s abandoned us.” She sighed. “Whatever you two are doing, can you please be quiet and hurry up before we get caught and arrested?” “Can do,” Carlos confirmed, continuing to tap away on his phone. “You got that code, Nailah?” Nailah answered in the affirmative. The two of them finished not long after that, and they returned to where they’d been earlier. They watched the live musicians sing, joining them when they knew the words and having a good time. Altair had forgotten completely about Carlos and Nailah’s plot until he heard Carlos mutter, “Any moment now…” A few moments later, the Jumbotron flickered off, and there was a collective gasp. News cameras who were covering the celebration turned excitedly to the black screen and reporters started chattering fervently about malfunctions. Then, suddenly, the screen lit up again, but this time, the revolving words at the bottom of the screen read "ALTAIR AND JULES, SITTING IN A TREE, K-I-S-S-I-N-G ;D" Nailah howled with laughter. Jules socked Carlos in the arm, blushing furiously. Altair wasn’t sure what to do, so he just sighed and shook his head. The Jumbotron, it seemed, could not be fixed. Carlos and Nailah’s message was to light up the screen for the rest of the night. *** Back at the dorm, their friends were congratulating Carlos and Nailah for their stunt. Fintan had come out of his room to tell the guilty party that they were stupid before grabbing a bag of chips and retreating back inside. Akira was back from her family’s house; her little cousins had been ordered to go to sleep and there had been nothing else to do there. She laughed at the duo’s retelling of their antics. "I

cannot

believe you did that!" "I still can't believe I let you," Jules grumbled. "Carlos do Céu, you are a terrible influence." Carlos was laughing right along with Akira and Nailah. It was obvious he thought he was a genius. To be fair, he was, but it still hadn't stopped Jules from rushing them out of there. They had to leave before someone found them. It wouldn't have been super hard, either, because they'd been right there in the front, in view of the camera, the only ones laughing their heads off. So it was decided that they'd celebrate the final moments of the year back at the dorm. It wasn't terrible; they’d still see the fireworks, and there would be food. And, even better, it wouldn't be exactly zero degrees inside, meaning Jules wouldn't need the coat anymore. The dorm residents were celebrating in the lobby. Some of the guys from the seventh floor were leading a very loud and rowdy version of "Auld Lang Syne." The four of them got into the festivities quickly. Nailah had found a party horn and was taking great delight in blowing it as loud as she could. Carlos had joined in on the singing. Jules preferred to watch the chaos. She grabbed a coke and sat down, taking in the scene. Altair joined her moments later.

"Not into parties either?" He asked. "I prefer watching the party to actually partying,” Jules replied. “Look at Nailah.” Anne had gotten ahold of a second party horn and was blowing them both at the same time. She'd also found some Pop-its and was throwing them at unsuspecting people. "Wait until she finds the sparklers," Altair snickered.

Jules laughed. "We should call the fire department now while we have time." Was it just her imagination, or had Altair gotten closer? Never mind, it didn't matter. "Or maybe we should just hide them." "Yeah. And don't let her anywhere near the fireworks.” Altair was definitely closer now. It wasn't something Jules noticed with discomfort. She hoped he’d finally do something, say something about the kiss. She sort of wanted him to kiss her again, but she wasn't sure she was ready for whatever they had to be public. Suddenly Jules felt Altair’s hand slip into hers.  She looked up at him, and they spoke at the same time. “Altair — "Jules, look, I —" They both stopped abruptly, apologizing quickly, and awkwardly tried to start over at the same time. Then both of them gave up, sinking into awkward silence. "Hey, Jules! Al!" Carlos had a hat with sparklers poking out of it. It looked like a fire disaster waiting to happen. He was waving the two of them over. "Come on, it's time for the countdown!" They all headed to the roof, where Jules could see Times Square. Her hand was still tightly clasped in Altair’s. She figured it was probably a good thing — they would've gotten separated in the crowd if they hadn't been holding hands. They secured a good position close to the edge of the roof. Carlos and Nailah were a few feet away to their right, and Akira was pulling out her phone to film the experience to their left. Altair let go of her hand; he’d probably realized he’d still been holding it. Jules frowned and decided to be brave. She shifted closer to him and linked her arm with his. The countdown started. "10! 9! 8!" Altair looked down at her and she smiled back up at him, hoping she looked encouraging and not uncomfortable. She wanted him to be closer. "7! 6! 5!" Altair grinned back down at her and playfully bumped his shoulder against hers, prompting Jules to laugh. They joined the countdown at the last few seconds. "4! 3! 2! 1! HAPPY NEW YEAR!" The fireworks exploded. A million colors exploded in the sky. Jules and Altair joined the cheers around them. Someone started singing Auld Lang Syne again. Couples turned to each other and shared their midnight kiss. Jules had been hoping she and Altair would be a part of that, but she decided it just wasn’t their time yet. Maybe next year. She turned to Altair to make a comment about the fireworks, but before she could get out a single word, he took a deep breath and blurted out, “Jules, I know this is the most cliche thing ever, but do you think we could maybe —” he cut himself off and shook his head. “What?” Jules asked eagerly. “Nothing. Never mind.” Jules huffed. If you wanted something done, you had to do it yourself. She knew he wanted the same thing she did, and she was tired of him psyching himself out. “Altair, I want to kiss you,” she told him. “I don’t care if it’s a cliche. I like you, and…” why was she at a loss for words now? “Really?” Altair asked. “I wasn’t being too forward last time?” “No, I loved that! I’ve been waiting for you to make a move!” “I thought you were mad at me.” “Of course I wasn’t mad at you, you oblivious —” she sighed and shook her head. The longer they argued, the longer after midnight they kissed, and it wouldn’t be a proper cliche. “Altair… just kiss me. Please.” Altair beamed. He leaned down, then hesitated. Impatient now, Jules took his face and pulled him down so their lips met. When she was younger, she’d read romance novels about a kiss with your true love feeling like fireworks. Jules knew now that that was just another cliche. But that didn’t make this kiss feel any less special. She wound her arms around Altair’s neck, pulling him closer, until the world faded away.