“I like you,” as he said this, he studied how the warm light reflected off her face. Her brown eyes embellished the burning light in a way that made them look like they belonged in the depths of some form of royal gold. Her expression was both wide-eyed and blank, she turned her face away looking back at the street with all the people dancing and laughing. Her profile looked more regal with the lights of the festival and the music giving way to her. “It’ll go away, believe me,” she tried to distract herself with the music. Her heart thudded in the bottom of her chest, as she felt his eyes study her like an old diagram. If she was ever good at hiding things, it was not in this moment. In each step she had taken with him, there were both guiding beams of sunlight that led her forward, but also signs that the sun would set on the affair between the two. Summer would be over soon and they would return to their normal lives. He moved closer and guided her face with his hands to look into his eyes. She would have jerked at this a few months ago or pulled away like a feral animal that was disturbed by human touch. Behind the hardened glass cover of her eyes was a softness that sat like a leaf on the surface of a pond. “It won’t,” he muttered in an attempt to prevent the argument he knew was coming. She grabbed his hands and lowered them away from her face gently, “I promise it-” “No. I told you it won’t.” His hands dropped to his side abruptly, a snort echoed out as his nostrils flared slightly. He felt agitated with her avoidance of his feelings, it was callous and chilling. “Why are you being so needlessly combative about this?!”

“Why are you being so needlessly pushy about this?” She shot back in retort to his former comment. The sparks that started between the two upon first meeting were now more apparent than ever. The push-and-pull dynamic of their bickering was something that became a draw for both of them, but held shines of a nuclear bomb ready to ignite and go off at any time.

“Because I-” “You what? You’d be deprived of another notch in your belt, another conquest?” She had memories flushing into her mind of the way he spoke about former lovers and the person he was previous to the situation, he was like a small fire that was too stubborn to be put out, even in the harshest of conditions. In all her attempts to escape what had developed within her, she found herself further entrapped in her struggle. A fight between her judgment and passion, wishing providence would allow safe passage. “Stop it!”He cried at her, she never understood how deeply her words cut and how brazen they were to his ego. Spending your entire life in comfort causes the first touch of a metallic and cold scalpel to truly be felt. Even if one’s intention were good, the words of the higher will were still the most terrifying reflection to see without preparation or appeal. “You clearly stated your history in early conversations, why wouldn’t I make some form of a judgment on it!” The young woman shouted, her eyes staring into his with depth and frustration before averting them once again. His gaze was still as burning as it had always felt in these past few months, whether it was out of frustration or bliss. He pulled her close to him, his eyes stared into hers, “I don’t want to be that way with you.” She could feel that small, unseeable, thread connect her to him. The steps and movements taking place in both their psychologies were all too apparent in eyes of the fighting half-couple. Bystanders across the street looked at them and without knowing the words being said could see that for the two people arguing it felt like a bomb was being dropped in their small world. “You say that now, but before too long you’ll get bored and go back to the way you were,” her heart broke as she said this, wanting to believe different. “So you can just judge me?” The boy asked, feeling accused and dismayed at the idea that he could never fully please her or meet the standards she set. The chasm between the two only seemed to widen at this realization and he felt something in him tear while another fought to mend it. “Everyone makes judgments, we make them every day of our life,” she said knowing it would be milliseconds before he snapped back. She wished it was easier to forget this happened, to feel his finger untwine from hers for the last time, for their gazes to no longer meet and her not desire him. In months, she would find herself falling asleep and saying small prayers to forget his face, at this point, it was like ripping a band-aid off. A painful task that needed to be done. “And why do you get to judge how I’ll behave in the future, why don’t you think I would change?!” His heart swelled, and rose-like thorns constricted at the constant analysis of her words. Whatever sensitivity that was covered in words of body counts and verbal ego boosts, was rearing its ugly head in face of her chastity. If she could take it away from him she would, and if he could remove her doubts he do so as well. The young woman finds herself on the verge of tears, in pain at the words coming from both of them. She found herself utilizing every muscle in her body to restrain it. “I don’t know if you would change! I don’t!” She wanted to take back what she said, but it was too late. Her sharp words had carved into him, far surpassing their usual level of playful banter. They probed him into a venom-laced act of pleading that everyone did when they were about to lose something. “But what if I will?” His eyes softened again, and the harsh voice in him ceased. He loomed over her as he could fall into her arms, his eyes begged her to stay and not leave him. It was painful that they were both here, but at least for him, he knew he would have done the same thing again. Approach her from across the room, bother her on the day-to-day, ask her questions and slowly feel a warmth between the two develop. A cycle of pain that he would choose to let happen even if given the chance to change. She allowed herself to lay a gentle hand on his arm, she avoided his glance at first and then looked into his eyes. “Listen, I like you, and I hope you will, but there are legitimate obstacles here.” “Like what?” He leaned closer, wanting to kiss her as she backed up a step. Her nerves felt wrecked in both a signal of affection and disdain. “A difference in temperament, a difference in the worlds we were raised in, a difference in relation to family, a difference in theology (in your case a lack of it), and most of all, a chasm between us in terms of spirituality.” Her list left part of him detonated, she had felt as if her intestine was being slowly pulled out of her body as she methodically listed each point. The lights in the back setting of the streets drew the gold tints out of her sad eyes, and he took notice of this. It stung him because the golden color they elicited would forever remind him of her. The warmth and proudness that was simultaneously displayed in her. She would sit with those big eyes gazing at you and also smugly take you down in a verbal battle. She was such a strange and otherworldly creature. One who was outside the bounds of what he had considered beautiful before this. His hands held her wrists as his thumbs made small circles around them. He looked back at her only to see those eyes taking him in as he was now. “I wish I could give you a reply that showed greater understanding, if I could bend you to see things my way, I would,”

he sighs. “If I could guide you with tenderness to see things on my end, I would.” “Can I believe that?” “I would walk that canyon to show you good if you would see it,” she said with longing behind her eyes. No tears were shed at the moment but that night they would be. He took her hand as if imitating the small thread that would link them together in a chaotic cross of paths. “I can't believe we’re arguing over this,” he said out loud, looking into her eyes with pleading earnestness that could emerge amongst long hours together and summer heatwaves. I can’t believe I let this happen


Gentlemen,

I observed my audience looking positively frabjous in their waiting that night; yes, I took a little peek from the red velvets right before showtime. Curiosity killed the cat, and my magic proficiency cannot hold a candle to

Carroll's 71’-word invention of frabjous. What a wordsmith as his reading audience fell for his poppycock hook line and sinker; the same will be valid for me, the magician.

I pulled my red velveteen curtain open and hooked it to the left. I began my well-rehearsed opening patter while making my trek down to center stage, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please let me introduce myself. I am Doctor Phileas Frickel, known in some circles as 'Frickel the Great.' Why? Because I have the supernatural gift of prestidigitation. Not just magic tricks but miracles, my friends. Real miracles!" As I advertise, my dime museum has astonishing curiosities. I travel with them from town to town in my wagon that is also my stage. My setup is comfortable for both myself and my audiences. However, it's probably not near as comfortable for the members of my museum as some of them are the results of experiments that went awry. I should think the name 'Frickle's mistakes' is more applicable than 'Frickle's curiosities.' On the day in question, the 17th of August 1890, I entered the lawless mining town called Leadville, Colorado. I was greeted by Horace Tabor himself as he saw my mule, Sal, pulling an unmanned wagon straight down Harrison Street. We entered every town this way as it causes a ruckus. However, may I state, Sal wasn't alone at all as I walked beside him, handing out flyers and hawking my miracles.

My wagon is painted a flamboyant red with bright yellow wagon wheels. The spokes are uniquely carved with devilish-looking faces on every other one, and the artwork on the sidewall I had purchased in Denver and found it to be beyond compare. It read: Doctor Phileas T. Frickle, Prestidigitator Magic, Marvels, and a dime museum of curiosities! I had the artist render a painting of the two-headed baby and a Fairy who was waving. Under it, all was the line see the mysterious cabinet of transmogrify. Proudly, I had my flyers printed for me while in Denver. The printer had used brilliant yellow lettering that looked just like the writing penned neatly on the side of my flashy red wagon. The first 20 or so customers gathered that night had my brochures in their rough hands, no doubt to see my astonishing curiosities. They are my draw, as I never did half as well without them. "I am about to introduce you to two wonders of this world, friends, and therefore must ask you to pay your dime. The creatures you are about to meet are alive and breathing marvels." Before introducing Robert, the squirrel boy, and Hildegard, the 8-inch-tall Sprite, I noticed several more people were gathering, so I first brought out two tables, both covered in black shrouds.

I began my spiel, "Before you meet the living, you will need to view the dead. These, my friends, are the abominations that the great creator deemed unlivable in this world. I am about to invite you to walk across my stage to look through their formaldehyde." I lifted the shroud to the left and said, "This, my friends is the rare cadaver of a mermaid who once lived in an ancient Caspian sea," knowing darn well it once belonged to the great Barnum. He had brilliantly sewn together the top half of a dead monkey to the tail half of a carp. Then I moved slowly to the right and removed the cover of my two-headed premature baby that I had bought from a medical laboratory while in Baltimore. "Shed no tears for my dead infant Son, Malachi, friends. He would not have been able to live in this world with such an affliction." Of course, the unfinished infant wasn't my son, and I have a receipt for its purchase. My paid audience now left the stage and took their seats. Mesmerized to see more, I carried out a covered small birdcage and began my speech. "You decided; you paid to enter, so now will you see an error, half beast half boy could it be that only 10 cents bought you the chance to see these impossibilities?" I loved the patter I wrote for this one, "I'm an ailurophile at heart. As a boy, I dreamed of being a feline wrangler by trying to teach my old yellow Tomcat Toby to walk on a tight rope using only his front paws. It never worked for me. However, I had heard the Russians had accomplished this miraculous feat of training your cats, so I went to see for myself. The cats were magnificent, but I was transfixed on this rare creature." The audience gasped as I uncovered the cage. "This, my friend, is a squirrel and or possibly a boy. It speaks in gibberish; listen."

The creature in the cage did not come from Russia; he is what's left of an orphan boy named Robert that had volunteered to a metamorphosis accident I had while building my cabinet in Denver. I made up this story to cover that unfortunate incident when my' cabinet of transmogrify' did not work as planned. The boy did wish to be turned into a squirrel, after all. Before Hildegard's introduction, I had fed her a dead mouse that I had caught in my trap. She drains their blood completely, which keeps her manageable. Hildegard the Sprite, as I advertised her, was also an unfortunate mistake of transmogrification. The Swedish woman I chose from my audience in Wray Colorado could hardly speak English and wanted to sprout fairy wings; instead, she was miniaturized, turning an incredible glowing green with pale transparent insect wings. I keep her in a crystal box as she also has a healthy dose of mosquito in her and tends to not only suck blood but bite.

Hildegard stays out as I segue into my flurry of magic effects. I introduced and then performed the ancient rings, the mysterious Tower of Babel, a trick I call the house of cards, and my striking habit of eating fire. The Sprite pays attention and applauds with her tiny hands after each feat of magic, and she wouldn't applaud unless I fed her first.

Now I must confess the fake ending I used in my show that night did have to do with a citizen of Leadville going missing. I closed the curtain and came down-center stage again with my arms outstretched and my hands clean. "I want to thank you for coming out this evening. I hope you enjoyed yourselves, and I wish you all a wonderful rest of your evening."

Then as in every show for at least the last ten years, someone from the audience shouted out, "What about the cabinet?" That night, an older fellow with a long gray beard laid upon his chest. He couldn't pronounce transmogrification, so he just said cabinet. That was a common occurrence. And just as I had planned, those who had stood up sat back down.

"Are you asking to witness the use of a cabinet of transmogrification?" I asked in a curious questioning tone. I then noted, "I have given you all I promised," although I knew the flyers that I had handed out to the patrons of several filled saloons had included the cabinet but now played coy. "As advertised for only a dime, I would show you my collection and amaze and mystify you with my supernatural prestidigitations. And now you are asking for more?"

They began hooting and hollering while demanding more. The noise attracted several more potential witnesses. I do like to keep a mysterious, Delphic air about me, and my motto is to keep them waiting until the anticipation nearly kills them. " Alright then," I said back in my performance voice, "I cannot accomplish this miracle without someone from the audience who wishes for great change. Someone unhappy with life as it is will not condemn me, the miracle worker, if all does not occur to plan, and it happens. Please, is there anyone?" No hand raised in the rowdy audience; it worried me just a bit, but then I provided myself with a volunteer after rolling the beautiful mahogany crate to center stage. It was a live lamb in the back that I had purchased for my dinner. The audience gasped with worry for the tiny creature when I carried the small lamb out. However, they never thought that the butcher at the center of the main street kills at least fifteen a day.

I spoke, "As a man of magic and intrigue, I had an exquisite yearning to accomplish the impossible and have done so with my unique invention; I call it the mysterious Cabinet of Transmogrify. For example, I will gently place this crated lamb into the box." I did and then closed the door and mumbled through many non-meaningful Persian incarnations. I said, "Aji Maji la Taraji" When I opened the cabinet, out sprang a spry small goat who simply jumped through the crowd and ran away. The cabinet never ceases to amaze. However, I swear on stacked bibles that I was not responsible for the goat, and I had never laid eyes on that beast before or after my performance.

At this point, I saw my volunteer, your missing person, making her way from the back of the audience. I reached out my hand to a huge woman dressed in virtual rags with a shawl wrapped around her enormous shoulders. "No need to be worried, my dear," I said with a bit of worried hesitation in my own words. “How does it work, you ask? A great magician is sworn never to reveal his secrets. But in this case, the invention is not magic at all, and it only plays with the human mind. You saw the lamb as you saw the goat, but it was simply in your imagination. And it works because the participant wishes for it too. And your name is what, my dear?"

“Caroline Craft," she said in a meek, barely audible voice.

Caroline unbosomed her concerns to the boisterous audience that she may not fit in the box. I gave her a tiny vile of sedative mixture that I said was a potion and held her cold shivering hand to lead her into the cabinet. After squeezing just a bit, it was a perfect fit. "I want to be thin again she said in a trembling voice." The audience roared with laughter; I had nearly 100 people waiting to see my miracle by this time. I had to quiet them by saying, "You saw the unique creatures eternally confined to their glass coffins for that you paid a dime. It will only cost you another dime to watch your own Caroline transmute into her chosen desire. Who will pay? If you pay, you will watch! Who will watch? Those who pay! For only 10 cents, you saw the impossible, the improbable, a baby with two heads. Is it a repulsive mistake of nature? An abomination? And now, what will we see? We shall now see what will happen to this human being. I placed her into the box something never attempted in any of the great 48 States." What a liar I am, but a good teller of lies non-the-less, "I must ask you now to pay one more thin dime, a mere pittance to witness the miracle occur. You want to see Caroline become thin now, don't you? I never lied to you this evening, have I?"

With those words, I saw the shine of their hard-earned dimes in the air and land in my hat 1, 5, 10, yes, at least 10 dollars. Ten dollars to most laborers is a week's wages. But just a measly little dime meant nothing to most.

Caroline began to cry, so I closed the door and covered the crate with one of the black shrouds I had used earlier. I repeated the same incarnation I had used on the lamb, only this time adding the divine words of the Burtrust Chronicles. I will not write the actual words for you in fear they will further cause me dismay as they are of utmost holiness, but they mean boundary, release, and destroy. Perhaps including them brought about my demise and the writing of this confession letter. When I opened the cabinet, I swear to God that I was as shocked as everyone who witnessed the occurrence. A woman in my front row ran screaming, leaving her friend, who in turn passed out. And a couple of men drew their guns to no avail as Caroline Craft stood before us as a living Skeleton. Her skin clung to her bones that looked like they were dripping an unworldly ooze. Her eyes, now black with anger, twitched back and forth, and her bared teeth tried to speak. I threw the creature back in the cabinet and tried to reverse the spell. This time I said, "Taraji la Maji, Aji Abraxas" Mentors had told me many years ago that Abraxas in magic can be used with or without their stones but only with exceptional regard. I will admit that I did say the words quickly and without prayer. But they must have worked as I opened the cabinet door again. This time the audience saw nothing. I, on the other hand, saw a pile of dust. If what I saw was the truth, you can charge me with murder, but that was not the case. Caroline, who was still a skeleton, had escaped from the back of the cabinet, and my untidiness caused the pile of dust. Later that night, when she came knocking on my wagon's door, I went to the illation that Caroline wanted to join us. A few weeks later, while pulling into Alma, I advertised my dime museum's newest feature, the skeleton woman. As capricious as Caroline's thin self was twas a paradox for her to be the star.

However, while pulling into Lake City, Colorado, the sabotage and hijacking began towards the end of the season. Sitting around my campfire in a daze of relaxation, I had noticed how the high jagged peaks of this area do indeed look like they pierce the deep blue sky; the rage of the unleashed Sprite was upon me. No one could hear my screams except for the wildlife who had no cares. The rocky canyons and high valley floors had hidden us well as Caroline the living Skeleton and a living fairy Sprite had overtaken me and the show.

First, may I say, it was Caroline who released my museum. So, I find I am in no way responsible for any further mayhem they might have caused. She even buried the two-headed baby and the mermaid corpse. I would add, the monkey fish was becoming putrid. As for all the mistakes from the cabinet, I know exactly where they are. Robert, the squirrel boy, ran off into the woods, but I hear his mindless chatter telling me he is close by from time to time.

Caroline, the skeleton woman, and Hildegard, the nasty Sprite, are both bound and determined that no one will ever find me. Taking justice into her claw-like hands, Caroline is holding me hostage. She and that evil Sprite have made away with me. They have taken me high up to cliffside on Slumgullion Pass. From my cave-cage, all I can see is the wild San Juan mountains. Unless it is snowing, then all I see is white with red drops. The Sprite makes daily blood draws from me, and Caroline has forced me into writing this confession and selling off my wagon, Sal, and all my magic apparatus. Unfortunately, including my mysterious Cabinet of Transmogrify. With utmost truth in confession, Phileas T. Frickle 7th of December 1890 Move forward 96 years; As luck would have it. I own Doctor Frickle's

Cabinet of

Transmogrify and his confession letter now. I told the cop I had found it neatly folded in an envelope, addressed, and stamped but never mailed stashed away in a lovely mahogany cabinet my wife and I found in an Antique store on Broadway Street here in Denver last Christmas time.

At that time, both my wife and I found the letter curious and took it to the Denver police station near our home. After reading it, they didn't seem to care, and I thought it might be a practical joke. But then my wife Laura and I decided to try it out at a dinner party we had hosted. Laura thought it would be a fun and unique experience for our guests to show them the cabinet and then read the letter. After doing so, Laura got in the box, and I repeated Doctor Frickle's' words. My wife had made a wish to become famous. Judging by the Rocky Mountain News headline. "Wife murdered, and the husband pleads a magic trick did it!", she won. My wife got her wish of notoriety, if not infamous fame, and is, unfortunately, dead to prove it, and I am now being held as her murderer. I plead not guilty, and I am using this letter as evidence. It was the strange cabinet that did it, not me.

I signed the submission envelope, stating more words from Doctor Frickle, 'with utmost truth,' Brian Wilcox the accused. Sign sealed and delivered to my defense attorney, who snickered when he read it.


TW: suicidal ideation, self harm A bright day. Cloudless, the sun shining shamelessly in the sky. The light breeze brushing against my bare lips. Nothing blocking it. But I feel sick . I want to throw up. I act like everything's okay, nothing's wrong, sipping my Fanta calmly through a paper straw. Because across from me, my best friend Logan sits on a white plastic chair, smiling. An innocent and sparkling smile, a naked one. Not covered by a breathless mask or anything. The atmosphere is tight. It's awkward because we haven't seen each other in a while, I guess. "Hey, it feels weird outside without wearing a mask, huh?" he says. "Yeah," I reply. It becomes quiet again. "D-do you want to take a walk?" he suggests. "Oh, sure," I say, and we stand up from our table and start out on the pavement road leading into the park nearby. The grass is freshly cut, the trees trimmed. Other people, some with dogs, run or walk past us. I throw my empty cup and straw in the trash can. My head throbs as I walk. It's really quiet between us. I think it's because neither of us have got anything to say. And then, out of the blue, he asks "Are you okay?", his eyes averting mine, like he's talking to the ground. It's so out of the blue that my eyes water with the care and worry in his voice. And abruptly, I blurt out "No, not really." His head snaps up, actually surprised. I think I feel his eyes on me. "Oh, uhm, what happened, Jacob?" I flinch at the sound of my name. I honestly wonder why I do. And then my eyes water, I can't stop sniffing, what the heck, stop-Am I going to cry?-why now, no-wait, Logan- I burst into tears. It comes out suddenly, the tears pouring down my cheeks, my hands hastily trying to cover and wipe them up, trembling breathes, and Logan's there, Logan trying to comfort me, leading me away from broad daylight to a more shadowed place, asking me what happened, if I'm okay, patting my back. I sniff, the sniff full of snot, tears dripping off my chin, my wet hands clasped together. My head throbs. It's not the easy, sliding tears, today, for no reason, is the salty, stingy tears.

When I manage to calm down, he softly asks, "What happened?" I shake my head. "Why?" he whispers. "It's pathetic," I croak out. "Nothing's pathetic, Jacob." "I'm not okay. I'm not okay at all." "It's okay that you're not okay." "But Logan, you don't even know HALF of it!" "So tell me?" "No. Fine. I-I think I really need to burst." "It's okay, I'm here. I'll listen." "A-alright. Don't freak out." "I won't." "I'm a freak." "You are not." "I am! I think I have depression. I'm so sick of it." "It's okay." "It's NOT! I'm sick of it! I'm sick of not being normal! I'm sick of thinking how much of a freak I am, how ugly I am, how stupid I am every time I'm sad! I'm such a coward!" "You're not." "YES I AM! I can't even self harm probably. I COULD ONLY DO IT WITH A PIN! A FREAKING PIN!" "Self-harm?" "Please. Please, help. I think I need help. I'm so sick of it. I'm so sick of this life." I sniff again, tears starting to stream down my cheeks once again. "I'm so pathetic. Why was I even born in this world? Logan, Logan, I-I don't feel okay." He hugs me tightly. "It's okay. It's okay." He whispers gently again and again. I sob into my hands. His care, was honestly too much. "I'm so sick of it, Logan...I'm so sick of having t-to think that I'm so ugly, t-that I'm so, so, no, that I'm such, a COWARD, why can't I just have been normal?" He pats me on the back. "It's okay, Jacob. It's okay. I'll help you. I'll do my best." I look up at him with wide, tearful eyes. "Really?" "Of course." And from that, I cry again. Because, his care is honestly too much. It's..overwhelming. He only hugs me back tightly, comforting me.

When I finally calm down, the sky is a bit darker, the moon more stamped in the sky. Less people walking around. I feel so tired. My heart is a burden in my chest, my head feeling airy and light from the energy that was sapped from crying. My eyes sting. "We should go home," I say. "Yeah, it's getting dark," he agrees. It's quiet again. "Do you want to know the first thing I did when I found out my sister was dead?" Logan's older sister was in a car accident and ended up passing away. He was ten back then. For a while, he was quiet, staring aimlessly at the sky, absentmindedly. "It depends on what you did," I say. He lets out a breathless laugh. "I laughed." Before I can open my mouth, he continues, "Because of the shock." "Oh." "I care about you, you know." I almost start crying again. "You're my best friend, Jacob. I know this is selfish, but I don't want you to die. It was a horrible feeling, laughing. It was like a daze. I was aware that I was laughing, aware that the police weren't, aware that the police weren't joking. But I laughed. I know this is heavy. It's a burden. No matter how much you want to die, you're going to feel guilty because of me. But because I'm human, I have to ask you not to. Please. I'm sorry, but please." "I'm too cowardly to try to kill myself anyway." He hugs me again. "No, Jacob. You're not a coward, I promise you." "I'm sorry, Logan. For not telling you." "It's okay. You shouldn't be sorry." He squeezes my hand. I almost say sorry again, but I stop myself. It's quiet again. The blanket of silence that falls too easily. I stand up, Logan doing the same. "Let's go home." He nods. We start on the pavement road toward our houses, which are almost right next to each other.

He says bye before turning to his door. I call out "Wait!" and he turns around. "I promise, Logan. I'll do my best," I say, and I can see him smile, and then nod before heading in. I turn, heading toward my own home.


Bernard’s Bench . That’s what everyone calls it. Everyone who was born in the town was brought up calling it Bernard’s Bench  and newcomers soon get into the habit. There’s no plaque or little commemorative plate, or even any lettering carved into it. At least none to do with it being Bernard’s bench. It’s not an especially decorative one – its metal is rusty and its paint is flaking – and it’s not especially comfortable either. It comes so close to it – if the seat were just a little higher, if the slats on the back were just that little bit closer together. But they’re not.      It’s just there , on the market square, between the pharmacist and the pound shop. Bernard’s bench.      Bernard Ellery was my grandfather. I have fond enough memories of him, but not what you would call dramatically fond ones. He was a kind man, and never lost his patience or seemed to mind childish questions and chatter, but he wasn’t the kind of grandpa who was a mine of fascinating stories and who always had a twinkle in his eyes. Later on in life I understood what people meant when they said you could tell he was an insurance broker. With no disrespect to insurance brokers. The bench wasn’t even outside his old place of work. Well, it couldn’t be now, as that branch of it had closed, to be replaced by the pound shop, but it wasn’t there before either. It was over on the other side of the square, the one that was sometimes called the posh side  though I could never make out much difference. It had been replaced by a charity shop. It’s visible from the upstairs of the office where I work.      I knew very little about his private life, and don’t know that much more now. I know he lost his wife, my Grandmother, who was called Alma, when my Mum, their only child, was still a little girl, and he never re-married. Mum said she’d had a happy childhood though, and looking at the photos, I believed her.

     He died when I was only twelve, and I have to say, to be honest, I was sorry, but not grief-stricken.

     The strange thing is, given that it’s relatively recent (though the way years turn into decades can be quite disturbing!) nobody seems quite sure if the bench were there in Bernard’s lifetime, or if it only appeared afterwards.

     Given that there are only two benches on the square, it’s empty surprisingly often. Or perhaps not so surprisingly. Though there are still some quite characterful  (as estate agents would say, and I should know, I work in one!) buildings on the square, a couple Victorian, a couple more early 20 th  century, it’s never going to win any prizes for the most beautiful town with the best preserved architectural heritage or anything like that, but there are  a couple of rather nice cafes, and it’s far more pleasant to sit in them, not least as the local bird population frequently uses Bernard’s Bench to relieve themselves. As soon as it’s cleaned off, it seems to come back.      I could probably count on the fingers of one hand (okay, two, if you include family) the people who know that I’m connected to the Bernard of Bernard’s Bench. I don’t have the same surname. Not that many folk know the surname anyway. It’s just Bernard’s Bench, not Bernard Ellery’s bench, which is a little odd, as I gather in life he was quite a formal man, though he didn’t make an issue of it.

     A couple of weeks back, as I was returning with a sandwich lunch for myself and a colleague at Drake and Dobson , I noticed that there was someone sitting on Bernard’s Bench. A woman, probably the same age as me or a big younger, mid-thirties, I’d have guessed, though I’m not much good at guessing ages. She was bundled up in a big raincoat that seemed loose on her, even though it was a warm and dry day, more like March than February, folk said, as if the difference between those two months was deeply symbolic. At her feet were one cloth shopping bag that had seen better days, and one with the yellow and green logo of the pound shop. She flexed her shoulders as if to ease some tension or ache in them, and couldn’t stifle a yawn. Something told me that this was not a bored yawn, or an affected yawn, or one she had “caught” off somebody else. She was yawning because she was tired. Deeply, intensely weary. Her entire body language seemed to scream out that just getting up and going on her way was an effort that didn’t seem worth it. She didn’t exactly look ill, but as if she couldn’t remember when she’d last had any energy. I was reminded of the phrase often used for comic effect my get up and go had got up and gone , and it applied to the woman on Bernard’s bench, but it wasn’t comical at all.

     Even though my colleague was waiting for her lunch, and I was pretty peckish myself, and though I’ve never claimed to be one of life’s Good Samaritans, something made me sit down beside her – cautiously, as I was wearing light-coloured trousers! – and ask if she were okay. Her expression was like none I had seen before, and it set a swirl of emotions off in my own mind. There was a sudden light in her eyes – rather nice dark grey-blue eyes, though with dark shadows beneath them – as if she couldn’t believe anyone was actually asking how she was, and yes, she was blinking tears away. Yet there was also an innate dignity, a quiet stoicism to her, that meant that though it was only human decency to have sympathy for her, she would never be an object of pity.

     “If there’s anything I can do…?” I asked. I know it makes me sound awful, but that’s the kind of question I don’t generally ask, because people might just tell you. But though I’m not claiming any kind of Road to Damascus moment, I genuinely thought that (within reason) I would be willing to do anything I could to help her.      “You’re very kind but – no, that’s fine.”      “What kept you?” my colleague Lesley asked, amiably enough.

     “Just – having a word with a lady who was on the bench.”

     “Oh – right.” Was there a strange odd note in her voice? But she didn’t take the matter any further, and enjoyed her tuna and mayonnaise roll as I tucked into my cheese and pickle one. My conscience pricked me as I wondered if I should have taken the woman on the bench a sandwich, or at least offered to do so, but I had the sudden thought that though she did, in a way, undeniably look hungry, it was not a look of physical hunger. Instinct, and it was an instinct I was inclined to trust, told me that despite the raincoat that was too big for her making her probably look more skinny that, though she might not dine on the best of food, she was not going hungry. Not physically hungry.      There was nothing I could really put my finger on, but over the next couple of days, I had the sense that Lesley, and Jason (who was technically our boss, but most of the time you wouldn’t have known it, because he wore his authority very lightly, but, if needs must, effectively) were treating me ever so slightly oddly. There were the most trivial things – it seemed to me that, “You okay, Sheena?” wasn’t just some polite, form enquiry, and that they were shielding me from dealing with the more awkward clients and the more problematic properties. It was, frankly, a bit unnerving! I wondered if I looked unwell, but a glance in the mirror assured me I didn’t, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t come out with any silly or incomprehensible remarks. Finally, I told myself I was imagining things, the way you always do when you’re pretty sure you’re not  imagining things.

     I couldn’t help thinking about the woman in the oversized raincoat on Bernard’s Bench, and kept looking for her – surreptitiously from the upstairs office window, more blatantly when passing by. A few days later, I did  see her again, and was relieved that she seemed to be in better spirits. We had a little conversation that was a bit stilted, but still left me thinking that I hoped I would see her again, and would like to get to know her better.

I was spending that weekend with my Mum and my stepfather James. After they’d got married, a couple of years back, they’d moved into a little cottage in a village about 30 miles away. I’d be lying if I said I’d never had any doubts whatsoever about James, but that was behind us now, and we were good friends.

     It was something I generally looked forward to, in a quiet way. Every time I was there, looking out at wheatfields and knowing I was within a few minutes’ walk of a wood, I decided that I would love to move to the country one day, but inside I suspected that it might well stay within the realms of some day . They had made the cottage cosy, or perhaps more to the point, restored its cosiness, but not gone to extremes. There were not horse brasses (that had never been near a horse) nor corn dollies (that had never been near a cornfield) on every appropriate or inappropriate surface, and not every fabric was gingham or floral. I always found it rather touching that though I had never lived there on a permanent basis, the spare bedroom was referred to as your room  or Sheena’s room .      I hadn’t given any especial thought to either mentioning or not mentioning the woman on Bernard’s bench, but in the end I got round to it, and it slotted sensibly enough into a conversation about plans for a bench outside the village hall. If memory serves, Mum just said something along the lines of, “I hope she’ll be fine,” or “Glad to see someone getting some use out of it.”      But the next day she asked me if I’d like to come for a walk in the woods with her. James had retired by now, but volunteered as a legal adviser to the local Citizens’ Advice bureau, and for once they’d asked him if he could come in on a Saturday as they had quite an urgent case.      I needed no second asking. It was that time of year when each day seems to be a transition, and I knew that the wild crocuses would already be showing their multi-coloured heads, and all around them and above them things would be in bud. It was still very mild, and a repeat of the infamous blizzards and sub-zero temperatures of the Beast from the East  that had been the sting in the tail of winter and the unseasonal start to spring a few years ago seemed exceedingly unlikely.

     “I hoped you would see the woman on the bench,” Mum said, simply, and I noticed she did not say “someone on the bench”. We knew each other well enough to recognise those little quirks of each others’ speech patterns, and I knew she had more to say. “Do you know why Dad – why Bernard – wanted that bench to be there?”      “Well – so folk had somewhere to sit,” I said.      “True enough. But there’s more to it than that.” I noticed that she had paused by a bench, by one of those rustic ones that sometimes seem to grow in woodlands as organically as the trees around them, though of course that can’t really be so. We did a quick “stain check” and then sat down side by side on it. “It’s time you knew,” she said, “And feel free to dismiss it as just one of those family old wives’ tales. He first met my mother – Alma, the grandmother you never knew, when she was laden down with shopping in town.”      She went on to say that Bernard, who was a keenly perceptive man, and a deeply compassionate one, behind his rather taciturn exterior, had noticed that the woman in the raincoat that looked too big for her was obviously careworn and laden down with her shopping. And that’s when he decided that the town, that the market square, needed a bench for people to sit down and rest. He helped the woman with her shopping, and, as folk say, one thing led to another. When she wasn’t careworn and tired, she had sparkling bright blue grey eyes and a mischievous sense of humour. People where he worked weren’t quite ready to write him off as a bachelor for life, but had decided there wouldn’t be a whip-round for wedding presence any time soon. But they were wrong, and within a few months he was engaged to Alma.      I had been about, theatrical-fashion, to exclaim, “Alma!” but then realised it was not a surprise at all. His own happiness didn’t make him forget what he’d thought about the bench, and Alma most certainly didn’t either. As she said, she had just been tired and having a bad sort of day, but there would be people who needed it far more      “I only had vague memories of her myself,” Mum said, sadly. “I think Dad got it just right. He never had shrines to her or anything like that, but made sure I knew about her. And then I saw her on the bench! I only realised that later, of course. But what I do know is that not long after I met your Dad. No, that’s not technically speaking true – I did know him a bit, he was a customer in the bank where I was working, but we realised that there was a definite spark.” She smiled now, but sadly. “We had 15 wonderful years together, and though we had meant to have more than one child, it didn’t work out that way, and you were our most precious gift and blessing.  Then another five years later, I saw her on the bench again, and a couple of days later I did  meet James. Make of it what you will, Sheena. I’ve always tended to see ghost stories just as entertaining books and TV, but – well, my mind is more open than it used to be.”      I didn’t honestly know if I were glad she had told me or not, and certainly tried to put it out of my mind when I went back into town. But a question was still fluttering around my mind like an irritating moth, and in the end I had to ask it. “Lesley, tell me the truth,” I said, “Last week when I talked about the woman on the bench, did you see her?”      “Well, no,” she admitted, “But I could have just not been looking at the right time. I see that now. Jason and I have talked about it since – hope it didn’t look like going behind your back! – and said we were too keen to jump to conclusions about – well, about ….”      “If I was what tends to be called under a certain amount of stress ,” I completed the sentence.

     You can draw your own conclusions. You can say – and I wouldn’t necessarily contradict you – that what Mum called the spark  was there with Jason and me anyway. Both of us were an odd mixture of appearing to be extrovert, heart on the sleeve sort of people, but not necessarily finding it easy to admit to our feelings.

     But this much I do know. Now we have both seen the woman on the bench, and she looks so much happier. I have thought of calling out “Alma!” or “Grandma!” but I have not.      But we’re going to see to it that the bench gets a make-over, or as Jason puts it, more to the point, a make- back , so it is not chipped and rusted and sad-looking.      That’s the least we can do.


THE TINY SILVER BELL The leaf was settled, stretched out, with the tips of its lobes upright, on the bench , right next to her, who only noticed it when she get up. It was a five lobed maple leaf , whose predominant color was reddish, which had almost completely eliminated the green. It was autumn and under the trees, in the meadows, in the gardens, but also on the roads and the city streets there were many leaves , there were carpets of fallen leaves. That one, perhaps carried by the wind, lay on the bench as if it was sitting on it ( on the bench). “ My little leaf “ she said, taking the maple leaf in her hand. It seemed to Zara that the rather little maple leaf was there , on the bench, just for her. Even before she could see the reverse of the leaf Zara, as soon as took the leaf in her hand, felt something hard and rather cold against the palm of her hand, while the leaf was cold and warm.  She thought of an insect, perhaps a little beetle, a ladybug, that was attached to the leaf. ( to the other side of the leaf). It was instead a very small thing, a tiny object , really a trinket. It was something  not to be believed in her eyes. ( something that made her to not believe in her eyes) There was a very tiny silver bell attached, or rather hung on the other side of the leaf. The tiny silver bell had also a rattle____ otherwise what bell would it have been?____and its rattle went : DIN DON DAN. And , surprise in surprise, when Zara took the leaf by the petiole, to lift it from the palm of her hand, on which she had placed it , truly (very) incredible, the tiny silver bell remain attached, or, rather hung on her index finger.  So that it was enough for her to move only a bit her finger and the tiny bell  started ringing: DIN DON DAN. Zara, she didn’t really know how that would be possible. She was more than incredulous, more than amazed. But she didn’t even think for a moment of removing the tiny bell from her finger. Zara started walking down the same narrow paved road which would take ( would have taken) her to the lane between the fields , that she usually made to come back home. Alongside and parallel to that narrow stretch of asphalted road, there was a freeway where, in addition to cars, many heavy vehicles transited : big trucks with tall and long wagons, trucks with long tanker trailers. Zara, as walked on that narrow stretch of paved road, keeping her index finger pointed forwards, so that the tiny bell rang___DIN DON DAN___at every step she took, she could see, out of the corner of her eye, those big trucks, with tall and long trailers, that sped on the super highway, after turning at the roundabout, with an agile movement , which never it would be expected by vehicles so much heavy. When they turned at the roundabout, they looked like huge snakes crawling sinuously on the asphalt. When she, sitting on the bench when she had found that maple leaf, under which there was the fabulous tiny silver bell, watching at them as they turned, following them with her eyes until she could see them, keeping her eyes glued to the back of their huge wagons, Zara always thought: these big trucks really go far. Sometimes, to tell the truth, she had been tempted to ask for a ride in one of those big trucks with big trailers. Leaving a place where she was sick, where indeed she had always been sick, getting into one of those trucks, that certainly went far away from there. And so she could come far enough that she once got there, it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to her to go back. Zara had been seized by this temptation several times while she, walking on that narrow stretch of asphalted road, along the freeway where those big beasts, the trucks, whizzed by , she had felt that they stir the air as they passed. But until then she had never asked for a ride…..to somewhere far enough from there. Until that special day, when she found the tiny silver bell under the maple leaf that was sitting on the bench right next to her, Zara didn’t dare to stop one of those big beasts of the trucks for a ride. But that day was a very special day. She not only had found the silver bell under the leaf, but the tiny bell had attached itself  to her index finger, and it rang ___DIN DON DAN___at every step she took. So she dared. Indeed it was be tiny silver bell, hanging on her finger, that pushed her, took her on the highway, where she started running alongside every big truck which passed, and she, waving her arms and hands, tried to stop a truck.  While the tiny silver bell was sounding more and more louder, just as if it, the tiny bell, were working hard for a truck to stop and she could have a ride. Miracle! It was the tiny silver bell which was taking her away from there, from that cursed place. It was again the fabulous tiny bell that pushed her to get (to go) into the middle of the freeway , after giving struggled for not a little time to run alongside those big trucks without anyone stopping. Zara knew that she, standing there, in the middle of the freeway, she was in danger of being run over, yet the impatience to be able to leave for any place, but far from there was stronger than the fear of being run over and killed. It was not the first big truck she faced, so to speak, face to face, that stopped. Two or three of those big trucks went by without stopping, and their drivers shouted the most terrible insults and also the fiercest threats to Zara. Then finally a truck stopped, despite the bombing of the horns of the vehicles traveling behind.  Even the driver of that truck, from the window to which his face appeared, first , as greetings, addressed insults, and scares, and threats to Zara. But was she completely crazy to get there in the middle of the freeway? She, ugly witch, damn whore, was very dangerous! She could cause a real big mess, standing there, in the middle of the street! Oh, but of course a very bad woman like she didn’t care how many dead her insane, criminal behavior might cause! But why they let someone like her circulate? Oh, she had to be locked up! Zara paid no attention to what the truck driver was yelling at her, and she started shouting that she was looking for a ride, that she needed a ride to get out ( away) of there as soon as possible. “ Ah, but listen, the slutty lady wants a ride! And, let’s hear, where do you want a ride for, milady?” The truck driver asked the question with a giggling  tone ( voice), as if to imply ( to say) :  “And imagine if I can give a ride to you!”. He spoke protruding ( sticking out) his big and ugly face from the window ( out of the window). Meanwhile the bombing of the horns of the cars and other vehicles  to which the big truck, which was stopped almost in the middle of the freeway, was getting louder and louder. Maybe because ( since) the drivers of those vehicles, at a certain moment ( after some time) didn’t only protest with the horns, but they got out on the street and started to kick the big truck, and to threat , very angry, the driver, or maybe it was instead because the tiny bell attached to Zara’s finger started ringing ( sounding) louder and louder, that  that man, the driver of the big truck, albeit with a shivering grunt, said to Zara that she  could get on board, ugly bitch she was! Zara with a leap was on board of the truck. As soon as she jumped up into the truck’s cockpit, before she even sat down, Zara began to thank the very little bell, since, oh, it had been it, so tiny, to do the miracle of making her find a ride to get out from there! He, that big man driving the big truck, shaking his head and grunting, kept on saying that oh, but she was also stupid , as well as completely crazy…..Oh, and he was giving a ride to….to one like her….Ah, who knows what was shaken in his head to make such a fool ! Zara, after thanking the very miraculous little bell, she thought to thank the driver too. Ah, he couldn’t imagine what it meant for her to be able to get away from there, getting on a truck like his one , that certainly had to go far. “Eh, we are going quite far, yes…I have to take my load to St. Petersburg” The big man muttered. Oh, as soon as she knew how far and WHERE the big truck would have taken her, no less than in Saint Petersburg! Zara jumped to joy and started to thank and to tank again the tiny silver bell , and the truck’s driver, and the big truck, too. He, the driver was  a big and bodied man, stout and muscular, with tattoos on his biceps, representing Christ on the cross and the Madonna. He was called Karol.  Karol was born in Poland, but he had been living in Italy for more than twenty years. He was married with an Italian woman and they had four children. Karol was a hauler for( since) many years. He, in his big truck, mainly transported (carried) products of Italian agriculture to the countries of Eastern Europe. Eh, he had already been to Saint Petersburg a lot of times. Always with a load of highly sought products grown in Italy. This time he was transporting ( carrying) the special and very delicious Red Potatoes grown in Maremma. Of course she too had heard talking of the very wonderful Red Potatoes of Maremma. Yes, Zara knew those Red Potatoes and she also had heard how expert gastronomes advised to cook them, which had to be placed into the oven with the peel and cooked over a slow fire. But she really couldn’t understand  why in Saint Petersburg they needed of those red potatoes grown in Maremma, Zara came to say ( observe). Then Karol told her, looking at her sideways, with pity….oh , but then she didn’t know that the Red Potatoes from Maremma had extraordinary properties  that Russian scientists had discovered, and precisely scientists from Saint Petersburg, who, when they had come on holiday to Italy, had been able to taste the very tasty Red Potato of Maremma. Karol began to say, or rather to shout, ah the medicines, the miraculous drugs that the Russian scientists had obtained from those very special potatoes! “ Then they, Russian people don’t eat them” It came to say to Zara.  “ Oh, they also eat the red potatoes, instead:…indeed they are very greedy of them . They roast the red potatoes , then shower them with vodka , then cover them with peppery cream and again drop on them vodka…ah , such a real delight, such a delicacy ….” Karol said, licking his lips. “ But in addition eating them, they, that is their scientists, managed to extract some….now I don’t know how to say….some active ingredients, some substances that are able to cure even serious diseases. Yes, they, the Saint Petersburg’s scientists, oh, very great scientists…., discovered the healing power of the Red Potatoes grown in Maremma. “ But when Zara asked him which ( what) diseases the red potatoes, or the substances  extracted from them, were able to cure, he , the big driver of the big truck said only that the Red Potatoes , he was carrying to Saint Petersburg, contained very special substances which, combined with others, were very effective in healing diseases caused by the alcoholism. Eh, sure that even in Saint Petersburg people drank heavily, eh, with that frost it was obvious that the people would try to warm themselves with VODKA! And Karol started shouting of vodka, which was a really bomb! Other than whiskey and cognac, and rhum…eh, compared to vodka, they were sugar water! While he kept shouting his homage to vodka____Long life the vodka of Don! Long life the vodka of Neva! Hurray the bomb exploding in your stomach, the vodka!____ Karol pulled a rather large metal flask out of the dashboard., and shouting:“ Ah, here it is my dear vodka! “ , as he continued to drive, with only one hand on the wheel, he began to drink greedily from the flask.” Oh, but be  careful, you have to drive” Zara couldn’t help but say, almost worried, while the tiny bell had started to ring louder and louder, as if  to warn of a danger.” Ah, don’t worry , baby! With Karol you’re safe! Oh, I can hold alcohol very well! Don’t worry! Indeed I even drive better when I’ve had my fill of vodka! Ah! Ah! Don’t worry, dear baby!  We’ll arrive In Saint Petersburg safe and sound! And also whole!” The big driver shouted, while he kept on drinking from the flask. And in fact their journey continued without incident. They stopped every two, three hours at most at the motorway grills , for refreshment, for eating too, and for taking two steps just to stretch their legs. During those stops Karol went to check his load of red potatoes, and he always did it alone. He didn’t want Zara to be present So that, inevitably, she began to have some doubts… That Karol was also carrying something else besides the prodigious Red Potatoes of Maremma into the great trailer of his big truck? That he was even hiding something among the potatoes?  And if he was hiding something, what could it be? Come on, but she didn’t have to think about it, she ended to say herself. She had rather to think that she, finally, had succeeded in getting out ( away) of that damned place, of that damned country too, and that she was on the way for Saint Petersburg. Their journey proceeded smoothly, in complete tranquility until they went about to cross the border between Poland and Lithuania. Here, at the border, Karol’s truck, with its cargo, was seized , and he, Karol, was arrested. Zara, who risked of being arrested too, was saved by the providential intervention of a priest who was called to be an interpreter. Zara learned that Karol , in addition to the load of Red Potatoes, he smuggled very special animals from Italy to Russia. Those animals were pigs, or rather a kind of pigs, since they had been obtained by genetic engineering . These animals could be considered a hybrid, or a medium , between  pig and…man ( human), so they were in great demand for organ transplantantion. For some time animal welfare organizations had raised the alarm about the completely illegal trafficking of these animals from Italy to other European countries. Saint Petersburg was still far away. But when the tiny silver bell started ringing, with an impatient tone, Zara set out on the road.  She knew she would get there anyway, in the enchanted city, even if she had to do the whole journey on foot.


Radhika had been waiting at the Starbucks near her place for the last half an hour. She looked at the time on her watch for the 10 th time in the last 15 minutes. It said 4.55pm. Her heart began to beat faster as the clock approached 5pm. Radhika knew that he was never late. She lightly pat her chest to calm herself. It isn’t the first time you’re meeting him! She chided herself. To take her mind of things, she began thinking of something else. The next thing she could think of was her mother. Even though she was only 5 minutes away from her home, she knew her mother would not be one to care. Nor would she call her to ask when she would be home. Its ironic how if this situation had played out a few years ago, her mother would be all over her, calling her multiple times to check when she would be home. Now, however, things had changed and for the better Radhika thought. ‘You are early’ a male voice said coming close to the table. She looked up, to the face that she had thought she would be waking up to every morning in the future. For a moment, as if spellbound, she felt stuck in place, her face looking up, unable to come up with a response. Since she was already looking up, she took in the features of the person in front of her. His face had matured over time and the boyish features were replaced with a manly expression with the smirk still in place. Was it that wicked smirk that had made her heart race the first time she had looked at him in high school? Even so, it still had the power to make her heart race, she thought. She only hoped that the thump of her heart wasn’t audible to him. ‘Abhinav. Yes, I came a bit early to catch up on some time with myself’ she replied getting some grip on herself. Abhinav proceeded to sit on the seat opposite to her while she was trying to memorize his every action to memory. He was wearing a navy-blue suit and looked crisp, not just by his attire but by his overall appearance. Donning a pair of glasses and hair that was neatly put in place, he looked picture-perfect. She suddenly felt conscious in her white chikan kurta that she had paired on a pair of denims thinking this to be just a casual meeting. Sitting up straight, she gathered herself preparing for the conversation. Hadn’t she seen enough in her life already to face a simple conversation with her ex? Ex, who would’ve thought? Back in high school, when they had pledged to be with each other forever, she knew that it wasn’t just an empty promise. Unlike all the other couples around her, who were getting in and out of relationships, theirs was based on a solid foundation. Where the whole school feared his terror and bullying, Radhika had seen the scared, lonely guy behind the angry-young-man mask. Abhinav, on the other hand, had held her hand firmly throughout, even when her best friend stabbed her in the back for a guy leaving Radhika hurt and in tears. Abhinav had ensured that both her friend and the boyfriend were taught a lesson when he relayed the truth of the boyfriend to her friend. Yet, Radhika being a good person, had taken her best friend back with open arms. Was that the first crack that brought about a domino effect in finally ending their relationship? ‘Should I order for the both of us?’ Abhinav’s question brought her back to the present. Radika nodded in response. ‘One cappuccino for the lady and an americano for me, please. Thank you’ Abhinav said placing his order with the waiter. For someone who was arrogant with almost everyone he met of his age, he was surprisingly warm and nice to those elder to him or below his social status, both then and now. Now as he looked at her, Radhika tried hard to not show her real emotions on her face. She instead kept a stoic face and looked straight at him. ’15 years. Should I say long time no see or that it is great to meet you?’ he said. ’15 years? I didn’t even realize how the years went by’ she lied. Truthfully, she had always been counting days since they last spoke. She had never thought this day would ever come. But last week receiving a call from him, she was shocked? Surprised? 10 seconds in the call she realized she hadn’t responded to his ‘hello’ and replied back trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. At the end of the call, they decided to meet. ‘I know right? So, what are you upto these days? Working at an MNC like you always wanted to?’ he asked. ‘MNC? No. I left that dream a long time back. Now I am a kindergarten teacher.’ She said smiling contently. ‘Shocking for someone who absolutely detested kids. Why a kindergarten teacher? You could’ve made so much of money at an MNC with your sharp intellect and strong personality’ ‘Like you?’ Before he could respond, they were interrupted with the waiter who came with their order. After he left, Abhinav said, ‘Yes, like me. Money isn’t bad, is it?’ ‘Nothing is bad unless you give it the power to run your life.’ Radhika replied with a faraway look in her eyes. In their minds, they had a ton of questions to ask each other. But they both refrained from doing so, realizing that they would be crossing boundaries of whatever this was that they were doing at the moment. Radhika broke the silence by asking Abhinav about his work even though she knew exactly what he did. Who wouldn’t know one of the youngest entrepreneurs to enter their company into the Fortune 500 list? She was silently proud of him but she stopped herself from telling him about it. Even back in high school, she knew he possessed both the skill and the zeal to lead and so she had always persuaded him to use it for the right purposes. ‘Work is good.’ He replied. Then he continued, thinking he would have to be the one to let his defense down first, ‘After my parents had a fight one day that went a little too far, I just took my mother and ran away from home. I decided that no woman in my life would ever suffer the way she did. Then on, I have worked my ass off to first find us a place to stay, then run it and then build my company from scratch’

The sandwich Radhika was holding in her hand was still in mid-air. She was left speechless. In none of his interviews or appearances, had he ever spoken of his hardships or the way he had started his company. Certainly, not this crude version of all that he had gone through. She knew of troubles that brew between his parents even back in high school, but never thought it would go to this extent. As she looked at him closely, he looked tired and worn out, but he masked it well. All this before he had even reached the age of 30. She knew it was hard for him to bare himself like that but it gave her confidence to be herself with him. Like they weren’t their age but 15 again. ‘I… I’m sorry. I had no idea’ she said hesitatingly. ‘It’s okay. How would you even?’ he said taking a sip of his Americano to wet his dried-up throat. She continued to steal glances at him as he attended a work call. ‘Sorry for that’ Abhinav said keeping the call. ‘It’s okay’ she said. ‘So what’s up with you? What have you been up to all these years?’ he asked. ‘Oh nothing worth telling’ Radhika said taking a sip of her cappuccino to hide her nervousness. Abhinav looked at her understanding very well that she was hiding herself behind the cup. She was the same girl even now who never spoke of her troubles. Instead, pushed them under the carpet like it was nothing. Even though he was the one to break their relationship, he never could be done with Radhika and so in a silent way he had kept tabs on her life without ever letting her know. Throughout the last year of school and then college, Abhinav watched her every moment he got away from work or had a minute to breathe. He couldn’t see her date other guys but he knew he couldn’t step in for he was the one to walk away. Surprisingly, those relationships never lasted beyond a month or two. The biggest punch in the gut for Abhinav was when she got married young at just 22 years old. That’s when he felt as if he had lost her completely. Yet, Abhinav couldn’t stop himself from knowing what she was up to in her life and so he continued watching her from afar. The first time he was made known of her husband raising his hand on her, Abhi felt like he had time traveled to when he was at home with his parents. That vow he made to himself, he couldn’t keep it to the one woman he loved. Even so, Abhinav took steps towards Radhika multiple times but stopped himself from butting in their married life. He knew it was wrong and that it may do her more harm than good. Every time he seen her husband walk around arrogantly, he wanted to punch him till he could see the guy lose his last breath. Once his company became successful, Abhinav had little time on hand and eventually became far away from Radhika due to work. He had only been just become successful at moving on from her when he spotted Radhika at the traffic signal last week. It took him a while to recognize her since she looked much frailer than he had last seen her. Once he did, the first thing he did was learn of all the things that had transpired in her life in the last few years. Knowing that she was divorced, he could see a ray of hope. Not to build a relationship, but to take a step towards connecting with her. Sparing no time, he called her and set this meeting. Why didn’t Abhinav just date instead of silently following her around? He had tried his best to date another girl but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had learnt the value of what a relationship means with Radhika. Having bared himself once he couldn’t let someone else see his scars that Radhika had privy to. Abhinav couldn’t do that again, not when he knew that the one he loved was still breathing in the same world as him. Now, as she sat wearing just a white kurta- probably to hide her scars- on a pair of blue jeans, she looked ethereal to him. Simple and comfortable, just like he knew Radhika was. Unable to take the rage any longer, he spewed it on her. ‘Why are you trying to hide things about you?’ he asked anger clearly visible on her face. ‘Hide what? There is nothing to hide’ she said tapping her fingers on the table. He was drawn to the tapping and his suspicion of her lie was confirmed. ‘You always tap your fingers like that when you lie’ he said pointing to her fingers. ‘So what if I did? Who are you to ask me anything? What do you mean by ‘trying to hide things’? Did you do a background check on me?’ she asked her eyes bulging. ‘Yes I did. Unlike about me, I cannot find things about you written in magazines and newspapers!’ Abhinav said keeping his coffee cup a little too loudly. Radhika looked around to see people begin to look at them. ‘Let’s not do this now or ever.’ She said trying to gather her belongings and beginning to get up when he pulled her down and close. Abhinav was holding her arm as he let his anger cool down. Once he felt a bit normal, he looked her in the eye as he said ‘Look at me. I understand your hesitation of talking to me given our history. But did you also forget that I was the one holding your hand when all had left you alone?’ ‘Yes the same hand you left when you decided to trust someone else over me on a baseless rumor.’ Radhika said pulling her hand out of his clutch. ‘That wasn’t it!’ Abhinav said. ‘I didn’t think to break up with you because I believed the rumor. Do you think our relation was that weak? Rumors or not, I knew you for who you were and not just because we were together. I left you for the issues I was ensuring at home were too heavy a burden that I didn’t want the two of us to carry them. At the time it felt it was wise to use the rumor and let you go but the consequence of it has been paid by me every single day of my life.’ Abhinav said looking down. Radhika didn’t know what to say. All this while she thought that he had left because of a stupid rumor. Even though she had believed that their relation was stronger than that, she was proven wrong by his one action. Suddenly out of words, she looked at the guy in front of her a bit differently. Abhinav lifted his head and looked at Radhika look at him. Hesitatingly, he kept his palm covering hers and apologized. ‘I’m sorry, for the agony I caused you back then. I knew that if I told you all that I was going through you would’ve jumped to help me and I didn’t want you to get involved. I just couldn’t let you do that Rads’ he said calling her what he always did in high school. This made her look up at him. She felt happy inside, hearing a name that was as familiar to her as her real name. Abhinav continued, ‘I couldn’t put you in worry with me or put you out of my mind.’ He followed it by confessing everything he had done in the last 15 years of silently watching over her. He told her how he knew of her married life and how much it hurt to see her go through the same thing his mother did when they were young. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to help. At times, I wanted to step in and do business with your husband every time I seen his business fail. But it worried me that you might somehow hear of my name from him, so I stayed away.’ ‘It’s good you didn’t get involved with him. To be honest, I don’t think anything would’ve made Vishal happy. He never could quench his thirst for money, not professionally or personally. Everything was an opportunity for him to make money- be it business or wife. Mother forcibly got me married to him when she learnt of ex of mine. I agreed for she left me no choice. Through all the years of domestic abuse, she stood next to him instead of me. I wasn’t surprised considering she had practically sold me to him with a bag full of cash as dowry. It took me a whole lot of suffering and determination to reach a point where I could leave him. Even then I did it all alone. Mother hated me for my decision of divorce and even now gives me an earful for I have returned home to live with her. Anyway, now I am happy to be just a kindergarten teacher. The kids make me happy and forget all that had happened’ she looked at Abhinav to see tears brimming in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry Radhika for all that you had to go through. I knew of some things but not in so much detail. I wish I could go back and change my one decision of leaving you.’ Abhinav said trying to clear his tears with a handkerchief. ‘It’s okay Abhi, it’s really not your fault. If we were meant to be then, none of this would have happened.’ ‘What if we are meant to be together, now?’ Abhi asked her looking point blank in her eyes. Seeing as she was shocked at what he said, he held her palms in between his hands and continued, ‘I understand and agree that maybe then, we weren’t meant to be together. But nothing can stop us to be together now. I know that you have only just gotten out of a hard time relation and probably may want to steer clear of any relationship whatsoever. I want the same for you too. Just allow me to be a part of your life as your friend again. I would never ask you for anything more. And someday if you think you can do it again, I will be waiting next to you to start a life together.’ He finished his statement with a smile. Radhika suddenly felt light in her being as if the storms had finally cleared making way to a bright sunny day. Had Abhi forced her for a relation, she wouldn’t have been comfortable. It is only now that she was learning things about herself, a relation was a thing of some distant future. What she needed was a friend, one who knew her well and was ready to walk by her. She was glad that she had agreed to meet Abhi after all. She held her palm out to him asking with a smile, ‘Would you be my friend?’


“By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire, and the wind had picked up,” Annie Arthur said. “Catherine and Blake Bevins lived in that house you know. They moved in here in November, nineteen eighty-seven…no, eighty-eight.  It was raining the day the Bevins family moved into our little community. I baked them a welcome cake as soon as I saw the moving van pull into the drive. It was one of my famous chocolate cakes, with buttercream icing. I have never met anyone who didn’t enjoy one of my homemade chocolate cakes,” Annie said. “They took the cake but they did not thank me and they never returned my plate. That is not right. You expect boorish behavior from young people who don’t always follow social norms, I suppose. But Catherine and Blake were middle-aged when they moved in next door. They were old enough to know how to follow the rules, which they did not. I am not passing judgement, mind you, I’m just stating facts.

The fact is, I told them there was a city ordinance against leaf burning. The ordinance was instated in August of ’87.”  Annie smiled at Officer Wilkes. “You were probably toddling around in diapers back then, but your partner will remember all the hoopla over the decision.  There was talk, for months, about the city stripping us citizens of our “rights”. Annie shook her head. “Foolishness is it was. Plain and simple. Leaf burning was dangerous and not a bit good for the environment. Remember how folks carried on, Officer…” Annie leaned forward, squinting at the officer’s nametag. “Parker? Officer Parker? Are you any relation to Elana Parker?” “Elana Parker is,” he shrugged, and gave a small shake of his head. “Elena Parker was my mother ma’am.” Annie recoiled as though the big man had slapped her. She pressed one hand to her chest and reached for the officer’s hand with the other. “Do not tell me Elana has passed on.” Officer Parker nodded, “It was two years in May ma’am. Cancer. Now, about your report of a fire…” “Oh dear. I had no idea about your mother.  Elena and I attended school together, West Lake Elementary, and then West Lake High. She was a lovely girl. We lost track of one another, as people will do.” “Yes ma’am,” Officer Parker said again. “About the fire…” “I told Catherine and Blake that burning leaves was not permitted. I saw them raking all afternoon, on the day of the fire. I heard them too. They made such a racket out there all year round. It didn’t matter if it was hot or cold, rain or shine, they were out in that yard of theirs, making a ruckus. They talked about installing a pool, but I told them there was an ordinance against pools. I’m sure they didn’t take my word for it, but I know they were angry when they learned I’d been right. So, they bought a child’s wading pool, if you can imagine. A grown couple splashing around in a child’s wading pool. Those two thumbed their noses at authority every chance they got. It was shameful, the way they carried on.” “Miss Arthur,” Officer Wilkes said. “If we could just focus on the fire…” “There is no need to be rude, young man.” Annie said, testily. “And it’s Mrs. Arthur. I was married to my Henry, for fifty-eight wonderful years. Henry passed away five years ago.” she looked at Officer Parker. “Henry had cancer too. Though, surely not the same as your mother’s. Henry’s cancer was,” she glanced down and whispered, “in his privates, poor soul.”

“You have my condolences, ma’am,” Officer Parker said. Annie raised her head and nodded. “We never had children. We wanted them, but we weren’t blessed in that way.  I overheard a couple of the ladies in my church circle talking about my Henry just after he passed. That old busybody, Millie Post, had the nerve to suggest Henry’s cancer was the reason we never had children. Can you imagine gossiping about such thing? Unchristian, it was. I quit that church that instant. Removed my apron and walked out of Fellowship hall and never went back. When Pastor Upton called, to inquire after my health, I told him my health and my soul were no longer any of his concern.” “Mrs. Arthur—”  “Oh, young man, I wouldn’t mind in the least if you called me Annie.” She smiled sadly. “There are so few people left, anymore, who call me by my given name. A person needs to hear someone call them by name every now and then, don’t you agree.” “Annie,” said Officer Parker, patiently.  “We would like to talk to you about the fire you reported.” “Yes,” Annie said. “I told Chief Cummings I heard strange noises and ‘ by the time I stepped outside the leaves were on fire ’. He took me at my word. We talked about how times had changed; how leaf burning had been an autumn ritual for most of our lives, about what a nice job Henry did building our burn pit and what a shame it was that such a well-built pit would not be of any further use.  Of course, once the ordinance passed, we stopped burning leaves and packed them up properly, in bags we dragged to the curb. That’s what folks who followed the rules did.” “Yes, ma’am,” Officer Parker said. “You’re suggesting there was a fire on the lot next to yours. On the west side of your house. That would be—” “Don’t be condescending, young man. I know where the west side of my house is. That’s the side with the empty lot.” “Correct, Mrs.—Annie,” Officer Wilkes said. “There is an empty lot next to your house. There hasn’t been a structure on that land in years, so you can understand our confusion over your call reporting a house fire at that location.” “The fire in question occurred in 1997. Catherine and Blake were inside the house, sleeping when the fire started,” Annie said.  Officer Parker said. “It seems the couple how lived there had been burning leaves, that afternoon, and that evening, the wind picked up and blew embers up onto the roof. It had been an especially dry year, and the roof caught fire.”  Annie nodded. “It’s a shame those two were not better neighbors.” “You had issues with the Bevins family?” Officer Parker asked.

“Yes, as I’ve been telling you,” Annie said. “They were rule breakers.” “And that caused friction between you?” asked Officer Parker. “Henry was the peacemaker,” Annie said. “But Henry is gone now and there is no peace to be made.  I have no children. I’m estranged from my church family and far too old to establish new relationships. Everyone I ever knew and cared about has passed on and I’ve received this,” she reached into her handbag and took out an envelope addressed to Anya Arthyr. Officer Parker took the notice and read it. “Your home has been condemned, Annie.” he said, grimly.

“The city inspector says it’s structurally unsound and not safe for you to live there any longer.”  Annie nodded. “The city sends me a letter saying they are taking away my home, and they don’t even bother to spell my name properly. Do you think that’s right?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, I don’t,” said Officer Parker. “We can direct you to Social Services, someone there will be able to help you.” “Oh no, that won’t be necessary,” Annie said. “I am 83 years old; it’s time I face the music.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Officer Wilkes. “I lit the fire that burned down the Bevins house,” Annie said. “I did it to teach them a lesson, not that I’m excusing my behavior. I heard them talking, while they were raking leaves. They were supposed to go out of town that night. They raked the leaves into big piles, instead of bagging the leaves they way they were supposed to. They laughed about how they were going to show me where I could stick my ‘ordinances’ . They said they were going to light the piles before they left town. Catherine said she was sorry they wouldn’t be there to see the look on my snoopy old face when the fires took hold. Blake said it would be a real tragedy if the wind picked up and blew embers into my yard. Well sir, must admit, that got my dander up. So, after Henry went to bed, I went outside and lit the leaf piles myself. I can’t say I meant for the house to catch fire, but I can’t say I’m sorry it did. The fact that the Chief did a poor job of inspecting the scene does not mean a crime was not committed.” “You are confessing to the crime of setting your neighbors leaf piles on fire?” asked Officer Wilkes. “Yes young man” Annie said. She stood and held out both hands. “Time has robbed me of my loved ones and the city is taking my home. I have no family or friends to care for me, and what little money Henry left me is gone.  I’ve confessed to the crimes of arson and homicide, you have no choice but to arrest and imprison me.” “Your confession will need to be investigated,” Officer Parker said. "As of now, we have no proof a crime was committed." “You have no proof that a crime was not committed,” Annie countered. “I am not a liar, but I lied to Chief Cummings. The truth is, when I stepped outside, the leaves were not on fire.”


“Oh my gosh!” Your friend squeals ecstatically as a questionably brilliant idea blooms in her mind. Holding her hands out as if she was trying to capture the perfect picture, she beams and nods firmly. “This will be perfect!” she giggles, cheeks glowing with a rosy haze. You glance at your friend through the reflection of the mirror in front of you, hands clenching momentarily and loosening again.

The urge to question your friend’s intentions pull at every corner of your mind until you finally give in. “What?” your voice escapes in a cheerful groan; you have experienced enough of her antics to know when she is serious, and to your deep concern, she is. The word seems to pull her back to reality where she lands with a hard thump, obviously disappointed that you haven’t guessed yet.

“Well… there’s this guy…” she trails off waiting for your looming objections to quit circling so she can fend them off. You hesitate, words caught in your throat like a mouse in a trap. She wiggles her eyebrows at you, grinning mischievously. “I knew that you didn’t

really

want to be alone forever!” A dramatic sigh flutters from her pursed lips as if she has waited for this moment her entire life. ## The warm smell of body odor and aftershave greets you like an old friend when you enter the room. A lone figure lays sprawled on your bed, idly flipping through one of your old comics. Your brows raise slightly at the unexpected sight, but you force yourself not to be too surprised. “I didn’t think you were able to read.” The words are a low rumble deep in your throat, quiet but filled with thinly veiled laughter. Your friend looks up from his spread-eagle position on your mattress. He ignores the jab and tosses the comic to the corner of your room where piles of other miscellaneous objects have gathered. You have tried to tell him not to but gave up long ago. “I had the greatest idea today…” Collin says, sitting up to face you. He smirks slightly, the corners of his saltwater eyes crinkling.

“That’s dangerous,” you say with a teasing grin, waiting for him to finally cut to the chase. His smirk grows deeper, carving grooves into the sharp planes of his face until it becomes a barely restrained smile. “There’s this girl…” he trails off, monitoring your reaction with catlike eyes and a grin too big for his face. You keep your brow carefully smooth, refusing to let him see even a hint of your concern. His uncanny ability to read your expressions has always unsettled you. ## From your first step out of the house, you knew this night would be a bust. Something would go wrong. That instinctual knowledge has always warded you away from things, but tonight is your night. You refuse to let that underlying paranoia get to you. At least that is what you keep telling yourself. The tiny pessimistic voice seems to grow louder and louder the closer you get to the restaurant. It wails inside your brain, banging tiny hammers on the inside of your skull.

Your hand hesitates on the brass handle and you are certain that when you open it there will be no going back. With a small self-conscious laugh, you throw your shoulders back. A deep breath filters in through your nose and with what might look like courage, you step inside. ## She is late. You knew that none of Collin’s ideas were promising ideas. But in a lone second of weakness, you let your constant mantra slip. You let unreasonable hopes fill your mind, and for all, you know this was a prank that Collin had made up. Your hands clench around the crisp white tablecloth, trying to find an outlet for your mounting frustration. Grip gradually loosening, you attempt to smooth out the wrinkles created by trying to strangle an inanimate object.

A single strip of light from the closing door illuminates a silhouette cautiously approaching your table. Long, thin fingers gently pull the chair across from you away from the table. She sits with a graceful thump and introduces herself. Her fingers twist in her auburn hair that has been carefully curled. “You’re Dylan, right?” Her smooth, quiet voice carries over the din of the crowded restaurant. It reminds you of the ocean you swam in as a child, calm and warm, the water speckled with golden light. ## “Um… yeah. Yep. I am Dilan.” Your cheeks pull back into a dimpled smile as one of the many things that could go wrong is crossed off your list. The reassurance doesn’t last long; your list went on for several pages, but it helps ease a little bit of your anxiety. “And you must be Samantha?” “Well… no. It is just Sam.” He smiles at you, warmth sparkling behind his eyes.

From across the room you see someone sitting alone at a table, sipping water from a nearly empty cup. An oceanic swell of relief fills you again,

At least I’m not sitting alone in a corner,

you think to yourself.

##

Why am I even still here?             The thought makes you take another minuscule sip of water. The glass is almost empty and the staff stopped paying any attention to you a while ago. You know that if she hadn’t come yet, she probably won’t show up at all. Her friend made her seem so nice, but it can be hard to see clearly through rose-tinted glasses. You look wistfully at the couple across the room, conversing easily with each other.             Most of the time you don’t bother to do things like this, but to your surprise, you were actually excited. Her friend had given you the bare minimum of details about the girl you were supposed to be meeting.

She is smart,

you repeat the few facts in your mind.

She has been scared to do anything like this,

a sad smile pulls up the corners of your mouth.

Sam, her name is Sam. Not Samantha.


To say I’m scared is an understatement. Terrified? No, that doesn’t sound quite right. Maybe horrified? Definitely not horrified. How about mortified? Yeah… that’s the word. I’m absolutely, positively, mortified to see my family. I wish I could just turn around and run down the faded red brick steps directly behind me, jump into my 2005 light blue Prius and drive back to Chicago. But I can’t. I’ve been standing on their porch so long I fear that the snow has frozen my feet in place, making escape challening. I didn’t want to come either, I don’t even know that I would be welcome back after everything I've done. But my sponsor, Sammy, convinced me otherwise. He said it would be good for me, that I have to start somewhere and sometime. And besides, the holidays are all about forgiveness, right? I can hear laughter inside and what sounds like Julia Louis-Dreyfus playing Margo in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation . From what I can make out, she just got blinded from Clark’s massive light’s display – one of my favorite scenes. As I lean to my right and look at the window, trying to catch maybe a glimpse, an inkling of the TV I notice the dingy white draping’s, likely the same ones from when I was a kid, pulled shut, obscuring any view of inside except for the pale-yellow light leaking out through the crack in the middle. Looking up, I can see smoke rising from the chimney. It’s pale and hard to see against the light-polluted December sky, but it’s there. Dad probably has the fire going in the sitting room to warm the stockings hanging on the marble mantle and getting things ready to make smores with my nieces and nephews. I was jealously hoping that my siblings wouldn’t be here tonight, that maybe they all would be with their in-laws, but as I pulled up, I noticed a series of cars, all with I assume their custom license plates: a maroon Honda Odyssey minivan named “Crist6,” likely Jasons; a silver Ford Escalade, “Crist3,” probably Jenni's; and a Black Subaru Outback “Crist4,” which would be Stevie's. My sisters kept their maiden name after getting married, something our parents protested for some reason, but I always admired. The truth is, I have amends to make to all three of my siblings and both my parents. Amends that, while a part of my narcotics anonymous, or NA, program are supposed to help me stay sober and show those I've hurt that I have changed, amends only seem to open up old scars, making them bleed once more. I don’t think it’s helped that I’ve been putting this off for as long as I can. When I made my amends to my friend Ben for stealing and pawning his grandfather’s golden monocle (but in my defense, who just owns a monocle and leaves it laying around) to buy drugs, he threw a fresh coffee in my face and walked away. Which, while burned, both from the hot coffee and his reaction, I can understand. Even though he may never forgive me, and I’m not sure that I would if I was him, I still desperately want his forgiveness. I was told when I started this that the hardest part isn’t always confronting people and making amends, but rather dealing with the fact that even though I’ve changed and I am deeply sorry for my actions, the people who I hurt may never forgive me. That includes my family. My addiction started when I was fourteen, a freshman in high school. I was, and I guess still am, the runt in my family. Jason’s fifteen years older, Jenni thirteen, and Stevie twelve. So, I largely grew up without them around, or when they were, they were just visiting from college, holidays, or to introduce their fiancés to mom and dad. Around the time I started high school, mom and dad were fighting constantly, screaming curses and shouting “how dare you” and "I would never" at each. To be honest, I never knew what they were arguing about, but for some reason I always felt like it was about me. Call me selfish, I know, but they never fought before I came out as gay to them and whenever I approached the topic with either of them, they would deny that it had anything to do with their arguing. I never believed them, though. The night of the Sadie Hawkins dance at my high school, which I neglected to attend, my junior friends from band picked me up and we drove to a party at the local college. We had gone to parties there before, with our parents just thinking that we were seeing some movie for the tenth time, and seemingly none the wiser about it. The first couple parties we attended, I didn’t drink or take anything, instead opting to just be a harmless little wallflower. But the night of the dance, the arguing had progressed to the point the cops came to investigate a "domestic disturbance". Of course, there was nothing for the cops to find other than an older-middle aged couple yelling at each other and a cowering fourteen-year-old boy sitting up the top of the stairs, hugging his legs closed. So when I got to the party, it had reached the point that I just wanted to forget. Forget everything. Forget mom and dad. Forget the almost non-existent Jason, Jenni, and Stevie. Forget myself. I didn’t care what I drank, snorted, or popped. Anything would do, anything to just finally get some peace, and it worked. I don’t remember too much more from that night except waking up to an unfamiliar ceiling decorated with the harshest lights and a gaggle of doctors hovering around my bed. Mom and dad never yelled at or punished me after my overdose. They both refused to talk about it with me. But I noticed their arguing only got worse after that night and remembering the dark, blissful silence, I did whatever I could to return to that point. Eventually, I flunked out of high school, would steal and sell things from around my house. I never discriminated, but jewelry always sold the best. For next eight years, I was in and out of rehab, constantly calling Jason, or Jenni, or Stevie to transfer money or whenever they would visit, I would solicit rides or more money from them. Jason missed the birth of his first child taking me to rehab because mom and dad were too tired to take me again. I managed to steal thousands of dollars from Jenni as she never knew how to say "no" to her little brother. As for Stevie, when she her and her boyfriend visited, I got high and screwed him. Although the last one doesn’t seem like that big of a deal in the long run, I guess they were planning on getting married before that incident. Mom and dad kicked me out after six years, and I lived on the streets after. Eventually it got to the point that I was in and out of the hospital for overdosing at least once or twice a week and that’s where I met Sammy, and he took me to an NA meeting and got me help. That was three years ago and a total of five since I’ve seen my family. And now I’m still here, standing on the faded red bricks that make up their porch, staring at the old oaken door, wanting to knock but can’t bring myself too. I’m, as I determined, mortified. There is a tiny, almost delusional, part of me that they’ll hear me out, hug me crying, expressing their joy that their little brother and son are back in their lives, and we’ll all roast smores and finish National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation as I get to meet my nieces and nephews, and everything will be alright. But the realist knows that is likely not how it’s going to go, and instead, I’ll be turned away. Shunned. Banished. Excommunicated. I slowly raise my arm, clench my gloved hand into a fist and bring it to the door. I lightly rap-tap-tap the door, just enough so I think they can hear. I slowly lower my arm back to my side and stand there, the snow falling around me. I wait for what feels like hours, but is probably only a couple minutes, and there’s no response. Nothing. No shuffling near the door, no loud voices exclaiming that their “Coming!” nothing. I raise my arm to knock again, but then quickly lower it, and turn my feet around, disturbing the fresh snow that slowly cased my boots. I’m halfway down the steps when I hear the door behind me open and what sounds like a little kid, no more than five say “Who’s there?” I turn around and there’s a girl, standing in the doorway in Polar Express pajamas with long, strikingly blond free flowing hair and a finger in her nose. I just stand there, my mouth refusing to work. “Daddy,” she shouts, “There’s a weird man at the door staring at me.” “What’s that pumpkin?” I hear a dismembered voice say as a man comes to the door, dressed in a blue sweater and gray slacks, his blonde hair parted to one side. Jason. “Are a caroler?” Jason asks me. I don’t respond, instead choosing to stare up at him. He looks older, but more or less the same. I guess I look a lot different than the last time he saw me, but being half obscured by snow and poor lamp light can’t help. “Are you okay, man?” Jason says. Suddenly, everything feels too real. I can feel the fear welling up in my stomach about to burst and flood the rest of my body. I back away and swivel around, my head swiveling left and right, trying to remember where I parked my car. I need to get out of here. I need to get back to Chicago. I need to see Sammy, go to a meeting. I need to not face them. I can’t face them. I’m snapped back to reality by a hand my shoulder and Jason’s voice, “Hey, are you alright?” I turn around and look at him, not saying anything as he stares at my face, perplexed. I don’t know what to do or what to say, and I don’t think he does either as he slowly starts to recognize me, as his eyes go wide and his mouth cracks open, emitting no sound. I can hear my legs screaming at me and my muscles urging me to turn back around and run away, but arms didn’t get the memo as I wrap them around his body and start crying into his chest, choking out weak “I’m so sorry!” between sobs and rivers of mucus. I’m not sure how long we stood like that before he wrapped his arms back around me, and I can feel tears falling on my head mixing with the snow, and Jason says, “It’s okay, Arthur. Let’s go inside.”