Mary Louise sat by herself on the train car waiting for her train to go. She had been on this train for about an hour. She had already changed trains twice to get to her favorite place. Mary Louise had to get away from her house. It wasn't her home. Her parents wouldn’t stop pestering her about going to grad school and becoming a doctor. They compared her to her older brother, Landon, who had become a surgeon.

An old man stumbled on board. His skin was like a brown paper bag. It was wrinkled and thin like rice paper. The old man wore a beige crumpled suit, a yellow button down shirt, and a deep purple tie. He wore white tinted sunglasses. The old man smiled at Mary Louise weakly, then collapsed on a seat on the opposite side of the train.

Before Mary Louise realized it, the old man fell asleep.

A few minutes later, a young couple came aboard cuddling a baby. The baby started to cry. The mother whispered to it, “It’s okay, my darling. We’re here.” The father smiled. The family shuffled to the other side of the train and sat down.

A middle aged lady came in next. She wore a cherry red crop top and denim shorts. Her black hair was pulled back into a high ponytail revealing five pierces per ear. She sat in a seat a few rows back from Mary Louise.

Next, came in a dad who looked plain exhausted. He herded a boy and a girl aboard who were obviously twins. They both had sandy blonde hair and green eyes. They were arguing about something, but Mary Louise couldn’t make it out.

Mary Louise put on her headphones and hit play on her iPod. She listened to music as more and more people came onto the train. A man in a cowboy hat, western boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt came in. A woman with sunglasses, a designer dress, and high-heels came in next.

Soon enough, the train car was filled with people. The last song on Mary Louise’s playlist finished just as a young man rushed on board. He looked about thirty, maybe a little younger. He had chocolate brown hair and ice blue eyes. He wore khaki slacks and a royal blue button down shirt. Because there weren’t any more seats, he sat across from Mary Louise. The young man smiled, then said, “Hi! I’m Levi Anderson, but you can call me Levi. What’s your name?” Mary Louise took off her headphones. “I’m Mary Louise.” She quickly looked down at the iPod in her hand. “Are you okay? We’ve got a long train ride until the next stop. We might as well talk.” “It’s just... I’m a senior in college, and my parents are pressuring me to go to medical school like my brother. It’s not what I want.”

The train pulled out of the station. Levi sighed. “What do you want?” “A house that actually feels like home.” Mary Louise answered quickly. Levi simply smiled. “What is a home, Miss Mary Louise?” She thought about it, then said, “A home is the place where you grow up.” “That’s where you’re wrong.” “What do you mean?” “Take me for example. I grew up on a corn farm in Iowa until I was twenty four. Now I work in New York City. The Big Apple is more of a home to me than Iowa ever was.” “I don’t get it.”

“Home is where it feels like home. Home is when you feel like you belong. Everyone’s home is different. No one's home is the same. Look at all these different people. One of their homes might be on a farm. Others’ might be in a city. Another’s might be on the ballfield. Some might be on a runway. Where is your home?” Mary Louise didn’t know what to say.

The train slowed. “Well, this is my stop. I hope you find out where your home is, Mary Louise.” Levi Anderson stood up and walked out of the train car.

Mary Louise leaned back in her seat as the train started up again.

I don’t know where my home is, Mary Louise thought. Levi’s words rang in her head.

Home is where it feels like home. Home is when you feel like you belong. Everyone’s home is different. No one's home is the same.

The train kept on rolling. With each stop, Mary Louise started to understand what Levi had meant just a little bit more.

Finally, the train halted at Mary Louise’s stop. She stood up. Mary Louise hadn’t realized how many people had left. The young couple and their baby were gone along with the cowboy man and the woman in the crop top. The old man was still asleep on a seat. The dad had taken a brave move and had sat in between his arguing kids who were hitting each other over his lap. The woman in the designer dress was trying to dodge things the twins threw at each other.

Mary Louise quickly shouldered her backpack and walked off of the train.

The sky was clear and Mary Louise couldn’t see a cloud in any direction. The sun was directly above her, but Mary Louise didn’t feel too warm in her denim shorts and paint-splattered white blouse. She walked out of the station and towards the nearest hiking trail.

As she hiked, she passed several runners, a dirt biker, and a few people dressed in boots, hiking sticks, and backpacks.

After a few minutes of hiking up the green mountain, Mary Louise reached a crossroad. The path on the left had clearly been used a lot. The ground was packed down revealing footprints of all kinds. The path on the right was overgrown. The only way Mary Louise even knew the path was there was because she had been here multitudinous times.

She didn’t hesitate on which path to take. Mary Louise started making her way through the overgrown trail. The trees around her became really dense.

Mary Louise emerged from the path into a clearing lined with wildflowers. A small wooden bridge stretched over a grassy chasm with a river running through it at the bottom. The river came from a waterfall facing the bridge.

Mary Louise strolled towards the center of the bridge where she pulled a sketchbook and colored pencils out of her backpack. She held a sky blue colored pencil over a blank page, but she couldn’t bring herself to draw.

Mary Louise wanted to draw her home. She thought it was right here, in the spot she escaped to. Mary Louise’s home was...

She started to draw. Mary Louise drew the world. She drew her parents, Levi Anderson, everyone who was on the train, and even her brother, Landon.

The world was her home.

The world was a Diverse City. Her home was in Diverse City.


“You came…” The impossibly old man raises a weary and frail hand in greeting, it does not quite reach the heights it once did, it barely hangs half way to its intended destination, as though it forgot what it was supposed to do. John supposes that this is how it goes at this age, the wiring is wearing out and the signal is weak. “I did,” John says, his voice is quieter than he’d intended. Even after all this time, he feels strained. He eyes the old man and wonders how he got so old. Not for the first time, he wonders where all the years have gone, but he knows the answer to that. He’s been busy. He made himself busy and he remained stubborn, fending off the eventuality of this very day. “I didn’t think you would,” says the old man, “not now…” He smiles and his rheumy eyes shine with a life that once filled every inch of this failing body. The body is now weak, but the power of the man who once was endures. John shifts uncomfortably, still at a disadvantage after all this time. “You’re dying,” John says, his voice even quieter, diminished somehow. “And about time too,” says the old man. “Don’t say that,” John snaps. The old man perks up a little and observes John with shrewd eyes. John anticipates a rebuke that does not materialise, “I’ve had a good innings,” he says instead, “outlived everyone around me.” John smarts at this, there was a rebuke after all. John hasn’t been around this man. Not for a very, very long time. The old man sees this, “please sit awhile, I am so glad you came.” “How could I not?” asks John as he takes a seat by the old man’s bed. The old man raises an eyebrow, they both know the answer to that question of John’s. John has not been to visit the old man in many a year. John sighs, “I am old too…” “Not to me you’re not,” says the old man fondly, “you will always be my little boy.” John sighs again and almost tells his estranged father not to say such things. It is with a will that he stays his tongue. “Even after all this time?” his father asks. John glares at him, “you haven’t changed,” he says in an angry monotone. His father seems to give the very slightest shakes of his head. It could be his shot nervous system, but John doubts it and he dislikes him for the movement, “you still cling to that? You were never going to change me, Sparrow.” Sparrow. His father’s name for him from since before he could remember. A name that he should have outgrown during his childhood, but never did. Not as far as his father was concerned anyway. John is no longer the young, flighty child that he was, but his heart leaps at that name. No one else used it. It was theirs and theirs alone. “I wanted you to…” John tapers off. He wasn’t going to say change, they both know that. There is so much he could say, but even now, the words do not come. “Still stubborn…” his father smiles again, “bad family trait, that. On both sides.” John’s hackles rise. Even after all this time he rises up against his father in defence of his other family. Prepared to fight this old man. Frightened of a spent force and standing up to him all the same. This despite the major players all being gone now. John is now that family’s only representative, but he barely registers this, it is habit and old habits die hard. “Yeah well,” John says sharply, “you don’t have to worry about that side anymore.” Now the old man does shake his head, “I take it you are referring to your Mum’s death? That was what? Ten years ago?” “More like twenty,” John corrects him. “Yes,” his father says, “I suppose it is. Time flies, especially when you’re an old fart like me.” John looks uncomfortably at the fragile figure of the man who was once his Dad, “why didn’t you…” Again he trails off, but the question lays between them all the same. “You knew, but I told you all the same,” the old man draws in a deep, laboured breath, “I was always here for you. You walked away, it was for you to return to me , not for me to chase you to the four corners of the Earth.” “But you were my Dad!” his voice is high-pitched. Pleading. Childlike. “Still am,” the old man states. “You were supposed to…” John begins. He is becoming increasingly annoyed and frustrated at his inability to make himself clear. He has after all had plenty of time to formulate his words. He has imagined time and time again how it would be when he saw this man again. If

he ever saw his father again. “There you go again,” says the old man. John rolls his eyes, “not this again…” “You wanted to dictate how it was I should be. You wanted to mould me into what you thought was an ideal. Where do you think you got that from?” John glares at the old man and all coherent thought is banished. Even after the best part of twenty years, the loss of his mother hits hard, as does the freefall his life went into after that. Underlying all of this is the terrible thought that his Dad might have been right. John cannot concede that point, his life is so heavily invested in his being right and his father being wrong and that is all there is to it. The old man watches him awhile, hoping that the anger will abate. Hoping that John will come to himself. Hoping against hope that he will see the little boy he raised. The one who was the pea in his pod. The child who had existed in this world before the complete, unwarranted and inexplicable rejection. A rejection forged in the grip of a woman clinging on too tightly to a little boy she did not want to see grow up and leave her. And he never did leave her. The old man knows that John never left the house he shared with his mother. He never married. Just like his mother, he failed to move on. He failed to launch, and this went against everything the old man was about and everything they had shared together as the boy was growing up. Father and son had been inseparable. They had shared so much. Their time together was never dull, even when they sat together and watched a film after a day out in the wilds, the bond between them fizzed with life and energy. The old man devoted himself to his only child and was constantly reminded of what was important in life, he learnt from John even as he taught the little lad all he knew, all that was important to know in order to go out into the world and stand on his own two feet. All of that was torn apart in a moment that was a long time coming. John’s mother wanted different things for John. John’s mother wanted control. She accommodated his father under a watchful sufferance and made darn sure that John knew where his allegiances lay. When he was very young, she questioned him unceasingly about his time with his father until John was in the habit of going full disclosure on his Dad. John’s mother would show her displeasure at what she heard of John’s time with his father. Unhappy at the undue risks a father exposes his children to, she managed this father out to the margins of life, so that John was clear on what and who was important. The old man rolled with this. What else could he do? Besides, his bond with John was strong and nothing could tear them apart. Or so he had thought.

In believing this, he walked blindly into the worst of moments. When the hammer blow came, John’s father was devastated and crushed. The pain was beyond anything he could have imagined. But again, what could he do? He couldn’t force his boy to do anything and he wouldn’t resort to that. Reason was the only way forward as far as the man was concerned, but neither John nor his mother would ever see reason.

The old man inwardly sighs as he sees that John will not let go, not even after all these years. He will never see reason, but it is enough that he is here. This is more than the old man had ever hoped for, after the first weeks and months of rejection rolled over him and crushed the very life out of him. He has to ask the question all the same, he tries to ask it as gently as is possible, “what brought you here, today of all days?” All of a sudden, John looks shaken and somehow smaller. Vulnerable. The old man’s heart goes out to him and all he sees is his little boy. The boy he would take in his arms and reassure with a hug and words of support and advice, helping him to see a way through to a brighter place. Raising his head and urging him forward. Onwards and upwards. Always onwards, ever upwards. “I’m dying,” he tells his father. A dreadful silence falls over the room. The old man is angry, but he does not want to respond with anger. His anger is justified and yet it is not. Why did John wait all this time to come to see him? He should never have walked away. Now, in reconciling himself with his father, he is taking it all away again, only this time with a cruel finality that cannot be argued with. What a waste! “You and me both, Sparrow…” says the old man sadly. They sit in silence some more. Then the old man speaks to dispel the silence, not wanting to waste these precious moments that they still have afforded to them, “how long have you got?” “Not long,” John whispers, his face contorting as he fights his tears. “You’ve only just been diagnosed?” asks his Dad. John nods, “cancer. Riddled with it.” “I’m so sorry Sparrow,” says the old man. “Are you?” John snaps angrily. “Yes. Yes, I wish we could have had more time together,” replies his father. Now John is vehemently shaking his head, “that was never going to happen.” The old man opens his mouth, but stays the words that he was on the verge of speaking. He sees the truth of it now. His son did not come here to reconcile himself to his father. His son does not see the point to that now, and there is nothing the old man can do to change his mind. There was nothing he could ever do. That was all down to John, and one day, John stopped listening to his father. He took sides when there were no sides to take, there was only John. There was only ever John, but the boy didn’t see it that way and he decided not to see his Dad again. John decided to punish his father.

After all this time, the old man wonders what John can be punishing him for now. He cannot see the point in any further punishment. There has been too much hurt already. But then he sees it. He sees what John sees, and can only wish that this were not the case. There is nothing he can say to make it right. Nothing to be said after all this time. The old man was right. He was right all along. But for the old man, it was never about being right and this John sees too.

It just was. The old man stood up for his values and he stood by what was right. He stood up for John, his son, his little boy. Yet the little boy defied him. John didn’t see what was right. He did not value that and he did not value himself. He believed in people instead. He believed his mother was right, come what may. He placed a complete and misguided loyalty into a single human being, and it trapped him in a life that was a pale shadow of the one that he was meant to lead. John painted himself into a corner and blinded himself to the truth of it with his anger, then he drowned himself in an avalanche of hurt and pain. All he could see was conflict. He stubbornly needed to be right, even though he knew he was wrong right from the very start. The pain of it told him that much. All these years have been pointless waste. There was no need for any of it. No one wanted this for him. No one. But he could not let go. Even now, he convinces himself that this is the case. That he

couldn’t

let go, not that he chose to hold on to something that twisted him out of shape and hurt him each and every day. That in the end he would rather hold onto a falsehood and the pain it brought with it, than to his own father’s hand. John stands up, shaking with all those emotions he took with him that fateful day all those years ago when he walked away from this man. “Sparrow…” the old man’s voice is strong, powerful and just the same as it was back then. John is the petulant little boy. Brim full of confusing emotions and thoughts. Too proud to accept his father. Too stubborn to back down. They play out the same sad scene and there is nothing the old man can do to change a thing.

“…please don’t,” he says in a voice diminished by the years and the constant pain of separation from the one thing he loved most in the world. The one thing he thought he’d lost forever. He watches his little Sparrow walk towards the door of the room, walking out of his life yet again. John does not turn back. He does not see the stricken look on the face of the old man, he fails to see the look of utter and complete love of a father for his son. John does not see his father take a final stuttering breath. The old man is dead before John has left the room.


Trigger Warning: Substance Abuse, Death - I watch in utter helplessness as my father takes another swig from his handle of vodka. He no longer pours himself glasses of this ruthless poison as he once used to; instead, he has graduated to simply drinking straight from the bottle. Though he bought the handle only a mere few hours ago, half of it has already been emptied into his stomach for his failing liver to process. I glance concernedly at his abdomen, which has become distended – the hospital diagnosed him with ascites and an inflamed liver when I brought him to the emergency room a couple of nights ago. The nurses had pulled me aside and advised me to begin gathering my support system, for they did not believe that he had much longer to live due to his severe addiction to alcohol.               I have never quite understood his obsession with alcohol. He began drinking at the young age of 14; his parents – my grandparents – never batted an eye, even as his drinking grew more and more frequent. He still functioned well, so I suppose that they did not see an issue with him indulging himself and his love for alcohol. Perhaps what they failed to understand is that he was already an alcoholic – even then, at 14 years old – despite his ability to function; to put simply, he was a functioning alcoholic, but still an alcoholic, nonetheless. Had they sought the proper treatment for him at that age, maybe life would be different today. Maybe he would be a healthy 56-year-old man with decades of wonderful life splayed before him. Maybe our relationship would be different . . . maybe it would be healthier. Maybe all the trauma that I have endured at the hands of this nasty addiction would not exist, and I would be more whole and more grounded. These are things that we will never know because his parents ignored his alcoholism, and time travel (in an effort to warn them of what was to come) is a thing of science fiction.               He is now essentially on his deathbed. He has not eaten in quite a number of days due to the pressure of the fluid accumulating in his abdomen from the ascites and his dying liver – it makes him feel full after one bite of food, so he refuses to eat altogether.               Drinking, however? Of course , he can still drink! Never mind eating and thus never mind the fact that he is also starving himself to death; as long as he can still drink his vodka – that absolutely disgusting poison – he is “okay.” Needless to say, he is not “okay” in the slightest sense of the word. As his abdomen continues to expand, his arms and legs grow skinnier. He is effectively anorexic, and his liver is failing; with a heavy and broken heart, I realize that it will not take much longer for death to follow.               Behind closed doors, when he is restlessly sleeping, I often grieve. I grieve for the man who is still alive, but who is killing himself before me because he is completely powerless against his addiction. I grieve for the father he never was, but could have been, had he never taken that first sip. I grieve for all that he has put me through; I grieve for the past, for the present, for the future – for all that ever was, and for all that never will be.               Addiction is a relentless and powerful disease. It does not just affect the person who struggles with the addiction; it affects all those around him as well. It has shattered me into pieces that I am still struggling to fit back together at the age of 25. Though I am an adult, I still feel as though I am a wounded child who wishes desperately for her father to snap out of his alcoholism and see that he is so deeply loved. Like a child, I find myself wishing that I was enough of a reason – as his daughter – to put the damned drink down and actually live , but as an adult, I know that is simply not how addiction works. Once addiction sinks its unforgiving claws into a person, it is incredibly reluctant to release that hold . . . if it ever does. It never did release my father.               Dad clumsily sets the handle down on the table with a thud . His eyes, glazed with intoxication and yellowed from jaundice, turn to me, and his thin lips crack into a drunk grin. As horrible as he looks, he does appear to be happy under the blanket of alcohol intoxication.               I feel rage rising within me; how dare he have the audacity to smile at me after all that he has put me through and is continuing to put me through? And then that fury is immediately replaced with guilt; he is ill from a disease against which is utterly powerless, so how could I be angry with him? I should be infuriated with his addiction, not my father. And I should be infuriated with his parents for not having gotten him the help he so clearly needed as a young teenager. Again, I feel the rage return, causing my body to burn and tremble – they could have prevented this, could they not?               But instead of speaking stinging words of fury, I simply return the smile. It is forced, but I figure a forced smile is better than no smile, for to discuss such thoughts with him is futile. I have learned in my years of watching him spiral into the darkest depths of alcoholism that speaking to him about serious matters regarding his drinking behavior is akin to speaking to a brick wall. The conversation typically goes nowhere because he either ignores me or becomes so defensive that it is absolutely pointless to continue the conversation. So, instead, I return the smile.               “What is it, Dad?” I inquire gently, choking back the rage that is rising within my throat.               “You look beautiful,” he slurs in response. “Almost as beautiful as that fairy over there.” He points past my shoulder to the far right corner of the room.               Wondering what in the hell he is talking about, I offer a swift glance over my shoulder at the empty corner. There is nothing there – not even a shadow. How odd , I think to myself. Dad usually doesn’t hallucinate when he drinks.

My gaze returns to my father whose eyes are now focused on the corner as though he sees a creature of unadulterated beauty standing within it. I wonder if the hallucination is perhaps a symptom of his failing liver – I will have to research that later to be certain.               “Is the fairy still there?” I ask curiously.               “Yes,” he croaks. “And my God, is she beautiful.”               If there is one thing that I learned from my mother who worked as a psychiatric nurse, it is that delusions should not be broken by those who are not trained in mental health. Therefore, instead of arguing with him and telling him that the corner is in fact empty and he is quite simply out of his mind, I again peak over my shoulder at the corner in which there stands nothing. I then look back at my father and offer another smile.               “Yes, she is beautiful,” I agree kindly. “But it is time for you to go to bed. You have another appointment in the morning.” Another useless appointment, I should’ve said, but didn’t, for what good would that have done? But that is indeed the truth; it is just a consultation with a gastroenterologist to determine what our next steps should be in my father’s journey with his alcoholism, though I know that my father will not listen.               He heaves a childlike sigh and retrieves his huge bottle of vodka from where it rests on the table. I grimace as he swallows, swallows, swallows . . . I suppose he wants to drink as much as he can before he goes to sleep. Finally, after many gulps, he slams the vodka down on the table and screws the cap back onto the top of the handle.               “Alright,” he slurs again. “I’ll good to bed. I’m tired, anyway. But don’t let that fairy leave. I like her.”               “I won’t let her leave,” I assure him. “Now, go on to bed.”               On wobbly arms, he lifts himself from his seat to stand on equally wobbly legs. He raises his arms above his head and briefly stretches, exposing his abdomen that looks more similar to a pregnancy bump than to a beer belly. Then he staggers into his room, mindful of keeping the door open in case I need to check on him, and collapses upon the bed. Before he can even cover himself with his blanket, he is blissfully unconscious.               Having sent him to bed, I walk on weak legs to my own room, and weep. I weep for my father who has fallen victim to this disease of addiction – specifically, alcoholism – and I weep for myself. Loving an alcoholic is beyond difficult . . . beyond heartbreaking, even. It is so hard to watch someone you love so deeply kill himself through means of his addiction. It simply is not fair. I know that life is not fair, but why, of all people, did it have to be my father who would have to be so ill and powerless in the face of his addiction? Why did he ever have to be addicted in the first place? And why was I never enough?               From his room, I hear odd, exasperated breathing. I am swift to wipe away the tears as I run to his room, only to find him on the floor clutching at his chest and struggling to gasp for breath. His breathing is erratic and noisy; each breath is accompanied with a strange grunt, and there are long pauses from one breath to the next.               I rush to his side and immediately collapse upon the floor next to him. With strength I did not know I possessed, I heave his upper body into my lap so that he is leaning up against me, hoping desperately that the change in position will allow him an opportunity to breathe with more ease. My hopes are dashed as the odd and terrifying breaths continue. Helpless and wildly unsure as to what is happening, I work my hand into my pocket and retrieve my phone. I dial 911 and immediately begin explaining to the operator about my father’s intense struggles with breathing.               As she begins to tell me what to do to help him, his body suddenly becomes limp within my arms. The grunting stops, the pause stretches and stretches until I am suddenly certain that he is no longer breathing. Horrified and desperate to save Dad’s life, I drop the phone, rest my father’s body upon the floor, and immediately begin administering CPR.               “Come on, daddy,” I plead through tears. “Please don’t leave me! Not yet!”               In the faint distance, familiar sirens sound. An ambulance is coming. But looking at my father, who still lies limply upon the floor, I realize that any help he is to receive from the paramedics will come too late, for he is not responding to the CPR. I pause to check for a pulse in his neck – and utter a long shriek of unadulterated agony when I find none.               I lost him. I lost my father.               I lost Dad.               When the paramedics arrive, they try to revive him. They attempt to restart his heart with the paddles, but to no avail.               Dad is gone. His addiction finally robbed him of his life at the young age of 56.               Not in my right mind, I walk into the kitchen where we were just sitting moments ago. I take the handle of vodka and throw it onto the ground; glass shatters everywhere and the liquid splatters onto both the floor and my legs. I am furious that this monster took my father’s life. I am hurt beyond belief. I am heartbroken and shattered all over again.               What would life have been like if he had not taken that first sip at 14 years old? What would life have been like if his parents had intervened and gotten him the support he so desperately required?               Maybe . . . maybe I would still have a father, my Dad.


This is a story about a person named Mrs. Hem and her husband Mr. Hem who used to live with their 2 children in a village named Clinton . The people of Clinton are very superstitious and ardent believer of hallucination and they are guided in all these stuffs by the village pastor. Mrs hem is no exception among them , even she is above them in all these things. The couple used to earn their livelihood by selling dairy products and milk obtained from their 3 cows. The couple aspires to own a barn along with 15- 20 cows. And for that they are continuously saving money from months. Now, they have enough money to buy one more cow so they decided to buy a cow from the barn situated 10 miles from their house. Mrs. Hem being staunt follower of the pastor went to him to ask if  she could buy cow tomorrow . The pastor replied " yes , you can buy the cow tomorrow but be careful that 10 black cats should not cross your path otherwise some misfortune would occur." Mrs hem being confident that she would be able to reach her destiny without crossing of cats went home without any tension. Next Day the couple went on foot towards the barn. They only reached half a mile away near a fish shop , suddenly a black cat holding fish in her mouth came running from the shop amd crossed their path. The couple took no care of this and resumed their journey. Then after 1 mile more , a dog chasing a black cat crosses their path accidentally. The couple  thought for a while but took no headache of it and casually walked away. While walking they entered into a quarrel about the colour of the cow and 1 black cat along with her 3 black kittens crosses their path . The couple only came to know about this when it was too late . Now 6 cats have crossed their path .Mrs . Hem panicked but mr. hem consoled her by saying ' no more cats will come , don't worry.' Now for some  miles everything was going well until a accident took place between two motorcycles and the person holding a cage sitting at the back of one of the motorcycle fell. When he felled, the cage also felled and opened. Three black cats ran hastily out of the cage and crosses their path one by one , only to make their fear worse. Both got goosebumps and now the 1 mile gap was looking  100 miles for them. Only one more black cat was left now. Every step was feeling heavy for them. Gradually they reached their destiny. When they were about to enter the barn, a black cat jump from the terrace of neighbour and crosses their path. Mrs. Hem being terrified decided to abandon the idea of buying a cow and went home. Mr hem had to comply with his dominating wife. While they were on the way back, they saw a huge cloud of smoke in the sky and people rushing and gossiping . After enquiring about what happen, they came to know that the barn caught fire . Mrs hem was disheartened as she believes that her misfortune has caught the barn and that the owner of the barn has became the victim of her misfortune. When they reached home, they saw a new cow standing near their cow. They went near the cow and saw the belt of that barn and understood that it has ran away from barn due to fire . The couple decided to return the cow next day. Next day they again went to the barn to give back the cow. But the barnowner told that he has little to feed even for his own family so he could not feed the cow. All of his cows ran away and the remaining he sold away at very low prices. If she wanted she could keep the cow as it was found to her in her house. Mrs. Hem gladly accepted the cow. This is how the misfortune turns to be fortunate for Mrs. Hem.


I just woke up in my bed and saw a door exactly in front of me. Wait, but this is my bedroom! And it never had any door except the one that connects it to the hallway. It looked like someone constructed a guest room overnight. I was curious to see what was inside. I got up and reached the door to open it. When I went inside, I saw that it didn't look like a new room at all. "Where am I? This is strange. Hello...anybody here..?" I looked around, there was no one over there. I immediately tried to unlock the door but couldn't. After all, how was l supposed to open the door that wasn't there at all! There can't be a door to an imaginary room. Yes, it was a dream. The door was gone. I thought I was trapped in there. I turned towards the room. It wasn't really big but there were very few things placed at the corners that made it look vacant. The old furniture and dim lights gave it a rustic look. In one corner there was a pile of clothes, I walked towards it, took one of the clothes in my hands, and realised that they were all mine. They were all oversized clothes which I used to wear when I was fat. But how did they come here? I had thrown them away. Just when I was thinking about the clothes, I smelled something, something so good that my stomach started growling. There was a table at the center of the room, a round table full of plates. I rushed towards it and observed all the plates placed on it, they were full of sweets and namkeen that I love. "Wow, this is a feast! So tempting but how could I eat this? I'm on this never-ending diet and everything here is what I'm not supposed to eat!" I told myself to gather all the strength and stepped away from the table. But I was starving. I felt like I could eat a horse. "I know I'm going to regret this but I'll regret it even more if I don't eat this. Anyway, I'm ready for the consequences." I grabbed a chair and started gobbling up the food. Everything was delicious. The sweets were literally melting in my mouth and the namkeen was perfectly flavored. Both were complementing each other. In no time my stomach was full, and I felt contented. My tummy wasn't flattened anymore. There was a bump due to the junk food that I ate. Across the table, there was a mirror slanting on the wall. I stood in front of it. It was just like the Mirror of Erised from Hogwarts. In that mirror, I was looking fat like old times. My face was full of acne and acne marks. I got scared and started trembling. I touched my face but there was nothing, I touched my body but it wasn't fat like the mirror showed. The mirror was magical, it was showing my past. The past from which I had run away. I couldn't stand there, I stepped aside. In the other corner, there was a side table. And the things on it drew my attention towards it. A strange device having only an on/off switch was connected to the headphones. I put on those headphones and pressed the button on that device. Some random people were talking about a girl as if they were passing comments on her. "She looks like a football", "She is too fat to wear such clothes", "Keep eating like that and you won't get married at all", "You look too old for your age", "You should be eating healthy food to stay in shape", "Oh, forget the body, look at her face that's not pretty", "Boy, she must have to photoshop before posting a picture with that face!", and it went on and on. "It was me! They were all talking about me!", I said to myself while taking off the headphones. My eyes were full of tears, I started walking back and forth anxiously. While walking, I noticed that the table with food on it had vanished. But that was not just it. I was startled by the sight before me. One-fourth part of the door appeared on the wall. Something inside me just clicked and I realised where I was. It was the room of my insecurities. And by eating the food that I denied for years just to stay in shape, I had won over one of my insecurities. I knew what I had to do. I went to the pile of clothes, picked the purple dress that was used to be my most favorite, and wore it. At first, I thought it will fit loose, but it fitted well. I loved the dress and felt comfortable. As soon as I smiled, the other clothes disappeared and another part of the door appeared making half of the door visible. Then I walked towards the mirror. I saw myself in that purple dress and it just changed my mood. I was happy, I knew it suited me well, and felt confident. Whether I looked fat or thin, my skin was clear or not, didn't mattered anymore. I smiled and admired myself and the mirror was gone. Yes, it was working, three-fourth of the door was visible now. The last thing was there to get rid of, the headphones. I wore the headphones, turned on the button, and before anybody could speak, I started speaking in the microphone, "I am strong, I am wise, and I am beautiful in my own way. That's all that matters." There were no voices. I took off the headphones, kept them on the table. Within seconds, it all vanished, and then the remaining part of the door appeared. I had done it. I had overcome all my insecurities. I opened the door and went back to my bedroom. It was a relief. The door had disappeared. And I knew it had disappeared forever. I had fought my battles and fought them well. When I blinked and opened my eyes, I was in my bed. It was a wonderful dream and I woke up to be a completely different person. What I saw in that dream were the things that I had buried deep down in my heart. Now, they were all gone. It was a splendid morning.


Section 1: Voices

“But mom I don’t want to go outside it’s so hot,” ten-year-old Gordon whined. “It’s the summertime, in my day all we did was play outside,” Gordon’s mom Patricia said. “Agh, fine,” Gordon said enthusiastically.

Gordon walked into the garage that was stale with hot humidity. He grabbed both grips of his dark purple GT Mountain bike and walked his back to the end of the driveway.

Gordon looked back, and saw he forgot to close the garage door, he rushed back to close it. It was so hot outside just that act made his forehead sweaty. Gordon got on his bike and pedaled away.

Once Gordon arrived at the local playground, he looked around and saw it was a ghost town. The town of Aferton was in a drought, and the grass was dry and yellowing. The dirt that the playground was centered it was blowing around and crunched when Gordon stepped foot on it.

The slides were green plastic, the swings seats were black rubber, but the Mary go-round was metal. Gordon tried the Mary go round first, but once he grabbed the red metal handles he immediately had to let go. “Ow!” He said to himself, the metal handle felt like it was two hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

Gordon decided to move to the green plastic tube slide, and after a couple of slides down he go bored. Gordon went back to his back that he seat down, and was about to leave until he heard the rusty swings moving back and forth.

Gordon looked up and saw the four swings in the set moving back and forth all on their own. Gordon’s skin broke out in goosebumps, the wind picked up to fifteen miles per hour, and the air suddenly felt twenty degrees cooler. “Run” A kid's voice shouted. Gordon quickly began to make a 360-degree movement, looking around for anyone else at the playground.

“You have to leave they are coming!” The voice cried out again. Gordon looked around, and the Mary go round now began to spin itself very quickly. “They want to hurt you just like they hurt me!” The voice cried out again. Gordon was now panicking, he rushed to his bike but slipped on the dry dusty dirt. Gordon looked and saw he skinned his elbow, but at the moment that was the least of his worries.

Gordon hopped on his bike pedaling faster than he ever had before. Gordon looked back and the things happening at the playground stopped once he was only within ten feet away. Gordon took a deep breath and finished his ride home.

“Done already? You were only gone thirty minutes,” Gordon’s mom asked as Gordon entered the kitchen. “Yeah,” gordon said. “Did you have fun?” His mom asked. “Yeah sure I guess,” he said nonchalantly. Gordon thought to himself, “Do I really want to tell her what I just saw? She would keep me locked inside forever,”

“Want a Gatorade?” His mom asked. “No I’m ok,” Gordon said now rushing to his room. Once in there, he had an inner debate with himself. “Do I go back and figure out what all that was about or do I forget about it?” He thought.

Gordon suddenly began to have a pounding headache, the room got frigid. “Don’t go back to the playground!” A child’s voice cried out in his head, it was the same voice he heard earlier at the park. “Who are you?” Gordon called out to his empty room, he wondered if he was going crazy. “They stock that playground, I was not the first kid, and I won’t be the last unless we work together to stop them,” the voice said.

“They’ve been doing it for years, and have still not been caught,” the voice continued. “I am going crazy, I just know it,” Gordon said to himself. “Why won’t you tell me who you are?” Gordon asked curiously. “My name is Donny, when I was eleven I was kidnapped and then killed later that night at the same playground you go to, it happened 15 years ago,” Donny continued, “I have an idea, but I’ll need your help,” Donny had said.

Section 2: The Kidnapping

15 years before Gordon was born, an eleven-year-old boy named Donny was taken right from the same playground Gordon now played at. Two men drove up to the side of the park in a beat-up painter's van, the one on the passenger side hopped out and ran towards Donny as the other quickly opened the back door.

Donny began to panic and darted toward his bike. Donny thought he was going to be able to get away, and then he felt big hands on his shoulder. “No!” Donny screamed. “Shut up!” The kidnapper said holding his hand over Donny’s mouth. Donny tried to yell out “Help!”, but it was just muffled. The guy who grabbed Donny threw him in the back as the other made a hearty laugh, and slammed the back door shut. “Where are you taking me!” Donny screamed. The two men laughed and hit the back door of the van hard.

What Donny did not know was the pure evil these two men possessed. Donny would not know it till the time was up on his life. The men sped off making an audible tire screech as they did so. It was the middle of July in Texas, so the heat and humidity were unbearable. The two men left Donny in the back of the hot van and parked at their hideout for hours before returning to finish him.

Donny awoke in the very early hours of the morning, first, he thought it had all been a terrible dream. Once he got acclimated to his surroundings he realized it was no dream. Donny had been tied up with a rope, had a cloth around his mouth and for extra precautions, the kidnapper's handcuffed his hands and shackled his ankles.

Donny began to panic when he heard the kidnappers coming towards the van. They were not speaking in a loud tone but the sound of their shoes crunching on the gravel outside had been loud enough. “So what do you want to do with the kid,” one of the men asked the other. “What we do with all the other kids we’ve snatched up, torture them, and watch them scream,” the other man said with a chuckle.

The two men walked around to the back of the van, and what little light there was from the street lights and the moon radiating in the sky blinded Donny as he glanced up at the two men.

“Alright twerp time for your medicine,” one of them said. “You grab that side I’ll grab the feet,” the other guy said. What happened next to Donny was terrifying. The last thing Donny felt were the hot tears streaming down his face, and the pain as the kidnappers took his legs away from his body. Once the kidnapper finished their torcher they packed the dismantled limbs into a suitcase and threw it in the back of the van.

The kidnappers always liked to bury bodies at the playground they kidnapped from, no one ever thought to look in those locations. They never understood why, and they didn’t plan on questioning it now. They also never understood why parents continued to allow the children to go to the playground alone, they had been at this for a couple of months and the disappearances from this park were all over the news.

The kidnappers brought shovels with them as normal with this kind of thing they did. It was 3 A.M. and the town was still quietly asleep. As they approached the playground the kidnappers cut off the lights to the van. They hopped the curb and drove close to a set of woods that outlined the playground.

The kidnappers began to dig the burial hole swiftly and would stop now and then for water breaks. This was the moment that always got their blood pumping, and gave them this high they would continue to chase for years.

Section 3: Revenge

It had been a couple of weeks since Gordon had last heard from or thought about Donny. Donny had told Gordon the story of what happened to him, and Gordon had stayed away from the playground. Today was the day that changed, and after today no child would go through what Donny went through.

Donny and Gordon made a plan to catch the kidnappers once and for all, but Gordon didn’t know how horrific the act would be. “Are you ready for today?” Donny said to Gordon. “Yes,” Gordon said in a monotone shaky voice. “ I can feel them, they are going to be at the playground today I just know it,” Donny said with some excitement.

With a tightly twisted stomach, Gordon went to the garaged and hopped on his bike. As Gordon got about five minutes from the park, he saw a van following him out of the corner of his eye. It was the kidnappers and Gordon felt it deep in his stomach. Gordon timidly stepped off his bike as he arrived at the playground, and began to play on the Mary go round.

“They followed me all the way here,” Gordon said to the empty park praying Donny would follow through with the plan. There was no response from Donny to what Gordon had just said. “I have to be going crazy,” Gordon said shaking his head and looking down at the ground.

Gordon was staring at the ground watching his shadow sway back and forth on the Mary go round. Gordon gasped as he saw two larger shadows appear overhead. Gordon looked up, “How are you doing kid?” One of the men said with a wide grin. “Let's get him!” The other side.

Gordon began to crawl to the other side of the Mary go round. The kidnappers didn’t think to just go around to the other side and followed Gordon through the middle of the Mary go round. Gordon was able to exit the Mary go round first, and as soon as he did so the kidnappers were met with a big surprise. The Mary go round began to spin very quickly, Gordon guessed about 30 miles per hour, and this lasted for about ten minutes. The kidnappers began to cuss, and holler at Gordon telling him “Make it stop, and we will give you go easy on you at first,” The Mary go round stopped abruptly, and the two kidnappers went flying and landed right in front of the swing sets. The swing set now had two broken swings which hung by a single strand of metal rings for each swing. Once the kidnappers tried to stand up, their heads were swimming and their vision had doubled from being so dizzy.

The chains from the swing set swung around the kidnapper's ankles. “What's going on here!” one of them yelled at Gordon, who was now watching with wide eyes. The kidnappers were dropped on their heads, and even though the kidnappers were in pain, they felt relief.

The kidnappers took a while to get to their feet, but once they did they grinned at Gordon, “You are in big trouble mister,” one of the kidnappers said with an evil grin. As the two began to step forward they heard the clinking of the swing chains again.

They turned around and this was when their lives finally came to an end. The hot metal chain quickly wrapped around the kidnapper's throat. Their eyes began to bulge out of their eye sockets, their faces turned a purplish red, and green veins began to pop. “This is for all the kids you've hurt!” Gordon screamed at the two kidnappers.

Donny could feel their lives being drained from them, and once their lives met an end he dropped their bodies from the chain. Gordon was terrified after seeing two human beings murdered but knew it was necessary.

“What happens now?” Gordon asked Donny. “You go home, tell your mother you never went to the park today, you decided to go to the library instead,” Donny said. “What about the bodies?” Gordon asked staring at the dead kidnappers. “Someone will see them and call the police eventually,” Donny said coldly. “The other children and I can now rest knowing these two won't hurt again,” Donny said.

“I might have nightmares,” Gordon said as his eyes were still on the bodies. “Small price to pay for justice,” Donny said. That had been the last of Gordon’s communication with Donny. As Gordon slowly rode his bike home, deep in his mind he asked himself, “Was that the right thing to do?”


“I’m bored,” Tina said, her thirteen-year-old face expressionless. “How long we gotta stay in this house?” She leaned against the refrigerator. “I miss Massachusetts.” Karen Miller sighed, placed her hands on her hips, and said, “Sweetheart, we move every year, you know that. And how many times do I have to keep explaining to you about the damn virus situation?” “But this is stupid.” “Until the virus shit is under control, we have to avoid unnecessary interaction with other individuals, understand? We don’t want people to ask questions, right?” “Who cares,” Tina said. “I’d be better than staying in this house. In this stupid state.” The coronavirus known as COVID-19 was responsible for keeping Tina out of middle school and her mother home from work at the college, her position deemed nonessential by the powers that be. In fact, most of Naperville was on lockdown. However, the virus hadn’t affected her dad’s job because he worked from home anyway; he was a computer programmer for a software company based in Silicon Valley. “I’ll tell you what,” Karen said. “When Dad finishes his conference call, we can ask him if he would like to play a game.” Tina’s eyes grew wide; she jumped, her long, blonde curls spraying in every direction. And the moment her socks touched the kitchen floor, she asked, “Monopoly?” Karen frowned at her daughter.

I hate that fucking game , she thought.

Why not drive a dull knife though my eye?  “You know your father does not like to play that game. So . . . maybe we should let him pick. What do you think about that?” “But Dad always—” “Dad always what?” Mike said, stepping into the kitchen. He had a Bluetooth earpiece attached to his left ear and was still dressed in New England Patriots pajamas—even though it was almost six o’clock in the evening. “Daddy,” Tina squealed, “you wanna play a game?” “Sure, squirt. I’m done with work for the day.” Karen tapped a wooden spoon on the edge of a big pot that was simmering on the front burner of the stove. “After we eat dinner, that is. The stew will be ready in about fifteen minutes.” She looked her husband up and down. “You smell like death. Take a shower and put on some real clothes.” She placed the spoon on a ceramic spoon rest shaped like a pineapple. “Maybe an outfit more appropriate for your age.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “You are not a college student dividing his time between frat parties, drunk sorority girls, and bong hits.” She locked eyes with him. “Once, just once, I would love for you to act your age.” “Are you guys gonna fight again?” Tina asked. “No, sweetheart,” Karen said, “I’m just having some fun with your father.” She looked at him with disdain. “Right, Mike?” Through clenched teeth, he said, “Yeah, right. Just a little fun. Your mother is quite the comedian.” He turned and left the room. To her daughter, she said, “Go wash up for dinner.” Tina cocked her head. “But I already—” “Now, young lady.” Tina plodded off without uttering another word, for which her mother was grateful. And now the room was quiet, except for the soft bubbling sound coming from the stew. Karen closed her eyes and rubbed her temples in soft circles. She said aloud to herself, “Take a deep breath. At least the day is almost over.” She opened a cabinet door and removed a glass. “And you have plenty of wine.” After a lengthy and uncomfortable dinner, they all gathered in the living room, seated on the carpet around a rustic wooden coffee table. The room was lit by two lamps on either side of a brown leather sofa. The cream lamp shades cast an eerie glow that created ghostly shadows around the room and etched hard lines on all of their pallid faces. “Dad, what game do you wanna play?” Tina asked. “Sorry, Life, or . . .” “Anything but Monopoly, right?” Karen said, taking a drink out of her third glass of wine. “Let’s see . . . decisions, decisions,” Mike said. “Hey, I got an outstanding idea.” He pointed one index finger toward the ceiling. “How about we play my favorite game?” He glanced from daughter to wife. “What about that?” Karen took a gulp of wine and said, “Obviously, you have forgotten what happened the last time we played that game.” “Yeah! And you tried to cheat, too, Dad,” Tina added. He lifted his head in a theatrical manner and sniffed loudly. “What is that smell . . . it smells like . . . chicken.” Karen drained her wineglass; her ruddy cheeks were now even rosier. “Fine with me. If you’re ready for your funeral, then so am I.” She smiled at him sadistically. “Chicken it is,” Tina said, raising both fists in the air in a symbol of victory. “But you two can’t fight, okay?” Ignoring his daughter’s comment, he said, “I’ll get the knife. You grab the sand timer, sweetheart. Not the one from the Boggle game, but the thirty-second timer.” “I know, I know. The red one.” Karen lifted her glass and said, “I’ll pour some more wine.” Mike narrowed his eyes and said, “Darling, you might want to stay sober. Don’t want you to have an excuse when you lose.” “Darling,” Karen said, “you might want to plant your thin, chapped lips on my big, white ass.” Tina tittered. And a few moments later, they were all back in the living room. A large butcher knife and a plastic hourglass with red ends now lay in the center of the coffee table, kitty-cornered to a glass of merlot placed in front of Karen. “Who’s going first?” Tina asked. “The same person that has gone first for the last fifty-plus years,” Karen said, then took another gulp of wine. She hiccupped, swallowed hard, and added, “If nothing else, this family is mind-numbingly consistent.” Mike picked up the threatening weapon by its black handle. “Okay, remember the rules.” He stuck the tip of the blade into the surface of the wooden table, dead center, butt of the knife jutting upward. “Once the timer is started, you have thirty seconds. The other two have to keep their hands flat on the table—fingers spread.” He looked at his wife. “And if you pull your hand away . . .” Karen stuck up her middle finger at him. “How ladylike,” Mike said. “Now, as I was saying. If you move your hand, you lose. And if the timer runs out, it’s the next person’s turn—in a clockwise rotation.”  “Come on, Dad,” Tina said, “let’s play sometime tonight.” “Okay, okay, take your positions,” he said. Tina and Karen placed their hands on the table, fingers splayed out wide. Tina’s hands were directly in from of her, pinkies almost touching, but her mother’s hands were left and right of the wineglass placed in front of her. Mike rubbed his palms together. “Here goes nothing.” He flipped the timer over; sand began to spill from the top bulb into the bottom bulb. His eyes fixated on the butcher knife. Several seconds later, apparently concentrating so intensely his entire body trembled, the knife began to vibrate. “Move dammit!” “Times’s up!” Tina said, nodding at the hourglass. “Nothing for you.” “Shit, I almost had it. I was so, so close.” Karen leaned over to her husband and whispered into his ear, “Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and stories about women you almost fucked.” “Umm, you said a dirty word.” Tina clasped her hands over her ears. “No fighting, guys, please.” “Your turn, Dirty Girl,” Mike said, flipping the timer over. Tina and her father placed their hands on the table. Karen concentrated on the knife, focusing her ice blue eyes first on the blade, then the handle, and finally the tip—which was partially embedded in the wood.

Move you piece of shit.  The knife wobbled back and forth. Her eyes widened, and she clenched her teeth. The knife jumped into the air, hovered for a second, and shot downward, sticking into the surface of the table halfway between her husband’s index and middle finger. “Damn! That was close,” Mike said, yanking his hands from the table. “Thought I had another hole in my hand coming.” “Way to go, Mom,” Tina said. “My turn, my turn.” “Your precious hand would heal by morning,” Karen said. She took a sip of wine and then under her breath, “Unfortunately, you insignificant prick.” Tina took her turn but wasn’t successful in moving the knife. “It’s not fair. I never win at this stupid game.” She folded her arms. “Why can’t we ever play Monopoly?” “My turn again,” he said. After his wife and daughter had positioned their hands on the table, Mike began his turn. This time, he managed to get the knife raised into the air; however, it flipped on its side and zipped wildly to the left, piercing Karen’s left eye. “Oops, my bad.” “You are a bumbling, worthless, sack of shit,” Karen said. Blood now oozed from her eye and ran down her face in tendrils. “This is the last time I’m playing this damn game. Do you hear me? The last fucking time.” She grabbed the knife by the handle and pulled. There was a wet, squishy sound as she removed the blade. “That shit hurt.” She tossed the knife onto the table. Tina reached over and put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “You’ve been saying that for years, Mom. But it’ll be healed by morning—like you told Dad, right?” Karen looked at her daughter with the only good eye she had at the moment. “This game is over. Time for bed, smartass.” Tina started to appeal to her father, but he shook his head. “This isn’t fair. I hate both of you. I wish you guys would have died in that car accident.” She stormed out of the room. “Me, too,” Karen said, covering her bloody eye socket with one hand and guzzling wine with the other hand. “Anything would be preferable to this horror that never ends.” She thought about crying, about screaming until she felt better, but what was the point. “And you, dumbass, get me a towel.” She put her glass down on the table. “And fill that up, too.” “At least we have each other,” Matt said. “Sure, we have our problems, but at least we’re all together.” She smiled at him with an exaggerated lovingness. “Sweetheart, I’m bleeding all over my clothes. Get me a damn towel and some wine. Now!” And they lived happily ever after, and after, and after . . .


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The setting sun picked out the brilliant autumn colors, which rapidly dimmed as the light faded. Despite the illusion of fiery radiance from the oranges, reds and yellows of the leaves, the air was crisp and cold. I cautiously opened the glass doors which led onto the terrace. I could say I was watching the sunset if anyone asked. As the night crept closer, the trees became lacy black silhouettes against the sapphire blue sky, punctuated by glittering specks of stars. The world merged into shades of gray, leaching the color from the chrysanthemums in the elegant urns. The moon appeared, illuminating the scene with icy white light. I had not bargained for that. I pondered whether to cross the expanse of lawn, where I’d be clearly visible, or to creep around the edge to the woods where I’d be out of sight but likely to stumble in the darkness. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to escape. The woods it would be.     I crept down the shallow stone steps, pausing at the bottom, clutching my bag. I turned to glance back at the bulk of the house, trying to stop my teeth from chattering. No lights or movement in the blank, dark rectangles of the windows. I ducked to stay in the shadows of the balustrades and hurried in a semi-crouch towards the woods. The crunching of the driveway gravel under my feet seemed to echo off the house. I took a deep breath, ran around the building and plunged into the dark shadows of the wood. Things rustled around me. My breathing sounded loud. It had rained not long before and the leaf litter was slippery. At least that muffled my footsteps. My vision gradually adjusted so I could avoid bumping into tree trunks, though not the occasional low-hanging branches which raked my hair and threatened to poke me in the eye. Periodic cascades of rain fell on me from the foliage. I was out of breath and soaked, my shoes squelching and muddy by the time I reached the back gate with a sigh of relief. The rusty metal of the hinges creaked as I pushed it, screeching as I gave it a final, hard shove. I froze, my heart hammering as the sound echoed and died. The silence seemed overwhelming, but then the small nighttime woodland sounds resumed. I found myself on the back road behind the mansion.     I rested against the wall for a moment to regain my breath. Creeping forward to the road, I glanced at my watch before retreating to the shadows again. I had made it at the time we had arranged. I hadn’t been off the grounds of the house alone since I arrived and hadn’t known how much time to allow to get this far. I shuddered to think of the consequences if this attempt failed. I waited for what seemed like forever. My watch recorded two minutes for every ten minutes that had surely passed. After the umpteenth time of glancing at it, I shoved it in my pocket.     Finally, I heard a car. I leapt up, clutching the bag to my chest. I was afraid to leave my hiding place, but it had to be him. Vehicles were rare around here anytime, especially at night. The car slowed as I waved, leaping about like a maniac at the side of the road. The car pulled to a halt on the verge, the driver grinning at me. His smile faded as I yanked open the passenger door and collapsed on the seat. I must have looked half-deranged, bedraggled, wet and muddy. The driver looked at me in concern. It took me a moment to catch my breath and stop shaking. I turned on him.       “Are you alright? You look like something the cat dragged in,” he said. “What’s going on?”        “What the hell took you so long? I’m half frozen.”         “Hey, I came as soon as I could, alright? Here, have some of this.” He passed me a flask. I took a big gulp, choking and coughing as the fiery heat burned down my throat.          “What is that? Paint stripper?” I said, my eyes watering. He laughed and rumpled my hair.          “It’ll cure what ails you. What’ve you got?” I passed him my bag. He opened it and shook it upside down, whistling appreciatively at the clinking as watches and jewelry cascaded onto his lap.          “Nice. How’d you get out?”          “I slipped a little something into his drink. I hope he’s okay. I felt kind of bad for doing it. He’s a nice old guy, lonely since his wife died.”           “Serves him right for thinking a girl who could be his granddaughter was interested in him. Randy old fool.”           “That’s mean. He never even tried anything, not that I think he could, at his age. He just wanted company. He’s alone in that mansion except for the housekeeper.” He looked closely at me. His smile was gone. I shivered at his narrow-eyed glance.           “I hope you’re not getting sentimental on me. It’s a business, okay? Nothing personal. I find them, you hook them. He’s so rich that he’s not going to miss any of this. Anyway, we’d best get going. Ditch the wig. They’ll be looking for a blonde, not a brunette. I know the back roads. We’ll be long gone by the time they raise the alarm.” I pulled the bedraggled blonde wig off and smoothed my own hair. He nodded as I obeyed, smiling again. As the car moved off, I glanced back at the mansion, sitting in splendid isolation in its moon-drenched grounds, and thought for a moment of that lonely old man in his drugged sleep. He was as close as I’d ever have to a grandfather, or any kind of family, for that matter. I looked at the driver. He winked and tossed the flask back to me. I sighed and took another long drink. No chance of escape now.


"Who's the President?" "Oh, I didn't vote for that guy" answered Mrs. Johnson.  It was not an uncommon response from a patient with dementia.  They answered the question, but they didn't really answer the question.

It's a clever redirect, one that families often overlooked.

The disease progression was so subtle they don't notice.

But he saw the patients just infrequent enough to pick up on these little clues.

Jack made a mental note to revisit the Mini Mental Status Exam at the follow up appointment.

"And she is losing weight too, has she told you about that?

She's always having diarrhea and not eating."  The questions came from the daughter of Mrs. Johnson.  The daughter was herself no spring chicken.  Jack estimated her to be early sixties, maybe older.  It was always tricky navigating family dynamics during the office visit.  This was especially true when dealing with a patient in denial of her dementia, or with the patients' family in denial that mom doesn't actually have advanced dementia.  In Mrs. Johnson's case, like usual, it was somewhere in the middle.

As was often the case, Mrs. Johnson's daughter had not been coming with her to visits in the past, so now she was making up for lost face time with the doctor.

"I notice her weight trend, holding pretty stable over the last few visits," Jack said, trying to be respectful of the daughter's concerns and also reassure the patient that she is ok.  "And the same for recent lab trends."  Something about the daughter was unnerving.  Her eyes, piercing through him, or so it felt.  Jack had the impression she was judging him, judging his credibility, his ability as a doctor.  "She hates me", he told himself. "You always do that," Jack told himself.  "Just focus on the patient, give good care."  He was always second guessing.  He felt like such an imposter.  He had been out of residency a few years but still felt like a neophyte, still felt that his patients, or their families, didn't trust him or didn't believe in him. "And she fell," said the daughter. "When did I fall?" Asked Mrs Johnson. And they went back and forth trying to discern exactly when was the fall, exactly if it was indeed a fall or not, and if any injury or consequence resulted.  Jack watched and listened, typing in his progress note as best he could, trying to get all the details right.  That is how it went at these visits.  The family wanted to make sure they told the doctor everything, literally.  And usually the comments were peppered like a machine gun.  "What did the lab show", immediately followed by "Did you get the notes from the cardiologist?"  Jack didn't have time to answer, much less process, the questions and comments.  He managed to keep it together pretty well, making his progress note legible, intelligible. "We could get some imaging to follow up on any brain atrophy," he said, immediately kicking himself because he didn't like the way he had phrased it.  He always did that, asked questions in a way that got patients riled up and more anxious than they needed to be. "She has atrophy?" asked the daughter, a little panic creeping in. "Did she think you messed up and somehow caused this?" Jack asked himself. "Did you cause this?" Now he would have to spend more time trying to explain that some degree of atrophy is expected in her age, and not abnormal, without coming off as dismissive.  It was an art form, one he was sure he would never master. "What side effects will she have?" the daughter asked, interrupting him.

She was cutting her eyes at Jack as if to say "and don't be trying to pull a fast one on me." The question of side effects was the bane of his existence, if there was one.  What side effects?  As if he could predict that.  It was exhausting explaining how side effects are rare.  Usually the medicine is well tolerated and the patients don't have any problems, but if they do, the most common ones are manageable, like some mild nausea or insomnia.  But the drug label will have everything from blindness to vertigo to sudden death by head explosion.  He often had to go down the list, defusing problems that were never even going to happen. "Sometimes, with these types of problems with the memory and mood, people can become self conscious.

Like, concerned that they won't remember people's names.  And that can be embarrassing.  So much so that they end up avoiding people altogether because they don't want to be exposed.  And that can leave them feeling very isolated".

Jack was just talking now, trying to paint a typical picture of depression and dementia.

Sometimes he would do this to try to connect with the patient and the family when he felt like the visit wasn't going optimally.

Today, the judgement in the daughter's eyes was palpable.

Mrs Johnsons eyes appeared to be welling up.

Did he hit a nerve?

Or was she upset with him?

He never really knew if he was helping or making things more difficult on the patient.  What would happened with Mrs. Johnson after the visit?

Was he stirring things up?

He wanted to help, not make matters worse for her.

Jack felt like he had covered everything. The clock on his computer showed that he had gone over the allotted time, and he was getting anxious, knowing the next patient would be having to wait on him. Probably they would be angry when he walked in.  He didn't mind spending the time with patients, but it was the patient that came after that stressed him.  No, they all stressed him.  And their families stressed him.  He was always stressed.  Did the patients know?  Could they tell?  "You are such a loser," he told himself.  Were they aware that he was an imposter, his training was inadequate, he was not getting every detail correct?

Did they know he was incompetent? They wrapped up the visit and the nurse escorted the patient and the daughter to the check out window.  In the glass, the daughter could see Jack's reflection as he was walking into another room. "I just love that doctor.  He is so thorough.  He answers all of our questions and gives us his attention and time.  He is the smartest, best doctor we have ever had," she told the nurse.  Mrs. Johnson nodded in agreement.  "The best," she echoed.


Once, when I was very young, my mother told me the story of a place called Hamathy. Now, Hamathy was a small town, more of a village, really, nestled deep in a faraway mountain range where the snow shone pure as starlight and sharp white peaks stood stark against the blinding blue of the sky. Hamathy's few streets were lined with fine wood houses, and though their windows sparkled with frost, inside each fireplace flames burned hot and high, and the people of the town were warm and safe and in the company of those that they loved. One day, though no one knows what caused it, an avalanche began on the mountain where Hamathy stood. What seemed to be an ocean of snow crashed down its picturesque slopes, and when all was once more still and quiet, the town was miraculously untouched, but the one road that passed through Hamathy and out into the world was blocked in both directions. The people of Hamathy were smart—they knew that something like this could happen one day, and they had taken precautions. Stacks of firewood and shelves of food, water, and anything else they might need filled every shed and basement. There were enough supplies to last weeks, perhaps even months, and so, after diligently checking to ensure that each of their neighbors were safe and sound, the people of Hamathy went home and settled in to wait, secure in the knowledge that help would arrive long before they were in any danger. But as days went by, then weeks, and no sign of rescuers appeared on the horizon, the people began to realize that perhaps their town, their refuge from the noise and chaos of the larger world, was perhaps just a little too far from all that hustle and bustle. And when a full month had passed, and still no one came for them, it seemed all too certain that no one beyond the mountains was aware of their predicament, much less coming to help. The people of Hamathy, however, were not afraid of a little labor. So on the first day of the second month after the avalanche, a meeting was called, and they all bundled into the town hall to work out how they would rescue themselves. Hamathy didn't have a snow plow, but what it had in abundance were shovels and the hands to wield them, and so it was decided that they would dig their way out. A work schedule was arranged, people volunteered for shifts, and it seemed that everything was going smoothly. Only near the end of the meeting did someone raise a very important point—they had neglected to discuss the direction in which they would dig. A simple issue, it would seem, and yet it turned out to be the most contentious one of all. Before long, the whole hall had erupted in arguments between those who wanted to excavate the road to the north and those who preferred to head south. Some had family on one side or the other, others were concerned about the steepness of the south road, and still others worried that the closest town to the north was much farther away, but nearly everyone, it seemed, had a strong opinion on the matter. When the sun began to set, and no progress had been made on reaching a decision, it was suggested that everyone go home before the deadly cold of night set in, and they could come back the next day, when tempers were cooler and the air was warmer. This, at least, was agreed by all to be a sensible idea, and so the people of Hamathy put their coats back on and dispersed in the fading light. For two more days, the debate raged on inside the town hall. But when the third sunset came, and still they could not agree on north or south, they decided instead to dig in both directions, and each person could choose for themselves where to work. By this time, it seemed clear to everyone that there simply was no agreement to be had, and after all, it made no sense to delay the beginning of work for a consensus that was never going to come. The next morning, the first shifts of workers set out in each direction, nodding tersely in greeting as they passed one another in the street. The work was hard and the wind was blistering, but at the end of the day, everyone was much happier than the night before. At least now they were doing something, instead of sitting around and waiting. A week went by, and spirits were higher than ever. Progress was speeding along in both directions, and the greetings had upgraded from stern-faced nods to waves and smiles. It took another month and a half after that for the supplies to run out. It was actually the firewood that was used up first, and with no way to heat their homes, the people of Hamathy piled once more into the town hall and kept each other alive as best they could with the warmth of their bodies. That worked well enough, but there was also no way to melt their now-frozen water or thaw, much less cook, their now-frozen food, and soon enough, people began to die, one after another after another. Still, every day, the workers went out to the north and the south and dug and dug until they could dig no more, hoping and praying with every breath that today would be the day that they made it through to the other side and help was at last in reach. And every day, fewer and fewer of them trudged back into town with heavy hearts, those hopes and prayers yet unanswered. It was on the final day of their fourth month in isolation that the last of them finally died, shovel still in hand as he drew his last breath. Here's the funny thing—well, perhaps funny isn't exactly the right word, but—either way would have worked. When the last citizen of Hamathy succumbed to the cold, both of the paths were well over halfway to completion. If only they could have set aside their differences and agreed on a direction to take, every person in Hamathy would likely have survived—though "if only," I imagine, would be of little comfort to the people who mourned them. You may be wondering why, in the name of all that's holy, my mother chose to tell a young child such a disturbing story. I think the lesson she wanted me to take from it was about the folly of pride and the virtue of cooperation--when my brother and I would fight, for instance, over what game to play, she would say, "Remember Hamathy," and I would quickly decide that it was better to play hide-and-seek for the eighteenth time that day than to be saddled with extra chores and not get to play at all. And, to be fair to her, it was a valuable lesson, and I certainly did learn it. The problem, I think, is that I was the only one who knew about Hamathy. My brother never had the dubious pleasure of hearing that particular story, and so it was always I who gave in. The lesson my mother didn't mean to teach me, but that I nevertheless learned all too well, was that it was my job, my duty to sacrifice, and that if I didn't, my selfishness would be to blame for the conflict or catastrophe that followed. I'm sure you'll all be shocked to hear that, at the tender age of twenty-three, I burned out. Lost my job, lost most of my friends. Lost myself for a little while, too. I'm doing much better now, but the road to where I am today was a long and hard one. So, in the hope of passing on my mother's wisdom but not repeating her mistakes, here's a lesson from Hamathy that I learned a little early, and one from me that I learned a little late: don't fight with people you care about over things that don't matter, and stand up for yourself over things that do.


TW: Allusion to trauma, abuse, neglect. Most people who have been through a traumatic event, have a tendency to blame themselves at one point or another. More often than we care to count, we utter the phrase, “This is all my fault.” It reverberates through our actions and thoughts, like ripples on a pond. These ripples distort what is true, what we think is real. This is natural and, luckily, we stop taking responsibility for things beyond our control that happened to us… hopefully. What happens when there is a seemingly unending series of events that make us say, “This is all my fault.”? What we were taught is that we are undeserving of protection. When they hurt us, they not only forsook their responsibility to protect us, but also their right to protection. We searched for a fault within ourselves, coming to the conclusion that there must be something wrong with us, that we are at fault somehow. This is all my fault. What we come to believe is that we do not matter, that we just have to bear it, however heavy that burden may be. They make us believe that they can get away with anything, that the only thing we can do is keep quiet… and we do. They are undeserving of our silence, yet our agony is trapped behind tightly pursed lips. Our screams are muffled, smothered by the threat of worse things to come. We were taught to believe that we were undeserving of love. They hold all the power. They hold our very existence – past, present and future – in their hands. We have no control. They make us feel like we have relinquished all our power. This is all my fault. As we grow up, we respond in one of two ways: look for that love in all the wrong places, hoping that we are worthy; or we shut out everything and everyone, so that we do not get hurt again. When experience teaches us, is that we matter less than the ones who caused these wounds. I do not like using the word scars, because that implies a healed injury; seemingly insignificant triggers can feel like a wire brush scouring exposed flesh, reminding us of how raw that hurt still is. It is easier to think that they did not know what they were doing was wrong, but they knew… they fucking knew . Behind closed doors, hidden away from the world, they did what they wanted. We were taught that we were undeserving of being seen; we taught ourselves that it is safer to hide. No, the irony does not escape me. Why was no-one looking out for us? Did they not see that 12 year old shrink into herself whenever anyone came near? Were they so blind that they did not notice the oversized sweaters in summer, the baggy clothes in muted tones, the hypervigilance, the shallow breathing, the instinctive flinch? Did they choose not to see or were we taught to hide ourselves and our shame and our hurt from all the world? This is all my fault. The years pass; the danger slowly dissipates. What is left? A body that remembers… horrendously vivid nightmares… the reflex to recoil… aversions to all manner of things. We cannot speak their names. We cannot bear to think of looking them in the eye. The prospect of being in their presence fills us with an all-consuming dread. It feels like a shadow with claws that creeps up from your very soul, grasping at your insides, pulling you away from yourself, enveloping you… smothering you. This is all my fault. You can’t breathe; you can’t think. The wire brush is back, scrubbing away at that wound, making you feel raw and exposed. It’s like you’re back there… with them, undeserving of love, of protection, of anything good. I’m not good enough. This is all my fault. We teach ourselves to remain silent, because we think that saying its name out loud will somehow make it more real. We blame ourselves for that which we were forced to bear witness to, forced to bear . We teach ourselves that we are unworthy of being heard. They get to live their lives, free of guilt, free of shame, and somehow we are shouldered with that burden. Do they ever pay for it? Do they ever show remorse? Did we matter so little? This is all my fault. Were we even undeserving of a second thought?

We are so scared to tarnish their “good” name. We convince ourselves that we are in the wrong, because that way, we have some semblance of control, some hope of avoiding the worst of the horrors we have not yet endured. We are so scared of saying something that will get us into trouble. We are so scared of making it worse by calling them out. When they broke us, those cracks were filled with fear that would stay with us for a long time. We were too afraid to say something, too afraid to run, too afraid to question what was happening, too afraid to ask for help. This is all my fault. We were undeserving of tenderness, of love, of safety, of belonging, of life itself. As these words materialise, I feel like I am reclaiming a lot of what was taken from me. I am unlearning habits that were formed deep within my being. I put pen to paper, because they are undeserving of my silence, of protection, of being blameless. Their actions deserve to be aired, to be spoken of… not so that I may dwell on it, but that I can regain control. There is a part of myself that was subjected to so many terrors, that it felt like it had been trampled… like it had withered just a little more with each horror I had to endure. None of this is my fault, whatsoever.

I am not to blame.

That is the part I’m taking back. I am deserving of love.