I Melanie stood with her shoulders high, staring blatantly at the clock as it ticked. "I can't miss this for anything." "tell mum I'll be home by 8."She said. Tom watched her incessantly as she picked up her bag racing to the door. She stopped, just in time to utter her last word. "don't sell me out. I really hope you don't." said Melanie

Tom nodded hesitantly. He wasn't much of a talker but he'd always do the right things at the right time. He grabbed the remote control, flipping channels. "Aha! Mr bean." He exclaimed in delight. He watched closely with focused eyes glued to the TV screen. He would laugh at every scene with vigor. He fell asleep shortly, only to wake up hours later to a bang on the door. He jumped out of the couch, startled.

"Hey Tommy." said his mum as he opened the door.

"where have you been?."

"sorry mum, didn't know when I fell asleep."

She rubbed his head firmly.

"it's past 8 and it's getting late."

"by the way, where's Mel." she asked.

Tom stared at her confusingly. He didn't want Mel to get into trouble with mum, but he had to tell the truth.

"she's out."

"Out? Ohh Melanie." She sighed and pressed her hands to her curly brown hair.  Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

"ohh that'll be Melanie." He said.

Tom was surprised when he heard a knock on the door. Melanie never knocks. She'd always come in forcefully and then blame tom for not hearing her knock. She walked in slowly, staring at her mum with no words to tell.

"where are you coming from?."

"don't tell me you went to that party Mel!." Mrs Oki yelled.

"I did mum, I had to."

"ohh child, do you ever listen." she rubbed her eyes and forehead. Melanie made her ache.

"be like Tommy. Will you?." Mrs oki said softly.

"what?." She waved a hand. "I'm out of here."

Melanie stormed out of the living room. With a high pace, she went into her bedroom with a frown on her face.

Mrs oki fell into the nearby couch. Tom followed Mel silently. When she turned around, Tom was standing in the doorway.

"what do you want?." she said.

"just to talk."

"you have to take it easy."

"she Dosen't want you living that wayward life." Tom said calmly..

"Well, am grown."

"and am not?."

She got up from the bed and walked boldly towards Tom.

"you're my younger brother Tom. Don't tell me what to do". Tom watched her fume. He wasn't sure what else to tell her. She obviously had no interest in what tom was yakking about. Truth be told, she didn't want to listen. But she wasn't going to tell him to be quiet, and he kept talking.

"you always do this." she said.

"do what?." "can you for once just don't tell her anything, or maybe cover up for me?"

"I can't. Just impossible!" Tom shrugged.

"oh- The good man right?"

"just because I always tell the truth. Doesn't make me perfect. It just makes me a better person." He said.

She got up with a groan and walked towards Tom.

"I need to go to bed now."

Tom didn't hesitate to leave. Mel slammed the door as soon as Tom left.

II The next morning was foggy and wet. Everyone was asleep except for Tom. He laid on his bed reminiscing his undeniable character. He thought about his old friend Blake.

Tell no one!.

Were his last words before he disappeared.

Tom knew that Blake fled. But he didn't tell anyone because Blake begged him earnestly not to. Two weeks later, his body was found at the edge of the Totson River.

Tom was torn with grief and swore that no matter what, he'd always be true to himself and the people around him.

Tears rolled down his cheeks slowly, resting on his pillow. He forced himself out of bed, walking lifelessly to the kitchen.

He shoved the box into the microwave and hit some buttons and after the ding went off the steak was all rubbery. He gazed at the meal. It wasn't pleasant.

His mum approached him as he was pouring a cup of coffee.

"Hey, are you OK?."

"yea, just a bit messed up." He gestured to the cup.

"and your sister?"

"in bed - probably."

She smiled. They both sat over the table laughing and smiling as they conversed. Tom made a joke about the steak and how messed up it is. Laughter filled the room.

"I'll go check on Melanie." He said

He gulped his coffee hastily and hurried down to Melanie's room.

"Mel, he knocked. Melanie!"

"don't tell me you're still upset."

He paused, waiting for a reply from Melanie. But the atmosphere felt empty and deserted. He opened the door surveying the room with his eyes. Melanie wasn't there.

"Mum!" he screamed.

She ran immediately she heard Tom scream.

"what's going on?" she said.

"Mel's gone."

"gone? To study group?." She asked naively.

"You do not empty your wardrobe to a study group, mum!."

She paused in confusion.

"ohh no! She shouldn't be anywhere close to him. He's a psychopath."

"my thoughts exactly!." Tom said.

They had to get to Melanie before she gets to her dad. There was nothing good to tell about him. With great effort, they hurried down the stairs. There was a back exit that led out to Miller Street, Tom pushed the heavy metal door and stepped outside.

Down West Street, he found a taxi on the corner. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

"where to?" the driver asked

"JFK Airport." He said.

Less than an hour, he arrived at the airport. He took out his cell from his pocket and placed a call to Mel, but she didn't pick up.

He was confused and exhausted as he stood, watching as people came in and out. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of Melanie's red curly hair. He didn't think twice. It was her.

"Mel!" he screamed

Tom took to his heels, meeting her where she stood.

He panted as he spoke.

"Mel, come on! Don't do this."

"I have to go Tom!"

"Please! What about mum? She cares about you."

"this is not about mum, Tom. It's about you." her voice quivered.

" You always make me look bad, just because you want to tell the truth."

"Mel I...

" No!" Melanie interrupted.

She fell to the ground and tears flowed down her puffy cheeks. Tom sat beside her, holding her hands as they both gazed into the atmosphere.

Some would say that Tom was extreme with his values. But sometimes, being who you are supposed to be is better than being who everyone wants you to be. Either way, they must see the good in you.


Saraswathy was mending her flowerpots and just whiling away her time in the backyard. Though she had no regrets, she was still unhappy over her ex-boss in dismissing her from job, for no fault of hers. She could have explained her position and made them understand her point of view. Of what use would it be? It would be a futile exercise. Saraswathy strongly believed that certain people never changed. She was dismissed for preparing food in large quantity. Even if she could convince them that excess food prepared by her was mainly due to the fact that the boss did not tell her how many guests were expected on that day and what should be the menu for dinner for them. Above all, when she came to know that the very food which she prepared was considered to be in excess, was simply consumed by a fresh batch of unexpected guests on the same day, she really did not understand why the boss blamed her for being extravagant and a lavish spender. The only explanation she could think of, was the old saying that “Boss is a boss. No questions can be asked.”  It was proved once again. Her neighbour Meena picked up general conversation with her. She casually mentioned that a bakery class was being organised by an agency called Adumanai and would start classes if they could get twenty-five members to enrol. Saraswathy thought it was a good opportunity to learn something new. She enquired further details about class, duration, venue, fees etc. and gave her name. They wanted some more people to join so that classes could be started. She instantaneously suggested her daughter’s name and enrolled her also. In a few days’ time the classes started. Initially it was only one class, though it comprised of two courses --- Preliminary then Advanced. Saraswathy had joined Preliminary while her daughter Prema took up Advanced course for which the fees were a bit higher. In the introductory viz Preliminary course, they talked about bakery, its basics, various terminologies, required equipment, general ingredients etcetera. All the trainers insisted on hygiene and purity. In the Advanced course, it was mostly on commercial productions and largescale productions. Event based preparations theme-based preparations etc. Saraswathy was not keen on Advanced course. She was contented with what could be made at home. Bread, bun, cake, home-made chocolates, etc. Her course was over in two months. Prema in her Advanced course had to learn a little more --- on techniques of making and baking theme-based cakes, decorating them with creams, cherries, nuts and so on. Eggless cakes, cup-cakes puffs biscuits and cookies were also part of their curriculum. The students were even taken to big and small bakeries, medium size companies engaged in similar baking items. It was a novel experience for Saraswathy to reduce herself to a student level, take notes, answer questions in classes and draw attention of others by seeking clarifications. Once she raised a query to a baker from a famous eatery MBT, Make-Bake-Take as to how he could claim royalty for a routine cup-cake just because it had cherries and the cup was in a star shape, similarly the stuffed puffs baked in different shapes. She insisted that unless some design or name was inscribed on those items, they could not be classified as unique and hence no royalty. At the end of the course, same bakery man suggested that he would employ two candidates as apprentices in his MBT for two months. He also made it clear that there was no fee for apprenticeship and no stipend for the training period. It was open to all students learning in Preliminary and Advanced courses. On first of the following month, there was one person who came up for apprenticeship. She was none other than Saraswathy. The owner of MBT did not expect this. He was hopeful of some youngsters coming forward and taking the opportunity. Who knows? In future such young men could set up their own unit. He asked her about her intentions in coming forward as an apprentice. He even suggested that it would be better if her daughter came up as she was younger with better prospects and brighter future. Saraswathy deliberately avoided her daughter coming here, as she thought that this owner had some special concern for Prema. Actually, Prema was the one who wanted to apply while Saraswathy was least bothered. In order to avoid unnecessary dealings with this man, she stopped Prema and offered herself for the post. In the two months’ course, she would learn more about baking techniques and also use it as an opportunity to know the nature of the owner. Two in one. Eventually she enjoyed both. There was something special about him --- his name. Jakanachary, an unusual and unfamiliar name. She asked him about it. He replied that his original name was Chennakesavan. But he got it changed to Jakanachary, by declaring in the Government Gazette. The reason was also very unique. Jakanachary was the name of a famous sculptor of Kaidala of Tumkur district in Karnataka. He lived in twelfth century. He was a renowned sculptor of Hoysala period. His son Dankanachary was also equally great but father’s skill was exemplary. The legendary sculptor etched wonders on rock-cut-stones and the present day Jakanachary - the baker did the same on flours and breads. As a tribute to the extraordinary creative artist of bygone era, he named himself as Jakanachari. Saraswathy was quite impressed by his reverence for creative artists and sense of pride and honour in heritage of ancient India. She also admired him for his sense of pride and confidence in his skills. No wonder he talked about royalty for his products. She had earlier thought of him as an arrogant fellow. Now she changed her opinion. His total devotion and commitment to his work was something noteworthy. For him work is worship. Just like herself.

Though she did not take up the Advanced course through Adumanai Agency, here in Jakanachary’s MBT, she got good exposure on baking and decorating colourful, creamy cakes. She even learnt how to bring out the photo of the customers or some popular cinema heroes on the specially baked cakes for their birthdays or special events. She got first-hand experience in baking in many novel items. Not only cakes, even puffs, ordinary breads, toasts, cookies -- all varieties of baked foods everything bore his stamp of excellency. By and large she found it very useful. She understood that working with him was a pleasure. Alas! All good things had to come to an end. Her internship was also coming to a close. One day Prema told her mother that an exhibition of cakes along with a competition for best entry was going to be held in Bangalore shortly. It was also an annual feature in Bangalore similar to the Flower show in hill stations like Ooty and Kodaikaanal. Prema told this as a piece of information. But Saraswathy took it very seriously and urged Jakanachary to participate. Jakanachary was not keen on it. He was very particular about the name and reputation of his MBT Bakery shop. He somehow believed such competitions were biased and winners were predetermined. No fair play was expected. Suppose he participated in such competitions and did not win, then it would be construed as a black spot, both for him and his MBT. More than anything else, entries for such participations had to be on massive scale which required more hands, that too skilled hands. He shirked.

Sarawathy did not give up. She again prompted him to participate. It was a rare occasion to showcase his ability. Winning the competition should only be seen as additional bonus. She further explained that in travel or trekking, journey was more important than destination. Similarly, in competitions, participation with sincere efforts was more important than winning. Further she added, for extra hands he would need for making massive scale cakes, she suggested that both herself and her daughter and if need be, some more students from her batch could be relied upon. He was getting tempted. He said jokingly if Prema would join hands with him, then he would consider participating. Saraswathy got the clue. So, the cat was finally out of the bag. Both were silently nursing their hopes of bright future. When Prema talked about exhibition, it was with an inner motive and Jakanachary now confessed that he would like to join his hands with hers with an inner motive. Both were talking as if it was not exclusively for participating in the competition alone. Saraswathy welcomed their move and was in tune with them. She started it. So, she had to take it further. She told both of them, “Let us concentrate on …. 1.what should be our entry, 2.how we should try on that and 3.how best we should accomplish it. I suggest that you choose one of Jakanachary’s famous and unique monumental scupture and bring it out in the form of a cake by baking it and add special effects on it. You will be achieving twin benefits by this participation. One, you will be offering your tributes to your mentor cum Guru and next, your cake entry being exceptionally unique will draw attention from all viewers and if you are lucky, it may even win a prize.  What do you say? How about Chennakesava temple as your model for cake?” She allowed some time to pass so that her idea would seep into him. Then she continued. “Once you decide the design and size of the cake, you please advise us on how to bring it alive on our table. Step by step instructions, please for baking.” Prema was also seriously listening to the proceedings and was keen on making it ‘dream come true’. She was the one gave a leading clue on exhibitions. Her mother Saraswathy took it little further in prompting Jakanachary to enter the contest. He was the type who would venture into anything if and only he was sure of winning it. Probably that was the reason he did not propose even if was interested in her. Unless he was motivated and his confidence level was highly boosted, their efforts for participation in the contest would not any bear fruits. She bought a colourful chart paper and on that she used stencils and wrote in admirable calligraphy the following lines which she had extracted from School Days Quotes. ‘There is no dearth of opportunities. If you keep your pursuits on, you are sure to achieve what you want. Hopes are the biggest driving force in life. Certain things do not change.’ It worked.  He discussed with the ladies Prema and Saraswathy. He told them it was just next to impossible to create the whole structure of temple. Better it would be to choose a small portion of it only for the purpose of making a cake. Then he decided upon one sketch which showed -- two elephants on both sides of broad steps leading to entrance wall with intricate works on the ‘mandapam’. The legendary sculptor could do it on rocks. This modern bakery legend would be sculpting it on the cake he would be baking. Before starting their venture, all three of them offered sincere prayers to their God Chennakesava and also sought blessings from the sculptor Guru Jakanachary. The ball was then set to roll on. Once the model of their sketch on paper was ready, rest of the planning and execution work were not tedious. They enlarged their paper model and took copies, kept them handy at places. They applied their minds day and night, sat on discussion for hours, set their hearts and hands on its layout. Then they collected ingredients, prepared the base stuff for each item as it appeared on the model work, assembled parts by parts, time and again checking them with their model paper. As many idols and images were on the sketch, so many idols and images had to be on the cake also. Slowly the work was progressing. No doubt it was an enormous work. But it was quite gratifying. It was then that Saraswathy again emphasized on her philosophy that journey was more important than destination. He too agreed.  Whether he would be winning in the contest or not – it was secondary now. His job satisfaction, that alone counted now. He decided to craft hereafter such cakes based on the super sculptor’s works as much as possible. He told the ladies that he was indebted to them for this achievement and job satisfaction. The daughter looked at her mother and mother looked at her daughter as if they were reading each other’s minds. Then Saraswathy gave words to her thoughts. There was one way available to him to clear his indebtedness. That was a visit to Chennakesava temple, after winning the contest to which he readily agreed. His eyes set on Prema he said, “Winning or not winning, it does not matter. We will surely go there …. With some garlands.” Saraswathy did not ask why and what for about the garlands.


My breath comes fast and heavy, sobs rack my chest, and tears stream down my face to a point where I can’t even see my phone screen. I try to breathe but can’t. I try to calm down but can’t. I am on the verge of succumbing to the darkness clouding the edges of my vision when I realize what I need to do. I dial her number from memory, and she picks up on the first ring. “Hey boo, what’s up?” Her soothing voices washes over me, and I calm down enough to choke out a few words. “Help, please… my pills, medicine, out” I manage to sputter out before I must stop talking to gasp for air. I can feel the screech building in my throat and can do nothing as it claws its way out of my mouth. The sobs wash over me, and I am drowning in my tears. My chest feels like it is about to explode, and I manage one last word, “Hurry”. “Hey, Lexi listen to me, okay? Bae, remember your exercises? Remember your breathing patterns? What did we say? Deep breaths, in and out. Concentrate on my voice, nothing else matters,” she says to me, but it’s no use. I can hear an undertone of panic in her voice and that sends me over the edge. “Hurry,” I say once more before I hang up. Sitting there alone in the dark, on the floor in my bedroom, the crippling wave of sadness and fear washes over me. Not fear of anything in particular, or sadness for any specific reason, they just are. My heart is a bucket and my emotions are the size of a lake, I can’t help but overflow. And so, my tears pour from the faucet that is my eyes and I can do nothing but watch as they hit the ground beneath me. An animal like scream rips from my throat and I claw at my tan face, trying to scratch at the itch worming its way beneath my skin. I taste salt and blood in my mouth and scramble on my hands and knees until I have successfully backed myself into a corner. As I wrap my arms around my knees, I duck my head and my hair falls like a auburn curtain blocking out the world as I sob into my arms. The worst part of all of this is that I know this is ridiculous, I know that I am acting like a mad woman; but I can’t help it. Try as I might, I can’t control this. I am drowning in my feelings, despair and sadness suffocate me, anger beats to the rhythm of my heart, and loneliness chokes me. ‘Crybaby,’ I say to myself. ‘Get it together, Millie will be here soon. I hate it when she sees me like this.’ I whimper and empty my lungs. Then I pull as much oxygen as I can back into them, filling myself with fresh new air and pushing out the panic ingrained in my mind. In and out, I concentrate solely on my breathing, pushing all other thoughts from my mind. For a second it works and the birds that are fear and sadness nesting in my heart take off, flying around my head. For a minute I am able to hold them at bay, but then they dive back down and continue building their permanent home in my heart. I await Millie’s arrival anxiously, my heart beating like a drum, my head searing with pain and a pressure I can’t even begin to explain mounting in my chest. Time passes; I don’t know how much. Time doesn’t really mean anything when you’re in the state of mind that I’m in. I try to calm down, yet nothing works. I concentrate on Millie, my beautiful Millie. She has been by my best friend since high school. Throughout high school and college, she always had my back, she was by my side always. And I have been by hers. I have watched toxic relationships crumble and have comforted her in the aftermath, I have helped her study and gone to her grandmother’s funeral. There is a connection, something between us; we just get each other. In this life we have faced a lot of the same problems and we understand the walls, the pain, and the burdens that the other carries.  I hear her key turn and the lock click open. The front door to my apartment swings open and she’s here. She is a whirlwind of color and noise drowning out the screams in my head. A weight eases off my chest and I manage to smile through my sobs at her. Her ebony skin gleams beneath the warm light of my kitchen chandelier and her midnight tresses are pulled up in a sloppy bun. “Honey, I’m sorry. There was traffic,” she explains as she rushes to my side. Her black eyes flash as they take in the sight of me, hysterical on the floor as she pushes my hair out of my face and whips a tissue out of her pocket. She wipes my soaking cheeks and swollen blue eyes, but as soon as she dries my face, more tears flood out to replace the wetness on my cheeks. She rummages in her purse and pulls out a yellow prescription bottle. After rushing to the kitchen for a cup of water, she shakes out two of the little white pills and places them in my semi-open mouth for me. My hands tremble as I attempt to guide the glass of water to my mouth and it isn’t until she places her warm and steady palms over mine that I am able to sip the water and swallow my pills. Finally, my breathing evens out and I stop shaking, the flow of my tears slow, and I slip into oblivion. --------------------------------------------------------------- “Lexi?” I awake in my bedroom to the sound of Millie calling my name. At some point last night, she must have moved me to my bed and wiped off what was left of my smeared makeup. “Baby girl, it’s been over twelve hours. I need you to get up so I can make sure that you are okay.” I groan as I struggle to sit up, ultimately failing and falling back onto my pillows. “What happened?” My throat is sore, and my voice is hoarse. “My head is killing me,” I say. “I’m sorry, you had another attack. I don’t know how long it was this time, you called me part way through cause you were out of medicine,” she explains slowly. “I’m so sorry,” I mumble. “My meds have been really off lately. I’ll see a doctor tomorrow and ask about changing them. I just don’t really know what else I can do, I have tried countless antidepressants, and sedatives, and mood stabilizers, and anxiolytics, even psychotherapy and nothing works. There is nothing left I can try; I don’t know what to do.” And once more I am crying, not hysterically, just two silent tear tracks tracing my cheeks. “Baby girl, you’ve come this far. Trust me, you are going to make it through this.” ---------------------------------------------------------------            “Alexandra Davis, is there an Alexandra Davis here?” A petite nurse with almond eyes and caramel skin says that Doctor James Miller is ready to see us.            “Right here,” I say as I stand up. Millie rises and walks by my side as we make our way into the doctor’s office. I take a seat on the examination table and Millie perches on the edge slightly in front of me, like she is trying to shield me from whatever might come next. Dr. Miller enters looking down at his clipboard. “Davis, again?” He looks up and seems surprised to see us there. “What happened Alexa? I thought you were doing better,” the concern in his voice is real and I know that because this is the doctor who has been treating for over four years since I was first diagnosed with severe type one bipolar disorder, that then morphed into borderline personality disorder (BPD). My case has only gotten more dire and over the years my symptoms only seem to worsen. I even developed major depressive disorder. Manic episodes are only getting more intense and making me feel higher, only to be replaced by the inevitable crash and the severe depression that follows; I hardly sleep anymore and when I do it is restless; relationship after relationship is a complete disaster; my emotions are running rampant and possibly the worst part are the outbursts of intense, uncontrollable anger, followed by feelings of shame. “She had another episode and was out of meds, I picked some up for her but she needed twice the prescribed amount to put her sleep she was so hysterical,” Millie answers for me. “A manic episode? A high?” “No,” Millie replies. “A panic attack, extreme anxiety, mood swings, her emotions were out of control.” “I see,” he says, and I can see the worry in his eyes. “None of the medication is working, all the pills are useless, psychotherapy didn’t work either. What am I supposed to do? Is there even anything I can do?” I feel the pressure building in my veins, my head aches and I fight the urge to scream at the top of my lungs. “I have an idea, but it is up to you whether you want to try it or not,” he says pensively. “Anything,” I say. “I want this to end, I am so tired.” “ECT.” “What’s that,” Millie asks. “ECT, or electroconvulsive therapy, is an alternative therapy for certain psychiatric illnesses that are not responding to traditional treatments,” he explains. “ECT therapy has a 70 to 90 percent success rate when it comes to patients getting better. This is compared to a 50 to 60 percent success rate for those taking medications.” “Why didn’t you try this sooner?!” Millie is absolutely outraged at the fact that there has been another way this entire time and he is just now telling us about it. “Because it had awful side effects, we needed for it to be tested more and tweaked so that there would be the highest possible chance of success with the lowest risk of worsening the conditions or harming the patient,” Dr Miller explains calmly. “What do I have to do,” I ask, interjecting myself between them. “It involves a brief electrical stimulation of the brain while the patient is under anaesthesia. It will be managed by a team of trained medical professionals including a psychiatrist, an anesthesiologist and a nurse.” “Electrical stimulation? You are going to shock her?” “During the procedure, done under general anaesthesia, small electric currents are passed through the brain, triggering a brief seizure. It causes changes in brain chemistry that can reverse symptoms of certain mental health conditions.” “So, you are going to harm her to heal her?” Millie says dubiously. “It won’t harm her per say, she might experience nausea, headache, jaw pain, muscle ache, confusion, or possible short term memory loss as a side effect of the procedure; but that’s it,” he recites. “Hmm,” Millie murmurs concomitantly. “I’ll do it.” I have already made up my mind, I am ready to be over with this stage of my life and move on. I want to live and be able to maintain a stable relationship. “How long will the treatment take?” “It depends on how well you react. Normally it is 8 to 12 sessions, twice a week, over 4 to 6 weeks.” Dr Miller looks at ease and confident in this, it’s reassuring. “How is the procedure done? What exactly will you be doing to Lexi?”            “On the day of the procedure, I will give her general anaesthesia and muscle relaxants. These medications will help prevent convulsions that come with the seizure activity. She will fall asleep before the procedure and not remember it afterwards,” explains. “Two electrodes will be placed on your scalp. A controlled electrical current will be passed between the electrodes. The current causes a temporary change in the brain’s electrical activity, a brain seizure. It will last between 30 and 60 seconds. Your heart rhythm and blood pressure will be monitored the entire time,” he is now talking directly to me and once again I feel reassured. “Okay,” I say, and that is that. 2 Months Later…            “Millie,” I say pausing as I am about to enter my bedroom. “Thank you, for everything.” “There is no need to thank me, you know I have your back no matter what.” She laughs. “There is a need to thank you, you have been with me to hell and back, you are an incredible person and an amazing friend. So, thank you.” “Oh, come here you sentimental bitch,” she says, rolling her eyes and opening her arms. I lean in and hug her tight. “I meant it,” I say. “I know.” “Now move your butt Lexi,” Millie yells at me and she pushes me towards my vanity.            “Going, geez. Relax,” I yell back. “Forgive me for not wanting to keep the guys waiting.” I can hear the sarcasm in her voice and can picture the eye roll that accompanies it perfectly. “You may be fine with arriving late to meet your boyfriend, but I like to be punctual.” I just laugh and stick the last bobby pin into my updo. I am happy, genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. It is not a manic happy or a high which will lead to a low, it is natural and sweet. I am finally back in control of my emotions and my life. I haven’t felt this strong in a long, long time. I smile at myself in the mirror and pick up my purse.            “I’m ready,” I say as Millie takes me by the arm and starts pulling me towards the front door. We step out into the sunlight of the hallway and the door latches closed behind us with a loud click.


I remember the day she was born. She was so small, so vulnerable. She looked so beautiful in her crib, her mother always fretting about if she was comfortable. The day she was born was the day I swore to protect her no matter what. I remember when she went to her first day of school. I stayed with her all day, of course it was in spirit. When she went into the classroom for the first time she was crying because we had to leave, but when she came home she was a ball of laughter and sunshine. Her first day of school is when I swore to always keep her that little ball of sunshine. I remember the days when she would come home obsessing over a boy, all the wedding details being spilt so fast I wasn’t able to keep up, or when she came home and stayed in her room for hours jamming out to a new band. Some of the best days were when she was with her friends, she laughed and smiled like the time she came homegrown school for the first time, she was weird in her own amazing way. Those random days were when I swore she could always be herself around me, no matter what. I remember the day she changed too. She came home with empty eyes and a hollow voice saying she was fine. I went and sat with her for hours just in case she wanted to talk. All she said was that she was just tired. That day I swore to always be there if she ever needed to talk. As vividly as the good days, I remember the worst day of our family. I heard the water, which was unusual as she should have already left for school and her mother had already showered. I walked towards the bathroom, my socks becoming soaked as I got to the door. A red tinge the the water flooding out from under the door, so I raced in and saw her in the bath, tears staining her face with scars that were no longer invisible on her arms. I called for her mother, yelling as loud as I could. When her mother came in, she started bawling, before grabbing the phone to call an ambulance while I sat there comforting her. The paramedics came and took her to the hospital. That day I swore to always be by her side no matter what. I remember the day she came back, and all the days after it. She lashed out, almost relapsed a few times but she was on her way to being better. She did more activities, even if some days it was harder to get out of bed. She tried though for us, her friends and for herself. That day I swore that she could always lean on me for help, whenever she needed me. I remember the first day of therapy. She was reluctant and would only go if I went with her. So I did. We were in the waiting room for ten minutes before we got called in. The therapist seemed nice, a good presence radiating off him. She seemed comfortable early on in the session but didn’t talk about her problems. The first few I continued to go with her but after about the fifth session she went by herself. She would come home afterwards, and talk about a certain suggestion or something he did that helped. One day he shot her with foam bullets when she spoke about herself negatively. She said that made her feel so much better. That day I swore to always let her talk about whatever she wanted to keep the dark thoughts away. I remember the day she became herself again. Her hair was up, and she was wearing a singlet, showing off the scars she was always self conscious about, and shorts. But that wasn’t the big indicator. What really told me she was back was how excited she was when she found out she got into her dream university.

She was dancing around the room, smiling, laughing, squealing, just like she used too. She called her friends around to celebrate with them. They all screamed before putting on songs from when they were growing up. She was laughing so hard she was breathless and her voice cracked as she and her friends tried to hit the high notes. As I observed her, it was as if I could see the black cloud that had engulfed her, lighten to a grey. That day I swore to keep making that cloud lighter and lighter. I remember the days she spent packing. Sorting all her belongings into three bags. She was going to live at the dormitories at the university. She had days where she would scream in excitement and there were days where she would panic about if she was ready for that much of a change. When those days came around, her mother would sit her down and tell her that aside from love, few activities seem to provide us as much happiness as going travelling: taking off for somewhere else, somewhere far from home, a place with more interesting weather, customs and landscapes. They laughed about the weather part, the school was only two hours away. That quote seemed to get her through so much. That day I swore to always provide her with the same amount of love that I knew she would feel for travelling. I remember the day she left for university. All smiles and nervous excitement, as if she was right back in kindergarten. She promised to call if things ever got bad again before giving us one last hug before leaving us behind, driving to her new life. That was the day I swore to always support her, no matter how much distance was between us.

I remember the day she came home too. She had tears in her eyes, as she hugged me, muttering sweet nothings in my ear. She asked her mother how long I had left, a sob wracking her body when she heard I wouldn’t make it through the night.

I realised that this was the day that all my promises were going to be broken. I closed my eyes, imagining all the days I wish I had the chance to remember. The wedding day she had planned since the age of thirteen, the kids she had already chosen names for, and even the house I knew she had already mentally decorated. But I knew I would never be able to see these days come to pass. I accepted that when it started to hurt too much to be normal. I opened my eyes again when I felt her hand stroking my head, I could hear her talking as well. She was saying how much she loved me, to the moon and back, how much she will miss me and our amazing time together, how proud of me she is that I kept fighting, until the end and how thankful she is for my constant support. As I closed my eyes for the last time, I heard her sob out one last sentence in a wobbly voice. “You are a good boy, the best dog ever.”


“Mama - " “Quiet, James!” “But Mama - " She sent me a look so angry I shut my mouth. Pursing my lips, I jiggled uncomfortably; my bladder needed to empty it’s contents. We had been here, at the Choosing, since early morning, and I hadn’t used the bathroom even once. I needed to go. “When will you pick already, Mama?” I asked her, keeping my voice quiet so she didn't get mad. When I talked loudly she got a headache, and then she would become mean. I didn’t like when Mama was mean. She would always scream at me and also sometimes throw me on the walls of the ship. “James…” I pretended to do what Mary taught me that her kindergarten teacher taught her, that stopped people from talking, but only pretend. I brought my invisible key up to my lips and locked it like a treasure chest. Nobody was going to see my gold. My gaze swept over the rows and rows of little children like me in the cages along the wall. The Bird Children, they were called; kids who were found in a park after living with the winged creatures and magically becoming part of them. They could fly. I wished I could fly. Sometimes I also wished that I was a Bird Child, just that I wouldn’t get caught, oh no. I would be quicker than lightning and none of The Catchers would never ever even take even a hair from my head. I watched with Mama as The Catchers opened the next cage. They dragged out one of the Bird Children; he had hair yellow like the sun and all of his baby teeth. I had already lost seven, I was a big boy. Mama knocked them out when she was mad, but when I showed Mary she clapped and said I could put them under my pillow and the tooth fairy would give me treasures. In the morning, though, I found the tooth fairy nailed to the wall of the ship; Mama didn’t like intruders. She looked at me, from her chair, and I really needed to go then. The key had already locked my mouth so I just looked at her with my puppy eyes. Mama sighed. She does that a lot when she’s not in her mean mood, sighing. “We’ll take it!” Mama stood up, and she was the tallest mother in the room so everybody looked at her. “Twenty pounds!” “Anybody over twenty?” The Catcher looked around the room. He had really bushy eyebrows that made me laugh and a tiny bit of pee spritzed out. Oops. Nobody made a sound. The Catcher nodded. “He’s yours, Ma’am.” Mama walked to the front of the room. The Bird Child didn’t move as he was thrown over her shoulder, like prey she had hunted in the woods. “Come, James.” I followed her out, trying not to show my discomfort. The Bird Child was staring at me with tiny black eyes. The way to Neverland was really complicated, a lot more than just taking the boat to the lagoon. We had to go in scary looking tubes that went super fast and were always filled with people, and through all these little metal gates that would hit you if you didn’t run through them fast enough. My Mama said I was a baby for being afraid of the subway, but in my opinion even playing with the crocodile in Neverland was funner; I hated going in the moving tube. After that we would walk for a very long time, to Mary and her father. They lived on a street that was always filled with people. One time I lost Mama there because of the crowd and had to stay with Mary for a whole entire week, until Mama needed to visit England again. That was when we became best friends. When we got to their building, Mama would press a button and a box would whisk into sight. We had to go in the box, and it was like going underwater; eventually you would run out of air to breath. It was even scarier than the tube. But the box was cooler. When it opened again, magic happened and we were in a different place. Then me and Mama and this time also the Bird Child walked to one of the doors, and I knocked a special knock that Mary taught me: boom, boom, ba-boom, boom, ba-boom, boom . Her father opened the door. He had red hair and was missing an eye, because he used to be a pirate like my Mama but had retired to England. Now he wrote books and stories. Mary and I would look at all the pictures in his stories whenever Mama left me with them. It was really fun. Mary’s father was looking at the Bird Child. His eyebrows were raised. “Small one.” “James needed to go.” Mama looked mad. Uh-oh. “You should have left him with us,” Mary’s father said, walking into the house. We followed him to the living room. The portal was there. “It’s too late for that, innit?” Mama growled. I gulped. She would probably make me scrub the deck and yell at me when we got back to the ship. I saw Mary. Like the Bird Child, she had yellow hair, but she was so much prettier than him. When I was alone in bed, and nobody could hear my thoughts, sometimes I remembered Mary and then I remembered my Mama. Nobody was allowed to know, but I thought Mary was a lot more beautiful. She was the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. She waved at me. I grinned. “Let’s go.” Mama grabbed my elbow and pushed me toward the portal, before I could even say goodbye to my friend. “Bye, Charlie.” Mary’s father nodded his head. And we stepped into the portal. When we were back on the deck, the Bird Child was thrown on the floor and then I was as well. Mama was livid. She taught me that word. It means very very very angry. “HOW DARE YOU?” Mama screamed at me, and my head hit the wall, thump . It hurt. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I wasn’t a baby, I didn’t cry. “HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME PICK THIS - THIS ARSE ?!” she gestured towards the Bird Child who was thrown on the floor, his eyes shut. Maybe he was unconscious. Mama was very strong. Mama screamed into the sky. She had a big nose, so she looked a lot like a hawk. She was scary when she was mean. “Scrub the deck!” eventually she yelled at me, and stormed away. I was left alone with the Bird Child. The rest of Mama’s crew were on vacation, so it was only me and him and her. I glanced at the planks of wood that were littered all over the place. I had scrubbed them yesterday too. “Hello,” the Bird Child said. The sun was setting, and I had finished cleaning almost half of the deck. My back was hurting and my hands were all dry from the soap. I looked at the Bird Child. His little black eyes were wide and intelligent, cocky and filled with laughter, even though he was captured and would never be able to leave the boat. There was magic restricting him from running away, by a tiny little necklace that Mama had placed on the base of his neck. The Child couldn’t take it off himself, only Mama could, and as long as it was there he was stuck. There was of course the other way; if he managed to overpower his captain, which was Mama, he would be free, but I doubted that would happen. He was tiny and harmless. Maybe he could fly, but Mama… Mama was the strongest pirate to ever sail the seven seas. “Hi.” He seemed delighted that I'd answered. The Bird Child smiled with his pearly white teeth. “I’m Peter Pan,” he declared, and stood up. “Who are you?” I licked my lips. Mama said I couldn’t talk to the Bird Child, but I was mad at her; I didn’t want to clean the deck. And my head had a swollen part in it, because she threw me. If she caught me, she would get very angry. I looked around. Mama was nowhere to be found. “My name is James. James Hook. My Mama is a pirate.” “I don’t have a Mama,” Peter Pan the Bird Child said, and his grin widened. “I don’t need one, either.” And suddenly he was laughing. His laughter was like the tinkling of tiny little bells, as if a fairy lived in his mouth. I stared at him. How could he laugh about not having a Mama? Without Mama I would be nothing. I owed her everything . “Want to play a game?” His giggles died in an instant, startling me. I glanced at him. He was floating an inch above the air. Flying. I had always wanted to fly. “I don’t think I’m - " But suddenly Peter Pan swooped over to me and touched my shoulder. He was laughing again. “You’re it!” He was as high as the mast, flying up into the cotton candy in the sky. I stared after him in wonder, as Peter brought his hands to his mouth, calling down to me. “Come on, Hooknose! Catch me if you can!” The sponge fell from my hands. The Bird Child was like magic, real magic. I wanted to be magic too. I sprinted faster than lightning over to one of the ropes, climbing like Mama had taught me. I was almost as high as him while he laughed, crowing with delight. I felt a tiny spark of happiness alight inside my chest. If I just reached over, I would touch the sole of his shoe - “Oh, not so fast!” Peter swooped down to the ground again. “You’ll never catch me!” “I - " But then my heart stopped. Because she was there. Mama. She locked me in my room, she was so mad. She only did that once before; I was in there for two whole days. In the end I grew so thirsty I pounded on the door and begged for forgiveness, promising to scrub the whole ship and sharpen all the weapons and clean her room if only she gave me a cup of water. Mama let me out and slapped me. She said that I was weak and I would never survive captivity. She put the Bird Child in the place made especially for him, in the engine room. It sucked away the energy he used in order to fly and powered the entire ship. If the Bird Child was strong enough, sometimes the boat would even be able to rise into the air. But it hurt them, very much. I remember hearing the old Bird Child scream into the night as his magic was sucked out of him. I wondered how Peter would deal with the pain; all of his laughter would wither away. Poor Peter. Mama opened the door after only one day, this time, in the evening. She was drunk. I knew because she was holding rum in her hand and because she was grinning. Mama never smiles. Never ever. One time I asked her why and she said that real pirates never smile. She said that one day, when I would be a captain myself, if I smiled all my crew would throw me to the water. She taught me how to make a mean face that day. I was very good at it. When I showed it to Mary, she screamed. “Get out, James.” She grabbed my elbow and threw me to the deck, locking my bedroom behind me. “Mama - " “We have a problem,” Mama slurred. She was still grinning. “And you’re going to solve it.” A tiny sliver of fear started to creep into my heart. A problem? “The Bird Child escaped,” Mama said, and pushed me towards the weaponry room. “You’re going to catch him.” “But, Mama - " “Hush, James. Choose your sword.” I gulped. This couldn’t be happening. Mama said my first pirate mission would come only when I was twelve. I still have five and a half years for that. “Mama - " “JAMES!” Suddenly I remembered that Mama wasn’t always smiley drunk. Sometimes she would be angry drunk. Then she was super -scary. I glanced at the rows of sharp blades hanging on the wall. I hadn’t actually fought with one, ever. My heart was beating quickly. I didn’t want to - “James,” Mama growled, and I grabbed the first sword I could reach. It’s weight made me stagger. I let out a tiny gasp. “Now go and find the prick,” Mama said, clearly enjoying herself. “Go and find the flying… prick - " She started laughing. Mama never laughed. That scared me even more than the sword. “Find him and capture him and lock him in the engine room - " The ship at night was like a haunted house. I needed to pee again, but Mama would get mad. I also needed to cry. But then Mama would get madder. My sword dragged behind me, too heavy to pick up. Tears prickled at my eyes. Where was Peter? I didn’t want to do this. I really, really, really didn’t want to do this. But what choice did I have? Mama would - And then it crashed into me. What would Mama do, if I didn’t manage to capture Peter? She would - she would - maybe she would - No. I would succeed. I would find Peter Pan the Bird Child. I would find him and I would catch him. I would . I checked the engine room again, but he wasn’t there. Then I went to Mama’s office and Mama’s room too, and then through all the crew’s empty rooms. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. Eventually I stumbled back to the deck. I saw his silhouette, against the wall, before I saw him. He was crying. “Peter?” I asked, because I couldn’t imagine the little magic boy crying, ever. He turned to face me. He was standing right next to the tooth fairy who was nailed to the wall. Uh-oh. “How could you?” Peter whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. “How could you kill her - " His gaze fell to my sword, then up to my face. His tears disappeared, replaced by… mockery? “Oh, you think you can kill me like you killed that little fairy?” he rose up into the air, the moon setting his eyes ablaze. “YOU THINK?!” And he pounced on me, knocking me to the ground. My sword clattered to the side as Peter screamed at me, pulling my hair and punching me in the eye. Everything hurt. Now I was crying, but Mama said that boys don’t cry, not ever, especially not future captains. I was letting Mama down. I couldn’t - I yanked Peter off of me, gasping. Blood sprinkled like fairy dust from my cheek to the floor as anger rose within me. How dare he attack me? He was our prisoner. Mine and Mama’s. How dare he disobey orders?! Yes, come , little kitten , I told the anger, caressing it within me. Make me strong. Make me catch this Bird Child who dared to - In a flash, I grabbed the sword that was way too heavy and swung it at him. It crashed to the deck but I still held on to it. I was super-strong, like Mama. One sword wouldn’t knock me down. Peter was laughing at me. The anger grew. “Hi-yah!” I attacked him. He dodged, left and right and up up up to the moon and the sky, crowing the whole time. His sadness from before had disappeared in an instant. Peter was enjoying this. He enjoyed laughing at me . “I will kill you!” I screamed at the night air, and decided that, yes, I was going to kill him. “You’ll have to catch me first!” Peter called back, and flew away, towards the weaponry room and Mama. She had zonked out, the bottle rolling away into the ocean. Mama. He would hurt - Peter picked up a dagger from the table. He looked at me. I ran to him, my weapon dragging on the floor. Peter grinned. And he stuck the knife in Mama’s heart. A million pounds of sand landed on my head, my feet, my own heart. I froze. No. He didn't. He didn’t just - “Free! I’m free!” Peter exclaimed, and he rose into the air, throwing his necklace to the ground. I was breathing so hard I couldn’t breath. No. No. Mama - “I WILL KILL YOU!” I screamed at him with all my soul, because suddenly I hated him so much it hurt, it hurt that he murdered my Mama and now I would murder him, he would never fly again, never never never - But Peter could fly and I had never used a sword in my life. So when he swooped down again, at me, crying with joy, I knew what would come before it actually came. He cut my hand off. The pain seared through my body as I collapsed. No. No no no no no no no - I watched through dazed eyes as Peter grabbed my severed palm, throwing it off the deck, to the ocean. Tears were streaming down my eyes. I couldn’t stop them. I was shaking, from terror or from the hurt or from losing my Mama, I didn’t even know anymore. “Goodbye, Hooknose!” Peter crowed at me, flying into the distance. Only when I woke up and Ezra from the crew had returned for vacation and put me in sickbay and secured the hook to my stump, did I realize what I was meant to do in this life. I was made in order to kill the Bird Child. I was born to kill Peter Pan. And I would. I would.


Whoa! whoa! There! I shouted to my horse to stop. His nose flared and the hot steam coming from his mouth was a clear indication that we had been going very fast. I pulled at the reins and he came to a standstill, just in time too. We were at the brink of a cliff, one minute more and I shuddered to think what could have happened. I dismounted and tiptoed gingerly to the edge of the cliff, still holding tightly to the reins of my horse. I looked down and caught my breath as I imagined what would have happened, had we taken one more step. The ravine below was filled with sharp pointed rocks and doubtless would have made mincemeat of our bodies. I should be more careful, I thought still trembling with the horrible thoughts of what could have happened. I patted my horse and led him away from the edge and whispered,” Good job, White Lightening! I had given him that name because not only was he fast but his mane was as white as the drifting clouds overhead. He was very gentle and was always surprising me with his magical behavior. This was not the first time we were in danger and he had come through with flying colors. Magical, I say, because that was what it was, my adventures with White Lightening. I lived with my mother, sister and stepdad in a townhouse in the Northeast area of Scotland. We had just moved there from Japan and we were trying to settle down to life in the U.K. I was struggling to fit in at school and my whole family was experiencing what I called culture shock. There was so much to get used to, the food, the accent, the neighbors and the transportation to mention a few.I felt cut off from everything I knew and would wake up in the middle of the night hoping this was a bad dream only to open my eyes and realize that this was no dream. We had actually left my grandparents my friends and cousins, packed our favorite toys and belongings, boarded a plane and landed in Scotland . This house was our second habitat in a year, my parents had to change jobs and my sister and I had to change schools. So here we were in another new house ’settling down’ . So you can imagine my delight and utter amazement when I discovered this portal in my house. Our house was situated on the bottom of a hill with my room facing the hill. I opened the French doors one day and realized that I was in a magical portal. I found White Lightening waiting for me and as I climbed on his smooth back, I was immediately freed from my world and could ride to my heart’s content.

Riding White Lightening was the joy of my life and I was surprised we had bonded so well. Even though I had ridden horses before on my school’s field excursions, I did not own one and so my delight was doubled at the thought of having this beautiful horse to myself! When I had ridden to my heart’s content, I would reenter the portal and was back in my room. This went on for awhile until my sister became suspicious. One day as I reentered the portal, I found her waiting for me in my room. ’ Where were you ? she asked. I was calling you to show you my latest creation’.  My sister loved to draw and she was always surprising me with her artwork. Her manga drawings were incredible and she had created her own website where she posted her creations for others to view.’  Uh, uh, I was in the bathroom’, I lied feeling guilty, and surprised at how fast I had come up with a response.  I loved my younger sister, and we were always together. She was two and a half years younger than me and we had shared many adventures together, except for this one.I was so enamored with my secret portal that I didn’t feel like sharing,. At least, not yet. She had her way of escape, and I had found mine. I needed this outlet. I thought justifying my behavior.Sharing it with someone would only spoil it for me. Besides she might feel strongly about sharing it with our parents. I felt this would destroy the magic, and I would be caught up in the world of reality, feeling trapped in this new world with no way of escape. I would tell her one day, but for now, it’s my secret and I wasn’t ready to share.

My sister seemed satisfied with my answer, and so I was relieved for the moment. Still feeling guilty about keeping secrets from her, I devoted my entire attention to her drawings which was no hard task, since she was very good at what she did. Then I began to think about my experience that day, What if I hadn’t stopped in time? What then? I would be lost forever without anyone knowing what had happened to me. Oh! the pain that would bring to my family. I was old enough to know the pain that would ensue from such a demise. My family would be forced to suffer for the rest of their lives not knowing what had become of me. The Law enforcement agencies would be suspicious and baffled and might even hold my parents accountable for my disappearance.I could just see my mother distraught with worry and bewilderment. What would they tell my grandparents? I know they would be heartbroken. I could see the sad looks on their faces.

           Could I put them through this suffering? Did I have the heart to let them spend the rest of their lives not knowing? Did they deserve this? They were kind and loving and provided for me and my sister the best they could. I felt ashamed of myself and even though I was just imagining these events I was left with a sick feeling in my stomach. I knew then and there I couldn’t do this to them. I would have to tell them about the secret portal. I probably would have to take them through it and let them meet White Lightening, if they didn’t believe me. So I made up my mind and went to the spot where the portal was thinking this was my last adventure. I approached it with fear and sadness, thinking how I would miss having this escape. I waited at the spot where I usually stood and expected the magic portal to open, but nothing happened. Surprised, I put my hand up searching for the entrance and expecting the portal to open, but nothing happened. Frantically searching for the portal to open, I didn’t realize my mother had entered the room and was looking at me with a puzzled look on her face. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. “Oh, nothing”, I replied, thinking how foolish I must have seemed to any onlooker. After reminding me it was going to be her birthday the next day and we were going horse back riding at the local stables, she left the room after checking to see if I had picked out the clothes I would wear.

Well, needless to say, I was never able to find the portal again and was left only with the memories I had had. I surely missed White Lightening. Knowing that no one would believe me, I said nothing and told no one about my secret portal. The next day, we went to the local stables . Guess what? I saw a horse that looked just like White Lightening. I asked the attendants if I could ride him. To my delight, I approached him and called him White lightening. The attendant was surprised, “How did you know his name?” she asked. ‘He looks like White Lightening,” I said smiling. I patted his back and smiled knowing I could get to ride White Lightening any time I visited the stables.


Stabbing, fierce pain woke me up. I knew I was awake as I could feel the hollowness of my stomach and hear the yowling of my intestines. I struggled to open my eyes though despite the perniciously bright sunlight which was desperately trying to force me to see through. At that instant I did not really know where I was, which day of the week, month or year I was supposed to be in. I could not remember if I was meant to be sleeping, was I on my own or if I had anything to do. All I could remember was the crispy sugary crust of that waffle I had had. Yes, that waffle… My last meal before I was wherever I was. It must have been quite a while since then as my appetite was screaming like a starving hyena in a desert. My imagination was rotating around a pile of those waffles poured over with maple syrup, sweet-scented cinnamon, chopped bananas, whipped cream, hazelnuts, hot chocolate… This reminded me of how incapable I was of consuming any of those scrumptious delights. I am sure many of us are susceptible to certain allergens and it is a common issue and tedious task cafes and restaurants must deal with to satisfy the whims of annoying customers. That’s why some brands have special sandwiches for people intolerant to either gluten, or dairy, or nuts, or sesame, or sugar, or eggs, or seafood etc. It is very much rarer for someone to be intolerant to all of those listed. Yes, you guessed, I am talking about myself. One of the reasons why I avoided to go to parties in high school, have lunch with my friends or dare to go out on a date was my frustrating intolerance towards pretty much every food I would try in those gatherings. Food tends to unite people, reinforce relationships, save the starved or just to make your day slightly more exciting sometimes if the new flavour of your favourite cereal has come out. But for me, food created mostly pain, especially when it involved others. How I had to triple check the labels of the snack bar every time before my lunchbreak and the disappointment I would endeavour when I discovered that the college café had no dairy free milk, sugar-free syrup or gluten-free bread. The potential exasperation my mum had to go through if I happened to not tolerate her soup despite her efforts to make it impeccably suitable for me. The number of times I had to say no when someone offered me a slice of cake on their birthday. No wonder I almost said no to Asha’s birthday invitation. Almost?

The epiphany of my current condition hit me with a firm thrust. It was when the opening of a door followed by its sudden slam distracted my appetite and I could finally see gigantic tubes attached to my veins and nauseating smell of chemicals. A tall, slim, middle-aged man with a prematurely wrinkled face and bald forehead was observing me with concern as if I held the response to his perturbation.

“Kamilah,” he uttered while painstakingly checking a list.

“Mhm”, I did not even have the energy to speak. He adjusted one of the tubes which was flowing into my bloodstream and sat on the grey chair next to my bed as if he was about to interrogate me on a bunch of trivial issues until he reached to the pinnacle of his dissertation.

“You must be pretty exhausted. We almost lost you. Your heartbeat was dangerously slow. You are lucky that we took you to the current state you are in. Your parents and friend Asha are very worried about you…” “But…”, I had to tell him the truth before anyone had jumped into assumptions and thrown a mass of accusations on me and my unsatiable greed and irresponsibility.

“However, I thought”, he didn’t allow me to interrupt him, “that you will need more rest before everyone starts bothering you with questions”, it felt for a second as if he was on my side which made my breathing normalise, “It is better if you eat something first. You must be starving”, at the same instant a chubby nurse entered in the room carrying a tray which reeked of beefy soup, and I spotted a dry bread roll peering on the top. Did my parents not inform them about my gluten intolerance? At the end of the day this is the reason why I was here… “Let me speak first”, I almost yelled to terminate the brisk enthusiasm with which the nurse was approaching me, “I ate something I should not have. And I know that my mum is very mad at me and she has just forgotten to let you know about my allergies.

They were staring at me with empathy for the first time and I felt as if I was actually going to be understood. I took a deep breath, ignored the incessant present of hamburger in my thoughts and tried to cultivate my energy so I could tell them everything I knew.

“Everything began yesterday when I decided to go to Asha’s birthday party. She is the only person I relied on as she always understood my situation around ‘fussiness’ with food and tried to even adjust her diet according to my food tolerance. For the first time I felt the presence of someone who was patient enough with me. Even my mum is tired of cooking food for me sometimes as I would either get a rash, or stomach-ache or even end up in a hospital as it is happening now…”, I needed a long pause before I continued. It may have been even an hour until I managed to put my words together and state the truth. “Asha created her birthday menu according to my allergies so I could enjoy the party in the same way everyone did. Like normal people”, tears started shuddering from my eyes, “There would be vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free waffles. Meat-free burgers. Dairy-free cheese. More fruits and vegetables. Healthy snacks. And plant-based cake. I was looking forward to that day for weeks. It was…finally going to be a normal celebration. More normal than mine. Not thinking about the labels of food and just live in a world where the risk of my life being totally messed-up is to the very minimum. A world where food allergies do not exist because no one creates food which makes someone die,” I smiled and I saw how the man and the nurse reciprocated it as if they had experienced something similar before,” But everything proved to be an illusion once I tried Asha’s waffles. Initially I was simply indulging them in the same way I was indulging my trust towards her. But once I tried the burgers, I felt like something was not right. My hands started quivering and I felt dizzy. I went to the toilet and on the way back I overheard the conversation of Asha’s mum and one of the guests. They were in the kitchen and discussing the menu. Having had already a tone of doubts about the food I had consumed, I started listening with attention. The guest was apparently impressed by the quality of the food and asked about the ingredients of the waffles. I heard Asha’s mum mentioning something like 400 grams of sugar and one kilogram of white flour… I don’t remember what happened afterwards. I must have lost conscience”, I, myself, was shocked about what I had just said despite being aware of it earlier. My best friend had tried to poison me after I had bestowed her with my ultimate trust. The simple fact of my life being under danger did not matter to me to the slightest. It was the betrayal which brought me to the hospital. No one really tried to counter or acknowledge anything I had just stated. The man continued signing some stuff on his list and the nurse retrieved with the stinky tray without forcing me finish my meal. Hours passed and nothing was changing. The nurse never came back with a tray full of food appropriate to my needs. My parents did not visit me, and my stomach never stopped complaining of how empty it felt. I did not have the strength to leave but if I got the chance to the preoccupation of finding a food place which responded to my needs at the very instant was stronger than the exhaustion I was carrying.

Maybe a week passed after I finally took the courage of asking what was going on. Was I about to die? Was I in a camp or prison? Why was no one talking to me? And why did no one care that I had been poisoned by my best friend or that I had not eaten for days? “What the hell is going on here?” I burst into tears as the pressure of my voice and the way the nurse looked at me made me even more emotional, “Why are you not paying attention to what I am telling you? I am starving to death, and you would not even bring me a piece of fruit? Where are my parents?”, the nurse seemed frightened. She left the room quickly. In a few minutes the tall slim man walked in and sat on the grey chair next to me. This time it was me who was seeking a response from him. “Good morning, Kamelah”, he smiled, “Lucy told me you didn’t sleep very well last night. What can I do for you? “Tell me what is going on! Who are you and why are you not letting me out? Why are you not letting me eat?”, I uttered with the last gasp I had kept for this moment. I just wanted to liberate myself from…everything. I wanted to listen. “Dear Kamelah”, he finally began, “I am doctor Leora and I am a qualified psychiatrist for eating disorders. You have been in the clinic for eating disorders for the last week and a half due to a heart failure you experienced as a result of putting yourself under a drastic meal plan. As far as I understood from your parents, the party of your friend Asha was a month ago and they told me that you had literally stopped eating after then. When it comes to your accusations towards Asha and her plans to ‘poison’ you, there hasn’t been any evidence in the records of you displaying any forms of severe allergies apart from your minor intolerance towards full fat milk which makes you gassy sometimes. You did not come to the hospital because you have experienced a seizure from an allergic reaction. You came to the hospital because your heartbeat almost stopped after you putting your body under so much strain. You have been diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and will need to remain supervised under intensive care until we decide where to transfer you for your recovery period.”


Lyle was hostage to the forest. His hiking partner, Sam, suddenly vanished, leaving Lyle utterly alone and vulnerable to the darkness of the trees that towered over him, blocking out the warm sun. He remembered feeling Sam’s presence beside him one moment, and the next, he felt cool air tickling his skin, as though his clothing had been removed, leaving him naked and exposed. Goosebumps spread across his body.

Lyle wasn’t a skilled hiker and always got nervous in large open spaces, but Sam had somehow managed to persuade him to join on a day hike at Crawford Lake despite this.

Lyle whirled around in search of his friend, expecting him to be hiding somewhere as a trick. He called out Sam’s name and received only the response of his own echo blurred together with the squawk of bird song.

“Sam!” he called. “This isn’t funny. You knew goddamned well that I didn’t even want to come on this stupid trip and now you’ve ditched me. Dude, what the f--? Where are you?” Lyle was beginning to accept that his friend wasn’t messing around. Sam had actually disappeared. Panic rose into Lyle’s throat, blocking his breath from escaping. All around him was the emptiness of the forest.

“What have you done with Sam,” he screamed to the trees. “You can’t just take him away like that!” A rough wind started blowing, and Lyle knew this was the forest's way of taunting him. What had he done to deserve being left alone like this? He let his body collapse heavily onto the moss-covered ground and slumped himself against a boulder. He could feel tears welling inside his eyes. Lyle wasn’t one to cry, and he felt confused by the salty tears now streaming down his face. Then he realized he wasn’t actually crying; it was only the harsh wind blowing into his eyes causing them to water. All around him, the wind began picking up more fiercely, growling like a bear.

The tree branches were dancing back and forth, waving mockingly at Lyle. They seemed to be enjoying his distress. The birds continued squawking as if nothing had changed, but Lyle felt as if the whole world had turned upside down and thrown him into oblivion.

The trail had been quiet the entire day, but even if it had been busy, he doubted anyone would find him, for he was nowhere near the trail. Lyle worried that we would die here stranded, his body rotting away, making food for flesh-eating beetles. How horrific and mutilated he would look when someone finally found his body.

Dead leaves rustled across the dirt like tumbleweeds. A few sticks followed, leaving deep trenches between the pebbles. Lyle watched them go by and thought they looked like a hand with long nails scratching the ground. He shook his head, trying to erase the thought, but when he looked again, there was the hand continuing to leave its mark, which was now traced in blood. Lyle scrambled away, breathing heavily, ignoring the scratches he was getting from moving in such a crazed manner.

When he decided he was far enough away, he leant against a tree and started banging the palm of his left hand against his forehead, hoping he could dispel the illusions with the thumping pain.

Again, he let his body slump to the ground. Except he never hit the ground, instead he fell straight through it and could see the forest through a hole that was growing smaller. His muscles tensed, and his eyes squeezed shut. When the feeling of falling went away, he opened them and found himself in the same place he’d been before he fell, surrounded by the forest’s gloom.

Lyle curled up into the fetal position, and his body rocked involuntarily. All he could hear was the sound of the rushing wind, which grew louder with every second that passed. The wind was blowing from all directions, creating a vortex that trapped Lyle in the centre - in the eye. The dense wind slowly transformed, and Lyle could now hear his name being called.

Then the wind said, “Lyle, I’m so sorry I let this happen to you. I should have kept a better watch. I shouldn’t have let us venture off. I should have known you wouldn't be able to handle it.” Lyle recognized the voice. It wasn’t the wind speaking. It was Sam. Lyle glanced up from his crumpled position, expecting to see his friend standing above him, and there he was. Lyle felt relief wash over him and reached for his hand. Sam knelt down, and Lyle was met with a blank face. The face, most definitely belonging to Sam’s body, had no eyes, but he could still feel the intense glare.

“Lyle,” the faceless Sam whispered, “please wake up.”

Lyle didn’t understand; he was already awake. He pinched his arm and felt a sharp pain shoot through his skin. He was definitely not asleep. Once more, he shut his eyes tight, and when he opened them, the faceless Sam was gone and was replaced by blurred vision. The forest now looked like it was underwater. His head felt foggy.

He peeled himself up off the ground, picked a direction to walk and started warily towards it. Lyle walked on until the soles of his shoes had worn thin, and his feet bled. He walked on until his knees could barely hold up his scanty frame.

Suddenly, a white light emerged ahead of him, blinding his eyes that had been so accustomed to the murky forest. He clamped his eyes shut and, without thinking, sprinted towards the light. Soon, the brightest part was directly in front of him. He made his way for it only to find himself hitting what felt like a brick wall. His eyes flew wide open. …

Lyle felt as though he’d just awoken from a night terror. His heart rate quickened as he heard a loud beeping to his right. He tried to speak but found no words, all he could manage was a low gurgling noise.

He was no longer in the animated forest but in a bland hospital room. A woman in blue hurried in and began asking him questions he couldn’t answer. Lyle gawked at her. She stopped questioning him and instead started smoothing his hair out of his face gently. He knew she was speaking reassuring words, as for what she was saying, he hadn’t the faintest clue.

The woman in blue gestured that she’d be back soon and left. Lyle was able to absorb in his surroundings better. He lay on a comfortable bed with fresh-smelling sheets. In one corner was a bucket filled with soapy water, a rag hung over the edge. Attached to his right arm was a plastic tube, which Lyle assumed was for feeding him. A heart rate monitor stood on the far side of the room, beeping rhythmically. Lyle’s bed sat next to a bright window, and on the ledge were drooping flowers. He reached for one of the get well soon cards. In his mother’s handwriting, written inside, was a short note that said, come back to us, Lyle, we miss you . He placed it carefully back onto the window’s ledge.

Lyle began feeling uncomfortable laying down as if he’d been stuck in that position for eternity. His muscles screamed at him as he lifted himself off the bed, but after stretching, they quieted down. Lyle made his way over to the door, wanting to search for someone who could put his confusion at ease. Hanging beside the door was a clipboard, and attached was a hospital document with Lyle’s name as the headline. He studied the paper, unsure of what most of the words meant. At the top, a few handwritten notes had been made about unusual brain activity.

From what Lyle was able to gather, he’d suffered severe head trauma and had been in a coma for 13 months.


I know it wasn’t just me. And I know it didn’t start just last night. Was it before then? I don’t remember. I was there, at the party, the new guy. He was talking to me. He looked about 22, maybe 24. I was 17. Did he take me upstairs? I don’t know, man. The light when I woke up, the light now. It’s too bright. Too. . . . white. Yeah. I think Cassy was there. Is Cassy here? “Cassy?” I called out to her but I didn't hear her. All I see is white. There, over there, these blurs. What are those? Just blurs, lying on the ground, like me. Am I a blur? Is that Cassy? “Cassy?” That’s not my voice. It sounds small, like a child’s. no , less than a child. A baby? What happened last night? Where’s Cassy? “Cassy??” Everyone’s still a blur. Why can’t I remember? I think we were drunk. The new guy got me drunk. Was Cassy drunk? Didn’t he have a knife? Where is she? “Please, Cassy, answer me!” I hate the blurs. Why are you moving me? Why are you giant? The new guy had a knife, right? Cassy was holding on to me. We were crying, I think. I’m still crying. “Help me, Cassy!” I can’t stop crying. Like the sound of a baby crying. Like the sound of me crying. What happened last night? I died. But I’m alive now? _________________________________________ “Well Mr. and Mrs. Salvi, you have a beautiful baby girl!” the doctor announced as he brought the baby back into the hospital room. “What are you thinking about naming her?” a nurse, the dark-haired one with the crooked teeth, asked as she held the birth certificate. The father was crying. Not for the miracle of life, but the tragedy of death. The night before, his niece was murdered at a party with her best friend. He had found out the news not even an hour ago. “We were going to name her Sienna but now I-” “Her name’s going to be Cassy,” Mr. Salvi interrupted his wife. “Cassy.” “Are you sure honey?” Mrs. Salvi knew that was a sensitive name for him. “Why wouldn’t I be? I need to respect her somehow,” Mr. Salvi stormed out of the room, trying to find a place where he couldn’t hear the sound of crying. “So the name's Cassy, then?” the nurse asked, growing a bit impatient. “Well, I guess it would be respectful. That was the name of his niece, you see, and she and her friend were . . . . were murdered last night. At a party.” Then she too burst into tears, the baby falling soundly asleep in her arms. __________________________________________ “Look!” “Yes, sweetie, that’s a bug,” she told li’l Cassy as she pointed to something small. ‘Yellow.” “No, it’s not yellow, it’s orange.” “Orange.” “That’s right,” Mrs. Salvi was sitting on a blanket in her backyard with Cassy, just enjoying the sun. “Mommy?” “Yeah, sweetie?” Poor Cassy looked worried for some reason. “Did you know I had a friend?” “Well you have a lot of friends, like Little Piggy on your bed upstairs or Charlotte down the street, or eve-” “No, a tall friend,” Cassy climbed up onto her mother’s lap, trying to get her point across as seriously as a five-year-old could. ‘Oh?” Mrs. Salvi was genuinely curious at this point. Maybe even a little worried. "What’s his name?” “No Mommy, her name,” Cassy said, getting frustrated that her mom didn’t know who she was talking about. “Sorry, her name.” “Cassy.” Mrs. Salvi sat there, more than a bit confused. “Cassy’s your name, sweetie.” “But Cassy was her name.” Cassy climbed out of her lap, getting distracted by something else with wings. A bit disturbed, Cassy’s mother asked, “don’t you mean ‘is’, dear?” “What?” “Cassy ‘is’ her name?” “No, was.” Cassy started to get even more frustrated then. “Was her name, Mommy.” “Why was?” “Because, Mommy, didn’t she leave?” Why is she saying any of these things? “What do you mean?” “Well, she was a tall person, but I think I was tall like her, Mommy. Maybe even as tall as you! And there was a knife. Not like the ones you let me use in the kitchen. But a really big one. And sharp, too.” she started to cry. “She didn’t have the knife, Mommy, so don’t get mad at her. It really hurt. Really hurt.” Cassy couldn’t stop crying when she said this. “It’s alright, baby, no one has a knife. I’m here,” Mrs. Salvi crooned. “Are you hurt? Does your tummy hurt? Let’s go inside and talk to daddy.” she started to pick her up when Cassy jumped out of her arms. “No, Mommy, it hurt then! That guy with th-the knife, he j-just hurt her! I couldn’t h-help my friend, Mommy!” Cassy collapsed in a massive fit of tears, not disagreeing when Mrs. Salvi picked her up for a second time. After that scene, Mrs. Salvi took her upstairs to her bed where Cassy finally just cried herself to sleep. . . . .

“Did we ever speak about it in front of her,” Mr. Salvi kept asking, white knuckles in a death grip around his coffee mug. “My niece. . . . could she have known?” Mrs. Salvi was sitting at the table, crying. What do you make of a daughter talking about a dead girl and knives? “No, we never said anything. Did one of her cousins, or maybe one of your sisters tell her?” “No, they would all have enough sense to know she’s not old enough.” At that point, tears started to slip under his eyes as well. “What’s happened to our daughter?” Mrs. Salvi was at the point of wailing. Mr. Salvi put his arms around her for comfort. “I don’t know, but I think that the only person who could tell you is her.” __________________________________________ “Hey, Mom,” Cassy says, dropping her tennis tuff down by the stairs, then heading into the kitchen. “Hey, how was the match?” Mrs. Salvi asks, a little distracted with her phone. “It was fine. You know, I had this really weird dream last night, but all I remember is seeing a girl that I don’t think I’d ever seen before.”

“Speaking of last night, how late were you up?” Mrs. Salvi asks, bringing her attention fully to her daughter. “I could hear banging and thumping coming from your room or something much past when you should’ve been in bed. You knew it was a school night young lady.” The concerned mother went back to her phone, waiting for her daughter’s explanation. “What? I wasn’t up that late. What do you mean?” Cassy looked genuinely confused. “I went to bed at, like, 10:30.” “Mmhm, sure,” Mrs. Salvi said, not confident if she should believe her daughter. “I’m being serious! I could show you the text of when I told Brady goodnight, too!” She pulled up a text on her phone and held it up to her mother's face. The time of the last text said 10:27 PM. “Oh. then what were those noises?” “Maybe you were too tired, Mom. Can I go with Molly over to the library so we can study for finals today? We don't have that much time left.” she said as she scavenged through the fridge. Mrs. Salvi didn’t reply, again distracted at the thought of her phone, so Cassy just moved on to preparing herself food. She grabbed the watermelon and a knife, but she couldn’t cut it. She stood there, staring not at the watermelon, but at the knife, sitting in her trembling fingers. “It was a knife like this,” she said, still hypnotized by the sparkling gleam of the beautiful knife. Mrs. Salvi, startled by the words, looked up. “What?” “A knife like this killed her,” Cassy said, her knees starting to buckle beneath her. “Who?” Mrs. Salvi was fearing for her daughter, not knowing what her mind was seeing. “It was a knife like this that killed Cassy,” the shaking girl said as she dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor.