TW: terrorism Many might say I have lost my way but it is those who say that, who have lost their way. Our city neighborhood is changing because of them . Because they lost their way.

My journal entries are my place of happiness. I write the good old days long before Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos. The time when we were all safe. The only millionaires were sawmill operators, one named Henry Yesler. He was one of the pioneers of the city and built what became the city’s first steam-powered sawmill. People looked up to him and made him the city’s 7th and 15th mayor. He was truly an inspirational individual,

not in the likes of any crazy aliens. I describe these days in detail and take into account everyone’s lifestyle. This is how life should be. We need to go back to the good old days.

Walking through the streets through the heavy rain, I silently observe the people. Our home is known to be one of the fastest-growing cities in the United States. I write how it’s imperative that we return back to our old ways to stay safe. Our city has been misconceived to be dull and dreary yet if anything, New York, Houston, Boston, and Atlanta are drearier than ever. Clouds are harmless. I write how my first stop will be Pivotal Comware. The military has no need for such AI networks. Our manned militias got the job down. I describe how infuriating it is to read about such terrible innovations. Are these people signing the document for our demise? To even imagine the thought of those terrible machines serving us tea only to point a gun at our heads. A shudder passes through my body as I pull out the light brown package from my backpack. Carefully, I place the package behind Pivotal Comware and continue walking. I describe how the streets were relatively empty. The rain kept everyone indoors. It would only be a matter of time.

“Pivotal Comware has just received a package with a bomb. Luckily, only one person was inside the building and brought what seems to be a harmless brown package inside the building. We are still searching for other victims but the company reports that nobody else was inside. That’s it for now, back to you, Bartel,” announced the TV reporter. The TV screen was filled with red flames licking the sides of the building. All that was left of the Pivotal Comware logo was black charr. I write how now it will only be one of humans’ mistakes from the past. I wait for Pivotal Comware’s story to calm down before heading out again. The sky was overcast with light gray clouds. This time I take a longer route and pass by the glass-blowing studios. The colorful beautiful shapes hang from the ceiling and walls. The local library sits across the studios. The entrance is filled with crowds of people, holding bags full of books. We are a smart bunch and our city is known for such amazing innovations. As such an elite group, we can’t risk our safety with these killer machines.

Quantcast sits a few blocks further. Their terrible founders use AI I blend in the crowd and place the package into the mail truck right across. Within minutes, I’m half a mile away from Quantcast. I write about how it will be the last time anyone will see it.

I realize the killer machines are not far away therefore I must speed up my game. I run back to my house and pick up a few more bombs. The police couldn’t find any direct trail from the bombs at both Quantcast and Pivotal Comware. God must be on my side, not the police’s side or the police would have found me a long time ago. I am doing what’s right. God supports me.

Once I left my direct neighborhood, I slowed down to a normal pace. Attracting unnecessary attention would blow my cover. On the right, I approached Bertha. I describe how Bertha is a giant drill trying to dig its way under the city. God must have deemed the project bad because Bertha got stuck after completing 10 percent of her 1.7-mile journey for the new underground tunnel. The construction workers are working on removing the cutter head but they haven’t learned from their mistake or God’s hate. They plan on resuming drilling in a few months. Bertha isn’t alone under the bridge. A giant, car-crushing troll lives under the bridge too. I write about how I relate to the troll. I feel its fury in wanting to kill certain humans who have lost their way. Prifender’s office sits on the cross-section of three roads. I describe the bustling activity inside the building and how they are all killing humanity one click at a time. My legs feel energized and carry me to the back door. I’m careful to wear gloves and always cover my tracks. Quietly, I drop the package near the doorstep and head in the other direction.

I walk past the Cascadia fault line. Seismologists warn us about there being an 80 percent chance of a 6.8-magnitude earthquake hitting within years. An earthquake is so small in comparison to what all these AI companies are building. Why can’t anyone else see that? Killer robots are going to invade our homes and hold a gun to our heads the second we turn around. How come nobody is doing anything? I look up at the sky and see the gray clouds. At least God is on my side. I was put on Earth to put everyone else back on track.

Suddenly, I encounter a large crowd and traffic. The pro football team must be playing at the stadium. A smile creeps onto my face. Perfect distraction. God really is on my side today.

Suplari sits across from City Light, the public-owned utility that powers most of the city with hydroelectricity. Humanity has some hope left. I describe the environment. The streets are quiet with the crowd cheering in the background. Suplari is known for helping companies with marketing through AI. Again, those machines are only here to take over human jobs and ruin humanity for all. I describe how I set the package inside an employee’s car.

Right outside the car garage, are a few old pinball machines for sale. Ever since I was a young boy, my dad had taken me to the pinball machines. I describe how happy I felt reminiscing about those good old times. I didn’t have to worry about the machines then. Now, I won’t allow any young boys to worry about them anymore.

My next stop passes by the water. A shipyard marks one side of the lake. World War II was the cause of that. The founders of the Boeing company left our town. I write how they must agree with me and realize how the people of our city have lost their way. Houseboats float on the other side of the water. Our neighborhood has the most houseboats for miles. I describe the different colors, sizes, and shapes of the houseboats. The number of houseboats rivals the number of dogs in our neighborhood. I too had a dog when I was younger. A Daenary. It fell victim to the terrible AI. My dad couldn’t save it. I write how sad I felt. A tear stain marks that page. Veritone sits at the intersection just twenty feet ahead of me. My feet start to pick up the pace and I run all the way there. If I attract attention, I attract attention. People need to realize I’m the one doing the right thing. Veritone is analyzing all their audio and camera feed. Those robots will know more about us than we know about ourselves. Quickly, I drop another brown package at the doorstep and run in the other direction. The street is empty as the clouds have darkened. I describe the dreary feeling of the atmosphere but the happiness that emerges inside of me the second I let go of the package.

I write about how at that moment I realized I could not evade the police forever. At best, I could fulfill my mission first. The Space Needle stands tall, looming over the buildings. I write about how I sat in awe as a young child. My dad had told me all about it. The brainchild artist Edward Carlson, who sketched the tower design. The construction workers had also been superhuman and built the tower in 400 days to withstand high wind speeds and earthquakes. The iconic Pike Place Market sits just below with its overpriced onions. It was the joke of the town. Our neighborhood holds such promise. I’m here to put everyone back on the path. Casualties are inevitable and only happen to those who deserve them.

Utrip sits right in front of me. The tall glass windows looming over me. I spit on it and throw my last package on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I see blaring sirens and black cars. Quickly, I kick the box and set off the bomb. I won’t go down without finishing my mission. They will realize later. I’ll become Phoenix Jones, the real-life superhero. Everyone will sit at my tombstone in awe. They’ll be proud of what I accomplished and follow my journals. I write the last sentence. “I’m the superhero who saved humanity from those machines by God’s will. I saved Seattle.”


crude language blatant stupidity 1984

We grieve as the 'New Wave' recedes into history, leaving behind nothing but pools of brackish memories.

Meanwhile, the wretched 'Big Hair' band grows in pomposity like quaffed dust bunnies.

Gone are the 'Police' and 'Cars.'

Hello 'Ratt' and 'Poison.'

There are many tales of those enchanted times, called by some the 'Camelot' of white pop music.

We had it all. Genre Domination. From Devo to Michael Bolton, White Music Reigned Supreme...never mind that scratchy-record urban poetry fad....and that Jackson 5 kid, big deal.

And among it all: the 'Wonderful Victims.' A 4-piece, ass kick bar band.

We are the foot soldiers of rock and roll. Waging Rock with the night crawlers of the world.

Late one Thursday night in an over-sized, matte black club, a stranger approaches our table. He's a tool. Not uncommon. But this guy is a serious asshole. Loud, obnoxious and not cool.

"Hey, back off, asshole! Get the fuck outta here… what's that? You're a multi-millionaire and you want to hang out with a rock band? Wally! Get this gentleman a chair! What are we drinking, friend?"

Enter Jonathan Beaumont III of Old El Paso. Our new best friend and a really swell guy! He entertains us with mature games:

"Hey, Wally! I got a hundred bucks in one hand and a dollar in the other...go ahead, pick one!"

"That one."

"Here's your dollar, now crawl over here and get it, HA-HA!!!!"

Do we stand up for Wally? Call Jonathan out for being a little prick? Fuck no! Why would we mess with our Golden Goose? Besides, we humiliate each other hourly.

Then Jonathan makes us an offer we should refuse. He's flying us to El Paso, where we will record a three-song demo at the legendary 'Cera del Oido' Studios.

Iconic rock bands such as 'Penile Hell-Mitt' and Country legends like 'Rusty Muffler,' have recorded here.

Why is Jonathan doing this to for us? Because he's playing 'Who Wants to be a Big-Shot Producer for a Day.'

But first, to prove he's Rad, he rents a car and takes us on a misguided tour of the Dumpsters of El Paso. ‘Accidentally’ ramming into random trash bins, reducing the hapless Honda to piece-of-shit status.

Of course, he returns to the 'Beaumont Car Rental,' demanding a car that isn't all fucked up.

And on the third night, we fly to Paris in his private jet piloted by Lance?

Nope.

We pile into his fifteen-year-old Cessna…with Jonathan behind the stick. He's taking us on a birds-eye tour of Greater El Paso, reminding me of that scary Peter Pan ride at Disneyland.

Are we idiots? Yes, we are.

It's just not right. I can see the headlines of the El Paso Gazette:

GRUESOME CRASH SCENE

PLANE NOSE DIVES

INTO  SEWAGE PLANT

KILLING 5 ONBOARD

PILOT MIRACULOUSLY SURVIVES UNSCATHED

The Bar Band world was mildly shocked by the somewhat tragic deaths of Rodrigo, Lorenzo, Armando, and Frank,

along with roadie/sound man Wally and his talking horny toad, ‘Fluffy.’ The 'Wonderful Victims' perished in a not-cool aerial mishap.

A single-engine Cessna registered to 'Beaumont Acquisitions, LLC,' plunged into 'Beaumont's Turd Wurks.'

The cause of death is yet to be determined.

"They were either burnt to an agonizing crisp or suffered fecal suffocation. Observed the County Coroner.

Night club owner REDACTED commented:

"I can't believe it! I was with them last week at 'Poopsie's Place' enjoying a round of Lemon Drops! Those guys sucked! I have a reputation to uphold! And they weren't equitable. Now they're sucking in Hell...sniff, Gimme another toot!"

According to record producer Sycho P:

"Devastated, is all I can say! We had just finished a grueling 5 hour high-hat session and were taking a well-deserved break. But thank God I captured Rodrigo's last cymbal solo, possibly the best triplet sequence ever recorded..."

The lone survivor of the deadly crash, zany billionaire Jonathan Beaumont III, known as the 'Texas Tool,' was held briefly by police. He was released into the custody of his father, Sir James Beaumont Esq., the founder and CEO of 'Sir Beaumont's Custom Rubbish Receptacles.'

"We were just having fun!" Jonathan protested.

"You know…Rock Star Stuff! We're Rebels, maann!! We're Irrelevarent! We do things our way! So don't start digging what we're trying to say!

What?

Shut the fuck up? OK…sorry, officer, it's just that I was born to be wild, and I'm a true nature child… 'scuse me?

Really shut the fuck up, or you're gonna bitch slap me to the ground? Just tell you the facts, man?                                                                                OK...I was just messing with them, you know, 'cause I'm a rebel, and I never ever do what I should and…Ow!

Hey, Man, that hurt…Aarrg! OWOWOW, you just kicked me in the ba…

Eeoww…let go of my… Waaa, PaPa!...he pumfed me inna mouf...ith my wip thwollen?

I gave the thtick to Fwank, and wet him fwy the pwane, jutht for fun!

I thought Fwank wath joking when he thtarted thcreaming;"

"Don’t Do This To Me, Jonathan! I don't wanna fly the plane!!”

“They were thcreaming from the back theat.”

“Yeah!!! Don’t let Frank Fly the Fucking Plane!!!!”

 It wath Fwank’th fauwt, PaPa! I wathn’t even dwiving! They made me do it… waaa…?”

That’s how it happened in the Other World. In this world, we survive the scary plane ride and let Jonathan decide our next adventure.

Viva Las Vegas, Baby. It’s the logical place to ‘hang’ with a cool rock band.

He pays for everything...sort of.

Are we grateful? Not really...after all, hanging with an insufferable douche-bag like Jonathan, we are expensive. But no cash for the slots? Really?

I dunno...maybe a hundred bucks each? Counting Wally, that would be $500. Chump change for chumps. You’re dropping ten grand or more for this shindig. Yesterday at Wendy’s you gave Wally a hundred bucks so you could pour a chocolate shake on his head. What the fuck do you care, Jonny?

But honestly, wouldn’t you rather be the petulant ringmaster with your whip and whistle, rather than a circus bear with your little hat? Poked and prodded to perform for peanuts. The line blurs when it comes to bad behavior.

It’s all about Primal-Alpha-Male Domination;

‘Me HaVe MoNeY--YoU nOt HavE--yOu WaNt--YoU dO WhAt Me sAy--MaYbe Me GivE--mAyBe Me NOt GiVe--NOW BEND OVER!’

So, after bending over backwards, we eat cheap steaks and drink free bourbon. We peruse the latest technological advancement, cable TV, in our cheap rooms. We watch, mildly spellbound, as Siegfried and Roy transport a Bengal tiger across the theater.

Arnold Schwarzenegger, surrounded by showgirls, followed by mobsters. Typical Las Vegas stuff.

On our last night, we spread out and wander the floor while Jonny Boy spins away a small fortune at the roulette wheel. Fuck him! I’ve got an hour to blow with nine quarters, so I do what anyone would, drop quarters into random machines.'

 Cherry~Bell~Lemon.

A few machines down;

Lemon~Bell~Cherry.

Clutching my last two quarters, I approach a ‘SuperSlot’ machine. Its sirens and strobe lights dark and silent, patiently waiting for the next big winner.

‘OK. Here comes one...he’s obviously a loser, but he’s getting closer...c’mon over here and shake my arm, friend!’

I move through the crowd, stopping before a shiny chrome progressive machine. My right hand, clenched in a fist, unfurls, revealing two quarters.

I drop one into the slot, reaching for the bandit’s arm, but hesitate for a momentary second thought. I pull down on the handle, starting the

tumbler’s spin.

Close-up of my bored face.

Closer-Up of blurred tumblers.

Time slows to a crawl. The sound of a head-on collision as Tumbler one snaps on a black bar. Tumbler two stops on a black bar to the sound of a train wreck.

The earth stops spinning as the last tumbler plane crashes onto the 3 rd black bar.

My shock and amazement is understandable. Never have I felt this rush of adrenaline! I’ve never won anything! And now I’ve won the jackpot! What are odds of this happening, a million to one? I’m Rich! I put my hands to my face. My eyes flick rapidly between the three bars and the strobe lights, anticipating the cacophony about to happen.

But nothing happens. Nothing at all. Nothing but silence. The bells and whistles remain cold and sadly dark.

The vast room spins like a kaleidoscope. Etched on my face...confusion, then horror as the machine remains asleep, the black bars a mocking toothless grin.

I examine the machine, looking for...something grabs my attention. My expression reflects a strange combination of despair and understanding.

Because riveted next to the semi-hidden coin return button is the brass instructions badge. It reads;

‘YOU MUST DEPOSIT 2 QUARTERS TO WIN THE

SUPER-MEGA JACKPOT’   [douche bag] That second quarter sits in my hand like a melting ice cube.

“I didn’t see that one coming,” I mumble, dropping the lonely quarter into the slot. Not bothering to shake hands with the bandit, I disappear back into the crowd, back into obscurity.

Back to ‘Poopsie’s Place’ where the Lemon Drops are always on the house.


“I am Sorin Weylen, god of mischief” No one ever liked him after he said those words, and no one ever liked him before he said those words. While he was the god of mischief, he was also the god of pranks, which, according to him, was vastly different then strictly mischief. He was also born the god of citrus, leather, ink, the number 7, and to his horror, rutabagas. Sorin Weylen hated rules and he hated mortals. Messing with them became a game of his, bribing Mayven, the goddess of weather, into sending down hail storms when there was a festival, or spoiling the citrus trees when the mortals had particularly pissed him off. According to him, they were good at that. “The only thing those stupid mortals are good for is being test subjects.” -Sorin Weylen at some point. The hateful relationship went both ways. The mortals were none too fond of the god. While he targeted their resources, they targeted his hatred for rutabagas. When it came to the god rituals in the second week of January (which was dreadfully cold in this climate) they went to his altar and threw rutabagas at it. “The audacity! Don’t they know who I am?” - Sorin Weylen at another point. They knew exactly who he was. They did not care. During the 1,234th year of the god rituals Sorin had something planned that would shock the other gods as much as the mortals. He called a meeting with his most trusted companions. Mayven, the goddess of weather. Elysian, the god of pride. Bolide, the goddess of the night sky. And Zephyr, the god of winds.

They were going to make the mortals very, very, angry. And they were going to have some fun. ~~~~~ Two moons before the ritual, they met at the twelfth hour in Sorin’s palace. The company sat in a circle on 5 exquisitely decorated chairs that Sorin had stolen. “Before we begin, why are we all the best dressed gods that have ever existed?” Elysian laughed. They all looked down at their outfits, nodding in agreement. “Always full of pride, aren’t we Elysian,” teased Bolide, her onyx earrings twinkling with her laughter. “That is what I’m god of, darling.” The company sat watching, amused at the lovers banter. “While I’m entertained, lads, I’d like to get to work. I have a prank to pull on Cyrus this afternoon,” said Sorin. Cyrus was the god of writing, so Sorin Weylen liked to use his relationship with ink to his advantage. Every once in a while, a certain mortal would find that his or hers pen didn't work. “As we’ve all seen the extremely rude, disrespectful, and down right insane way my alter is treated every year at the ritual,” shuttered Sorin. “This year I’m not planning on being kind to those mortals, so I’ve decided to enlist you, my friends, to assist me in getting revenge on the ones who’s attitudes are too large for their fragile bodies.” Fine without an explanation, they all nodded to confirm their participation. Sorin smiled a wicked smile, and they began. The company worked tirelessly, planning and preparing. When it came to the day before, Bolide went to Bastion, the god of the sun. Bastion just happened to owe Bolide a favor, which Sorin Weylen suggested she cash out.

“For the cause,” he claimed.

She went to visit Bastion the day before the ritual, demanding to see him.

“Hello, Bastion.” “Hello, Bolide.” “I've come to cash my favor,” she began. “I need to keep the moon up for a few extra hours tomorrow.”

He smiled a shifty smile and agreed. Bastion had always liked a prank. Now that the pivotal part of the plan was confirmed, they could move onto the rest. When night fell, they went to work.

~~~~~

Under the cover of night, Sorin Weylen went to work on the citrus trees. He moved each one over exactly seven inches. It may not seem like much, but he knew how much humans relied on routine. If everything was moved they would bump into the trees, which Sorin hoped would leave a bruise.

While Bolide and Sorin were busy, Elysian used his powers to turn each of the mortals against each other. If there was one thing that mortals couldn’t stand, it was being wrong. He planted tiny arguments in half the population's minds, and rigged them to blow out of proportion. In the other half, he inflated egos and made them insufferable. He had done his job well.

Mayven had always liked rain. She had been working on a trick, and she decided that it was time for it to make a debut. When the mortals woke up, she would place storm clouds above each individual, visible only to the person it covered. Everyone would think they're soaking wet, and mixed with Elysians tricks, everyone would be too proud to mention it.

Zephyr was a man of few words, but he had a passion for hair. He would use wind to give every mortal an… interesting hair-do. He drew up some designs for Sorin Weylen to approve, to which the god cackled until he cried. Zephyr was ready.

~~~~~

The gods watched anxiously as the mortals walked out of their cottages, looking around confused as they checked their watches against the night sky. They glared around at each other, asking what was wrong in accusatory tones. Sorin Weylen laughed as a farmer bumped into his tree, cursing and kicking at it.

They turned their attention to shouting, all giggling at what they found. Two boys had begun to fight over who was smarter. Another man stood on a curb and gave a speech about how he was the perfect male specimen.

“Hmm,” thought Elysian while he smiled as he took in his work.

It seemed the weather changed, as Mayven released her project. Every mortal looked up and around, searching for the source of the downpour. Mayven found the suspicious look in their eyes hilarious, nearly falling onto the floor of Sorins palace.

Trying their best to appear like nothing was bothering them, they went on with their day, although their body language showed something was bothering them very deeply.

Because the rain didn’t cause a bad enough hair day, Zephyr put his passion to work. He sent a very, very strong gust of wind through the locks of the mortals, making it stick up every which way. Some were in delicate designs, some in strange shapes. His personal favorite, to Sorin Weylens annoyance, was a rutabaga.

~~~~~

When the sun finally rose and the storms finally ceased, the mortals went to their altars for the rituals. They sent the occasional glare towards the altars of wind, the night, pride, and weather, but still made their offerings and said their thanks. As usual, Sorin Weylen’s was last. The mortals wore sneers as they approached, reaching into the canvas bags they carried offerings in.

They froze as an unfamiliar figure stepped out from behind the altar, a mischievous smile playing across his face. He held his hands behind his back, and something about the glint in his eyes made the mortals hearts pound.

They all stopped breathing as he began to spoke, saying

“I am Sorin Weylen, god of mischief.” Then he pulled back his arms and pelted them with citrus.


Where I come from, strippers are prostitutes; dirty women who are all addicted to drugs and love easy money. No one in my family would have ever associated me as one. They think strippers might have a disease or worse try stealing your man. Pretty Silly. Little did they know, they had a family member who worked as a stripper. They would never understand the amount of pain that was endured during every shift. Working at a strip club was agonizing but paid for my survival. If they ever found out, I would no longer have a family to reach out to. My family is very judgmental about certain topics. According to them, strippers are the lowest of the low. Women who worked to support themselves and their families? No, dirty women who would do anything for money. Hearing family members and friends speaking with so much disgust about strippers hurt me profoundly. It is easy to judge someone without knowing their entire story. My family's religious beliefs prevent them from being empathetic while my friends just thought those women are whores.

I quickly realized my job title would define me in front of the world. It would represent my values in life. It was a label I wasn't willing to admit to. I faced personal inner conflict and tried not to allow the negative labels to define me. However, during moments of great sadness, I accepted a brutal reality. Slowly, religious beliefs developed at a young age became compromised. Stripping became a part of my life and contradicted the ideologies I was supposed to live by. This became a moral dilemma that would eventually consume me with guilt. For the first three months, crying every night after work feeling worthless became my self-destructive pattern. It was challenging to show up to the club and perform a show. Makeup became a mask hiding my pain.

Growing up with eczema breakouts along with being bullied all my childhood already accustomed me to dealing with pain. I built up tolerance but this was completely different. Exploitation is dehumanizing and traumatizing. I was exposing the most intimate parts of my body and offering it up like products. According to the Bible my body was my temple not a sexual object but now it was displayed in front of men like merchandise. All my body's imperfections are on display to be judged, or admired in this case. In an environment like this, my body was my only source of income. It put a lot of pressure on me physically and emotionally.

I attended college in simple clothes during the day. During the night my face was full of glitter, wearing a revealing bikini and trying to appear happy while repeating the same question all night long; “Would you like a dance?” There will never be a rich young girl stripping. Why? Answer is simple: no woman wants to be groped by hundreds of men a night for a living. The amount of shame that comes with that label alone is enough to have to find a way to hide it from society. Having strangers too close to me was more than just uncomfortable but violating. It's just a living nightmare. Some men smell like the sewer. Every dance I would just close my eyes and pray for it to end but sometimes giving a dance was more complicated than I had anticipated. Being alone with a strange man under those circumstances was incredibly volatile. For the “nicer” customers, when they crossed the line, I could tell them stop and that was that. However, some men would get really aggressive and they either didn’t realize how inappropriate it was or didn’t care. They saw an object unworthy of their respect. Taking their penis out, shoving their fingers inside me and rag dolling me were things they expected me to be OK with.

Working at a strip club shows you the dark sides of men. Consent goes out the window in their minds. Learning to trust men after numerous alarming experiences takes a long time. My therapist said something I’ll never forget. You were in an over-sexualized environment. Does that excuse their animalistic behavior? No.

So why stay? Why would a young woman endure so much pain? Maybe lack of opportunities but mostly financial strain. Or maybe you start to feel like there’s nothing else for you to do. You never get used to it and yet you believe it becomes all you're capable of. My shift would end and I could push my body out the door by mentally I could never escape. It became somewhat of a paradox. The most vile place in my life became a source of monetary security I wasn’t prepared to give up. The anguish from this place put suicidal thoughts in my head and still I struggled for years to leave. Rinsing my body with scorching hot water trying to burn off the filth that I would collect throughout the night was the ending to every terrible shift. This became a routine despite the pain caused by hot water for a person suffering from eczema. Under no other circumstances, then or now, would a person who suffers from this type of severe skin disorder mutilate their body this way. Someone with eczema showering with hot water would get red, dry, scaly skin causing a lot of itching which would lead to open wounds.

Soon depression would take over. Life felt like it had no meaning. After being seen and treated as a sex object it took a toll on my psyche. The only reason I would get out of my soft comfortable bed was to walk my dog. He was my only source of light. I could not vent to anyone about the disturbing customers I had to deal with. My inner peace was gone. After being followed home and stalked frequently. I learned to always look at the rearview mirror to make sure it is safe to go home. There's a reason for stage names. My stage name was Emily. Believe it or not it is a form of protection. Obsessive customers would try to figure out where I lived and what college I attended. There's no guide on how to deal with psychological trauma stripping would cause not to mention trying to manage a romantic relationship without telling my boyfriend the truth.

I became a great professional liar, until the man I was dating said let me visit you at work. Those were terrifying words for me to hear from my boyfriend. There was always a risk when dating. Once he knew his dream girl was a stripper on the weekends, my relationship status instantly became single. It is a dark secret that must be hidden from everyone. No one could know. There is a stigma that the label carries with it. That's where the plan of living a double life comes into play. Living a double life might seem fun in the movies but my reality was quite different. The movies tend to glorify everything. My double life was extremely draining. Lying to everyone I knew was difficult; trying to hide the heels/outfits that took up so much space in the trunk of my car, trying to hide the single dollar bills. The hard part was lying to my mom who is my world. It's a very isolating world full of stigma. There was always one question that made me extremely nervous. No matter what occasion or setting it was, it was always asked. “So, where do you WORK?’’ Even though I don't sweat because of my eczema, this question made me sweat, my heart beat fast, and turned my face pale like a ghost. The lies would just roll off my tongue as if my life depended on it. After meeting strippers from all walks of life, I realized something. Each one was unique, but we all had one thing in common; the inner conflict we were battling while performing a job that destroys us psychologically, a job with a lot of monetary benefits but a lifetime of devastating psychological effects. My advice is to save, save, and walk away. Everyone has a past. Unfortunately, my mind hasn’t healed completely from my jaded past. My wounds are still healing. By sharing my story, I hope people have a different perspective on strippers. Hopefully, this could help minimize the stigma around the label.


A crashing halt. The cacophonous resonance of thunder blared through the sky, rousing me from a restless sleep. I looked outside. We were nowhere near Greymade Station, the train had stopped. Violent rain pelted the window where I pressed my forehead against the glass. I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or filled with resentment. The longer it took to reach my sister’s cottage, the longer I could prolong the inevitable. Part of me wished the train would never move again.

I sat up and craned my neck to see as far out the window as possible. Dark clouds circled from the south. From what I could tell, the worst was yet to come. I could see black smog floating towards the furthestmost car where I sat. It must be the reason we stopped. I heard the sound of other passengers moving from the hall, worried voices asking each other questions about what happened. Nobody had any clue but saw the smog the same way I did. I joined the frenzied crowd that amassed beyond my compartment. While the others feared how long we would remain stagnant, I feared what would happen when we moved.

There was a small window in the door at the back of the train car, I could see nothing by endless skies of black. Not to say looking forward was much better. The train appeared to have stopped on a bridge above a large chasm. Between the storm and the smog, nobody could see what was at the bottom of the chasm. Was it a river? Or a lake? Perhaps it was just a cliff. Or maybe, nothing at all. Maybe the only thing to reside at the base of the chasm was an endless black void. Either way, nobody was bound to be leaving that train anytime soon.

I intended to visit my sister and her family in the northern country, but I knew what really awaited me when I arrived. On one of my few precious weekends away from the drudgery of corporate life, I would spend my days being told how far behind in life I was. No husband. No children. No house to call my own, just a lofty apartment above an old bakery run by a man who’s passions died decades ago. There I could watch from the window as mounds and mounds of unsold bread were tossed into the streets. Stale, unwanted, useless. Day in and day out I worked for others, nothing more than the secretary to men who only cared to see me if I were stark naked. My weekends were scarce respite to an otherwise meaningless existence, and yet, I was headed for a place where I would be equally unseen.

A clap of lightning dashed across the sky, I heard gasps from the nearby passengers, startled by the sudden flash. But I remained still. To my left, two men in gray suits left the confines of their compartment and stepped into the hall. They spoke so loudly, that I didn’t think it would be considered eavesdropping if I listened. And so I did.

“I knew I never should have left when I did. If I stayed at work for an extra hour I could have taken the next train and missed this mess.” the first of the men declared. “I could be in a meeting with the president of sales, not stuck on some junk heap of a train!” “You think you have it bad? My wife is awaiting my return. I have mouths to feed, and woman to satisfy! I can’t be stuck here when there’s so much to do back home!” The second man replied.

“You say that as though you didn’t spend your entire ‘business trip’ satisfying women!” The first man bellowed, slapping his companion on the back proudly.

“You’re one to talk! At least I know how to live outside of work! My existence isn’t tied to some dingy office!”

Both men laughed heartily while I rolled my eyes. All anyone seems to care about is a life of work or the pursuit of domesticity. I thought, at the very least, my precious weekend would spare me from the talk of the corporate world. Another boom of lightning rattled the train car. The laughter of the men ceased, and the wail of a child began. The discordant cries were the most harrowing sound to my ears.

I walked to the back of the car, hoping to distance myself as much as physically possible from everyone else. I gazed out the only southward-facing window, staring directly into the oncoming storm. The closer it grew, the less I could see of the tracks behind. I could no longer see where we came from, leaving the only direction to be the one ahead, the one with infinitesimally less to look forward to. I could see it in my mind, the moment I stepped onto the platform at Greymade Station my sister would rush to me and complain about my tardiness. She’d tell me she had no time to make dinner, the kids were running rampant and her husband was nowhere to be found. In a huff, she’d drag me to her small house where clutter filled the space she had no time to clean. I’d look at her with pity, unable to recognize the woman she once was, her ambitions choked out of her the moment she said ‘I do’. And still, I’d see myself in her eyes, the same shade of gray as mine, and I would feel the blood rush from my face. But at the end of the night, when he husband finally appeared, the meals were consumed and the children in bed, she would try to convince me this was the life of her dreams. She would feign a smile and tell me she wanted nothing more out life, and could die tomorrow in complete satisfaction.

The wind outside picked up, and the train car rattled bringing me back to reality. I shook my head, losing the lump in my throat. This was my weekend. My precious time away from the real world. How ungrateful I must be to harbor such negative thoughts. I turned around to find myself alone once again. Everyone had since retreated into their compartments while I was lost in my twisted thoughts. I strolled to the opposite end of the car, my heart racing abnormally. Rain began to pound upon the windows to my right. Each drop struck so hard, that I feared it would break through the glass. I faced the small window that peered into the next train car. I could only see inside as the smog swallowed the northern tracks. I watched an elderly man and woman hold hands in one compartment. I saw children playing games with their father in another. The lights inside that car glowed softly, with warmth and invitation. A surge of yearning swelled within me, if only for a moment.

I thought back to my week. Every day was the same. I awoke before the break of dawn, ate a meal of plain porridge and eggs, and then went to work until the sun began to set. I’d listen to complaints, organize things that would only fall into disarray in a matter of days, suffer constant belittlement from my superiors, and leave without making a difference. Day in and day out I worked only for a paycheck that embarrassed me to receive. This isn’t the life I set out to create. Men told me day in and day out how ‘independent’ I was, but never meant it as a good thing. Women expressed their admiration for me and still looked down on me with judgment. For a while, I believed it. I believed my monotonous life was an act of bravery and expression but I remain unfulfilled. I return to my darkened flat every night without a soul to greet me. Not a person to care whether I awoke the next morning or not. I began to wonder whether I would be remembered at all. There was a woman with whom I worked, her youth had long since abandoned her. Allegedly, long ago she had the habit of lighting up a room. It was rare to see a woman in the office when she first began, but that didn’t stop her. On occasion she told me about the dreams she once had, warning me against making her foolish mistakes, because now, she was old and tired. Any hopes and ambitions she might have had once upon a time have been admonished and forgotten in the many years she rotted in that lifeless office. Over time her will was beaten down, and her passions withered like stones on the ocean floor. I’d heard the lecture before but never heeded her words now I fear it may be too late, and all this time I’ve been looking into a mirror of myself from another age.

Wherever I was, people told me I should be somewhere else. There seemed to be no true path. Nothing would satisfy the hunger for more, and satisfaction in the little things was a fantasy. Whether I faced storm or smog there was no happy ending. The choice to live a life of quiet domesticity or to pursue the reality of working for myself left me feeling like a dog chasing its tail. My only solace came from this brief respite, the unmoving train, and my weekend. As long as nothing moved, I didn’t have to face the reality I drowned in, the reality where I swam for miles and barely kept my head above water.

With a final crash of lightning, clouded with smog and rain, the world outside began to inch forward. My heart stopped and my stomach dropped. My only moment of peace, the only rest between two horrors came to a crashing halt. I closed my eyes, hoping it was a trick of the mind, an illusion. But I could feel the train moving beneath my feet, and ever so slowly, we carried on. I was reminded that in life there are no breaks, no time for pauses or hesitation. Every day I floundered in place was a day the world carried on without me.

Rain turned to hail, and soon everything outside was enveloped in a thick black cloud. No longer could I see what surrounded me. I stumbled to the back of the car for the last time, desperate to find some way to stop myself from moving forward. I was running nowhere. I couldn’t go on and I couldn’t go back. I needed some way to stay still without running around in circles! Nothing changes! Nothing can ever be how it was!  I couldn’t take it anymore, I reached the limit. I couldn’t live like that any longer. I reached the back door and pried it open in a frenzy. Immediately my skirts and hair were whisked in a storm of wind and hail. I threw myself onto the vestibule, clinging to the railing along the perimeter, and the door slammed behind me. I didn’t care, I wouldn’t go back. I could see virtually nothing, the foul odor of sulfur filled my nose and made my head spin. I pulled myself up by the railing, hail and rain pounding into my flesh. It felt like the end of the world standing out there. I could see nothing behind me, nor could I see what was ahead. Even the bottom of the chasm roared with uncertainty. There was no sky, no ground, nothing but bitter air and the cold. My heart pounded through my chest as I found the strength to face the unknown. As the train passed over the final stretch of the chasm, I made my choice. It was the first choice that felt like my own. I raised one foot over the edge of the vestibule, and let go of everything holding me back. As I closed my eyes one last time, I heard the gentle sound of laughter. A giddy song rang through my ears, and the voice was my own. I hadn’t laughed in such a long time. At last, I recalled the only remaining joy in my life. Until then, I forgot the simple elation that kept me afloat.

As with everything else, that too, amounted to nothing.


Fate, defined in the dictionary as, "the development of events beyond a person's control". It plays a part in a person's life whether they truly like it or not it's an unseen force that controls us. Blake didn't like the word fate or anything related to the word. He preferred to be in charge at all times of what he was to do with his life. However the chances of him being the last one on earth was 1 out of 7.594 billion people. It didn't make any sense to him, out of all the people in the world why would an unseen force leave him alive. Blake licked an ice cream he recently just made himself while walking around a super car sports dealer. He spent the first week online panicking wondering if anyone at all was online. The second week he slowly came to the fact everyone was gone and decided to venture out. He observed a black sports car with golden rims that sparkled in the sunlight shining through the windows of the dealership. Finishing his ice cream he looked for the keys in an office area. Finding them not too long after looking for them he started up the car and drove right through the window of the dealership gliding between cars parked on the road and stopping at a hill overlooking the town. Pulling out his phone again he decided to make a post again to see if anyone was out there, but then he decided no one would see it. Then again one more time wouldn't hurt he winced a little at this thought maybe he'd let "fate" decide. Even though he still had no believe in the unseen force. Letting out a small breath and sitting on top of the car to get a better view of the city, he pulled out his phone once more and started a personal vlog. “Hello, .

. . . .me” he chuckled while staring into the camera. “So it’s been about 2 weeks and no sign of human life anywhere” he hopped off the roof of his sports car and panned the camera around it. “I finally have the car I always wanted, as well as some pretty nice shoes”, he panned the camera downwards saying this. “I’ll update this a little more, I plan on going to a special theme park I always wanted to visit.” he turned off his camera and noticed the sun was setting. Thinking that he should find a nice house to rest in he took another good look at the city and drove off in his car. Fate was a word that Jasmin first thought of when she saw a new post on the online forums. Someone else beside herself was out there, she wasn’t the only one. She sat in shock for some time, thinking of what to say. Until finally she typed what first came to her mind, “and then there were two”. It sounded mysterious given the circumstances, but being dramatic was her thing.

Blake was left in non-belief from seeing the message the next morning.

Questions fluttered in his mind. Why is someone just now seeing this?

Is it a girl or a boy? Where are they? “Where are you located”. Was the question he typed to be sent, but that didn’t seem like enough. So he thought a second more and found a better question “Where are you located/where can we meet”. “Either this was a bot or a real person”, he thought to himself as he replied to the comment on the forum. Jasmin heard a chime while filling her motorcycle with gas, her heart skipped a beat hearing it. Through her excitement she fumbled her phone and nudged the nozzle causing the gas to pour over her phone. A wave of emotions washed over her at once. Surprised at herself for being so careless, optimism that she could just get a new phone easily, and finally anger because she couldn't recall what forum or app she used to communicate with the only other person on earth. There wasn't much she could do about the mistake. It may have been a sign for her not to meet the stranger. Who knows the user could be. Putting her helmet on she started her motorcycle and drove off. At least she can still make it to the museum. Blake looked at the gas mileage as he gunned the sports car down a long stretch of road. He knew these roads and there was a gas station at the next exit so it wasn't long before he took the exit and stopped at the gas station to fill up his car. What caught his eye stepping out was a reflection of light from a bedazzled phone case on the other side of the pump he stopped at. Observing the gas covered phone he noticed fresh tire streaks going out onto the road. His heart began to flutter and a wave of happiness washed over him. It wasn't the route to the theme park, but this could be a sign of someone else being alive.Without a second thought he filled up his car and drove as fast as he could down the road. The clouds began to darken the sky, luckily she made it just in time to the museum. It was her favorite place to go as a kid and just seeing the building brought joy to her face. The rain began to pour down as a storm outside began to brew. She felt somewhat guilty, she was enjoying this all by herself. Her mind went back to the text in the forum, she felt upset all over again. She walked to the artifact exhibit, it was always her favorite. Blake was nearly blinded by the downpour of rain on his windshield. He decided to slow his speed and pull over in the next town he saw. Squinting his eye to see where he can go inside to get out of the rain he saw a museum on the left side of the road. He parked behind the motorcycle and rushed into the building. It was warm in the museum, he rubbed his feet on the floor mat and decided if he could find a gift shop. “Could be some food there”, he thought to himself as he straightened his jacket, shaking the rain off of him.

Jennifer gazed at the artifacts deciding if she should take them out to touch or not, until she realized that since she's the only person. There wasn’t any need for her to pay for the stuffed dinosaurs in the gift shop. She unknowingly smiled at the thought and made her way to the gift shop. Blake with a mouthful of beef jerky decided to play with the trinkets in the shop. He bit into another meat stick until he heard a ding from the gift shop's doorbell. He froze in complete surprise with only one question on his mind. What was that? Jennifer walking around the store shelves also froze in shock of what she saw. Without saying a word to each other they both had one phrase in their mind, “this must be fate”.


This is useless. He knows too much for his own good. His hollow orbs stuck in the temporary daydream gaze around the crowd, examining their movements, emotions, disrupted far-away chats. A family covering the grave with glowing yellow marigolds, an old grandma lighting up the lone candle in her late husband’s ‘ofrenda’, children joking around with sugar skulls melting in their mouths, the blowing pierced papers hanging on a single string, the skeleton-like makeup, the day he will never understand, Día de Los Muertos, Day of the Dead. The young boy finds himself standing alone, drifting apart from the rest of the family. He tails around behind the stream of crowds who are busy with all the fancy rituals and meals everywhere. A moment passed, the deafening surroundings managed to get on his nerves. With a piece of sweet conchas bread dangling between his teeth, he makes his way through the mob. Either it’s to regroup with his relatives or escape the blaring resonance, anything seems fine rather than drowning like a lost soul. The little figure struggles to penetrate through but eventually frees himself from the suffocating area. Breathing the fresh oxygen, slowly but surely, his legs bring him to the isolated worn-out fountain. He settles down and observes his hazy reflection on the murky water, filled with dry scattered leaves. The skull face-painting is smudged, his droopy eyes feel so empty. Bored with the constant expression, he faces back to the distant gatherings. In no time, he’s back to initiate the old habit of analyzing people’s behavior, whatever that is. Behind the setting sun and orange painted landscape, a group of women snaps a quick selfie, highlighting their colorful hats, a couple of boys fold their enormous kite, tangling themselves in the rope a few times, newly-wed wipes off the dirt from the sturdy cross and photo frames, dancers in traditional clothes on the left, musical crews delivering soft melodies on the right, a fully dressed silhouette approaches him from the front. A newcomer comfortably sits beside him after cleaning her moldy spot. Two minutes, five minutes, ten minutes go by with only silence between the two. The girl curves a thin smile, dangling her feet heedlessly, opposed to the boy whose biting his bottom lips sort of anxiously for no clear reason. He’s starting to despise the air circulating around them; a fan of peace, not awkwardness. Fighting against his still image, he cracks his throat open, fortunately not letting out a trembling voice. “What are your thoughts about the dead?” “Deceased. Someone who’s not a part of our world anymore, well at least physically. What about you?” “Someone who becomes non-existent. I don’t really have a belief in God and soul. Humans are just mere beings constructed of atoms, molecules, organs, working together to adapt in Earth. Humans are just a better form of evolution than animals, plants, and bacterias. Death is just a statement indicating our physical body can’t support and sustain itself anymore, therefore we become non-existent again, like before being born, am I right?” “You’re not wrong. So your point is?” “Those people are wasting time and money for this festival. Why give food to someone who’s not here? Why decorate a home with no one occupying it? Why talk to them if they can’t hear you? Why believe in the existence of the afterlife and eternal sleep if there’s not even a single piece of evidence? Useless.” “Have you ever watched the movie Coco-“ “Shut up.” “Not a big fan I see. Did you cry watching it?” “...No.” “A liar I see. So what’s your opinion on it?” “Ridiculous. Plain ridiculous. Souls crossing a bridge to the mortal world and dancing around during this particular day. That’s not happening in real life. People cling on fantasy too much.” “Have you lost someone important or close in your life?” “That’s so sudden, an uncle of mine passed away last month. Why?” “What did you feel back then?” “Sad of course. What else would I feel? How about you then?” “Hmm, I don’t know, that’s why I asked. I’m thankful that I’ve never lost someone so dear to me but I never have them in the first place anyway. People to share memories together, people that I can laugh along with together, people to quarrel with. At least now I have a few friends to play around with back at home. How does it feel?” “Why do you keep on questioning me? This ain’t an interrogation.” “...” “Happy, I feel happy, okay? My parents take good care of me, buy me loads of books and comics, treat me breads when I’m whining like a baby. My little brother can be annoying at times, he would blame me to get away with a lollipop, but it’s lonely when he’s not around. My aunt and uncle give me pocket money and bring us to the amusement park during holidays. Now I miss my uncle, great, just great.” “That’s quite relaxing to hear from a grumpy boy. Why do you miss your uncle?” “Because he’s not here anymore?” “You sound so unsure but you’re not wrong, again. You miss spending time with him, you miss making memories with him, either it’s a good or bad one. Yes, he left the world and became non-existent as you mentioned earlier, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. The memories, grumpy boy, the memories keep him ‘alive’.” “You’re trying hard to prove my point wrong here.” “You can’t deny that I’m right. Those people and your family are having fun at this festival. They’re appreciating the dead that once is someone who spent memories together. C’mon there’s nothing illegal or criminal activities going on here, you can’t hate on-“ “Who said I’m against them, I just didn’t understand.” “So now you understand?” “Maybe.” “Good. What’s your name?” “Are you sure you’re not from the CIA or some secretive agencies asking for my personal information?” “Does a twelve-year-old girl from the orphanage across look like a spy to you? We can be friends, if you want to. Share some memories and bring them down to our grave in the future.” “That sounds horrifying.” “...” “Jorge. Jorge Velázquez Leon. You?” “Alicia. Alicia Aguilar Valdés.”


The white fluffy clouds swim in the sky, changing their shapes whenever they moved. Like the salami toy, Taro had at home. Taro the seven years old boy was heading home after a long rough school day when his tiny chocolate eyes caught the orange sky and the diving clouds. Taro followed the clouds movement, titled his head when its shape changed, maybe an elephant or whale. His tiny imagination mixed all the colors, shapes, animals and everything he knows to give him a hint on the cloud puzzle. "Airplane" he yelled and pointed at one giant cloud.

He got home, and his mother greeted him from the kitchen. "Welcome home, Taro" her cheerful voice was the first thing he would hear when he arrives home. No home without mother's voice. "Wash your hands Taro", the usual instructions, Taro rushed to the toilet.

The smell of the miso soup, burger was on the pan, white rice ready, Taro's mother listed all the dishes that were be put on the dinner table tonight. "Mom, Are airplanes so scary?" Taro's voice came from behind her. Taro's mother jumped, " Taro when did you …"

He waved his hand "Just now. I am sorry mom. Did I scared you?" he held on his backpack strips. "Just little bit. Don't do that again" She give him a smile. "What did you said about Airplanes honey?" she flipped the burger. "Are they scary?" he said. "No they aren't scary. We let the airplane take us to grandma house. Don't you remember?" she squeezed the burger against the pan. "I guess so, but I heard they are scary." He sounded troubled. "What? Who told you that?" she turned to face her confused child. " I read a book and then …the airplanes were throwing bombs and then people died …" he looked at his mother. Taro's mother took a deep breath; she knew what her son was talking about. Taro wasn't like other kids, he had this huge curiosity which his mother herself couldn't do anything about it. Sometimes she was troubled by his embarrassing questions. Moreover, if it is only curiosity that would be easy but Taro was smart. He didn't fool by half- answer, so he would turn to little detective if it necessary.

"Yes, Taro. There were times when the airplanes were scary." She stroke his head, "but now they aren't and that is great news."

"But they still use them to be evil, right mom?" he said

"Well, people are working hard not to use them in evil again" she tilted her head and smiled at him.

"It's burning mom" Taro pointed behind her, she jumped screaming and flipped the cover of the miso soup. Taro laid down on his bed. He stared at the nylon light on the room ceil.

"Airplanes…Airplanes…Airplanes…" Taro was thinking of the book he read about the WWII. In his humble experience, airplanes were cool and astonishing. Transporting people to different places was excessively cool. However, what he read on that book was something different. Airplanes used to be scary and evil. They would kill people and burned the houses to the ground. Frightened indeed, a mass of metal used to take the souls of humans and without feeling sorry about it. Taro close his eyes and thought about the white giant airplane turned to evil monster.

A noisy sharp sound went on. Taro opened his eyes and put his hands on his ears. The sound penetrated his ears and shook his head; he rolled around himself in pain. It was siren.

"AIRSTRIKES! TAKE COVER!" he heard someone yelling. It was not his father or his mother's voice, he jumped to look who was it but to realized he wasn't home. Wall was from old darkened wood, there were thick wood stands, and the roof was ancient crack wood, the room left cold and doom. It was like those houses that would appear in old Japanese's tales.

Taro heard noises outside, he glared at the door when it suddenly slides and a shadow figure busted in, the ground shook and strong sounds of explosion went in the air. Warm vibe went through his wrist nerves. A hand was griping him.

"Come on, Toshi!" Taro float in the air and soon be embraced with skinny body. Taro knew from the voice she was a woman.

"I'm not Toshi" he screamed while he took a strong grip on the woman's weary sleeves.

"Not now, Toshi! We have to run!" she covered Taro's head and let her legs to the wind. The dark night soaked in bright crimson fire, wooden houses burning and truned to ashes, people running like preys chased by predators, children older than Taro trying to keep up with their parents, panic screams, frightened eyes; Taro witnessed those entire crazy scenes from a hole on the cover

"Don't cry. We will be fine. Toshi" the woman voice remained him of his mother's voice, Taro tightened his grip on the woman arms. A groan of engine blasted all the dark sky. Taro looked up and the cover slide little bit from his head revealing the figure of the dark monster roaming the sky. The black giant wings spread on both side, the pumped long body and the tail. The monster stomach opened and a ball fell. "Bomb!"

Pain, Taro felt a strong hit on his head. He reached his hand to the back of his head. Soft white bright light surrounded his air. "Where am I ?" Taro jumped and inspected his room. The study desk, his toys box, the books on the bookshelf, his stuffed bears and frogs and his fluffy bed all of them were there, Taro sensed that they all staring at him saying " little fellow are you okay?". "Taro it’s dinner. Come down!" For some reason, Taro heart broke into tears hearing his mother's cheerful voice.

"Mom…" he wiped his tears and rushed down stairs. Taro's mother was standing beside her husband when her body took a hit from behind not soon her waist embraced by two tiny arms. "What's wrong Taro?" she was shocked by her son face sinking to her waist. "I love you" a muffed voice. And a smile on mother.

"Oh, I love you, too" she hugged her son back and patted his back. "That is nice Taro. What about daddy?" his father spread his arms expecting to receive a hug, instead he received silence. "No hugs for daddy's I guess" he scratched back of his head, mother made pitiful smile to her husband. All of the sudden, Taro jumped to his father's arms and buried his head on his chest. "I love you, too. Dad".


I knew better than most that kids in books are parentless. The day I transformed from Katya’s hero to the villain in her story was the day we faced each other across a glass partition when she was only six years old. “If you don’t come home with me today, Daddy, I will never forgive you,” she said. And she never did. There were two things that Katya loved. Traveling and animals. For her sixth birthday, we had a big “Wild Birthday Party” at the Central Park Petting Zoo. There were lemurs, crocodiles, sea lions, peacocks, goats, rabbits, and even a giraffe. Katya was in her glory. That was the day that Special Agent Felder decided to arrest me and perp-walk me nearly a mile out of the park, with Katya and her classmates following after like a forlorn train of ducks. Screaming after me. But that wasn’t the day that everything went wrong. That came a few months earlier, in October. The day my life changed forever, the first of many, was when Boris drove up in a flashy new Mercedes Benz Roadster and said, “Alex, how are you?” But my first thought was how a kid from Little Odessa in Brooklyn could afford a whip like this, and how I could get myself one. While we caught up, we sailed down the streets of Northern New Jersey that bordered our Newark neighborhood. The ride was incredibly smooth and quiet compared with my beater Toyota Corolla hand-me-down, which I was very thankful to have. “I have something for you,” Boris said. “Let me tell you, it is as easy as taking candy from a baby. A malýshka.” Boris lived in a roach-infested project building in Newark that always smelled of a vile potpourri of weed, mildew, and vinegar. He lived one floor down from the apartment I shared with my grandmother and my sister at the ironically named, Hilton Housing Projects. So, I had to know how he had pulled this off. Boris had his own way of building suspense. Not original. Or endearing. But uniquely ‘Boris.’ He laughed hysterically and told me to wait and see. But explained nothing. Eventually, we pulled up at a large high-rise building bordering the Hudson River, complete with a marble inlaid lobby, a doorman, and gold trim around the elevators. “Alex, before I tell you this, let me ask you a question. Are you tired of Daryna breaking your balls, Katya having no nice clothes? What are you willing to do to stop this?” As I thought it over, he continued, “If I can show you how to take the crumbs from the rich man’s table, take what he would barely even notice was gone, I am assuming you agree this is justice? Am I right?” I nodded my head, excited to hear how it worked. For some reason, I was sure Boris knew what he was talking about. I was sure they wouldn’t notice. But they did notice. Boris explained that all we had to do was get the mail from these large, high-rise apartment buildings and sort through it. If we could match an envelope for a new credit card with a paper bank statement, we would have just about everything we needed to make a killing. Strangely enough, I never even thought about getting caught. I was far too desperate to keep my family together and to pay some delinquent bills. Far too certain of Boris’s abilities. But all of that was over now. It was nearly five years ago. And yet the echoes of that day resonated with the fresh, crisp sound of words just spoken. The kind of echoes that ricochet down the halls and corridors of a prison, reminding you of all the walls and concrete between you and freedom. Even after the arrest, I still thought maybe the jury would see it my way. My criminal defense attorney used to say, “You want to know who wins in court: widows, orphans, United States Government takes all—that’s all there is to it.” And as usual, he was right. The Essex County Correctional Facility was off one of these industrial blocks behind the Newark Liberty International Airport. From Newark Bay to the winding Passaic River, the little island the jail inhabited looked across the water to Jersey City, which sat above the crook of Bayonne, and somewhere in the gray distance, the Statue of Liberty stood tall beyond the shores, too far away to see in the low visibility of the gray morning. The green verdigris of the statue and the Paris green paint of the prison, laced with arsenic, were mirrors of one another. It seemed that all that was gold, all that was immutable, was destined to rust and green with time. And all that was green and implied life had a bit of poison mixed in the brushstrokes. The imposing green four-story building was sandwiched between the gray streets and the gray skies. A liminal space between liberty and bondage, between order and chaos, between hope and despair. After sixteen months within these walls, I was awaiting my final sentencing, which would inexorably lead me back through the prison system, to a halfway house, re-entry, and monitoring—to life in the outside world. That time was empty. Like a journey through the vacuum of space. It seemed to take forever to travel through. An infinity of silent waiting while my little girl got older and older, while the wet cement of my abandonment hardened more and more until it was like a field of hardened steel. But looking back, it seemed no more than the snap of my fingers. * * * After using my bus ticket and returning to Newark, I made some calls and located Frankie’s Emporium. I still had some of the money from my crimes stashed away, and there was only one thing on my mind—turning back time. Frankie’s Emporium was the junkyard of advanced technologies. And that is being generous. Real junk could file defamation charges for false association—that was how bad this stuff was—this was the kind of junk that proper junk looked down its nose at. But Frankie was a charmer. You wanted to buy from him. You wanted him at your birthday party. He was a big doughy lump of warm feelings. Not the best looking. Not the worst. He inspired neither envy nor revulsion. He had a Roman nose, slightly hooked for good measure, so you always felt a little ‘better than’ on some level, even if subconsciously. Everyone said Frankie was a ‘good guy.’ Every item in Frankie’s repurposed airplane hangar at the Teterboro Airport looked like a relic from the World’s Fair that had been left out to rot for over a century. The time machine itself appeared to be nothing more than a stainless steel cylinder with a door big enough for a man to enter through. Frankie claimed this was the last of its kind. The last time machine. If you can believe that. These things used to be like toasters. Spoiler alert. I haven’t seen a toaster in forty years. But go back to 1980 and find a kitchen that didn’t have one. I’ll wait. Still. The “last” time machine. Kind of hard to believe. Kind of a bold claim. Scavengers and pawn brokers said things like that a lot before they mentioned the premium they required to part with such a one-of-a-kind treasure. Little did I know, in this case, that the machine was just too hot to handle, and Frankie was willing to give it away; he just wanted it as far away from himself as possible. Where did Frankie get this thing? That was what I wanted to know. Time machines were often described as looking like enormous dunk tanks or as looking like gigantic men’s hats with an open crown. Colloquially, they were called time yachts, since the brim or the balancing level was traditionally ovular like a Fedora and turned up at either end with a small adornment like a Viking faering lined in silver. That and the feeling of traveling through time was a lot like boating in rough seas. At one time there were great time yachting festivals for the rich. Special drugs the wealthy could take to mute the gnarly effects of the time jump. The time yachts came in all shapes and varieties, from the deluxe, luxurious mega-yachts to the stark, no-frills, get-the-job-done kind—like the one Frankie was showing me. At one time, they were like television sets. Nearly every family had one. But these days, these machines were as illegal as weapons-grade plutonium. If you were caught with a working yacht, you could face death or worse. It turned out that time machines caused early onset dementia. Then came the surgeon general’s warnings. But time travel kept increasing anyway. Some say the danger drove people to it more. Then, it started getting out of control. There were lots of accidents from misplaced jumps. Buildings catching fire. Bad stuff. People couldn’t get off time travel. It was just too addictive. Next, the time anomalies started. Being that you merged with your younger self, there were a lot of unintended consequences that were only vaguely understood. Like people with one disease suddenly returning with a different ailment. Strange stuff like that. The time anomalies did it. Time travel was banned. Banned hard. This one was rusting. With an orange patina by the creases. Spend enough time in prison and you start to realize that everything is rusting. Ironically the hardest of metals can’t withstand a gentle breeze on a long enough time scale. And yet I thought I could restore to vintage the discarded love of a daughter—a salvaged wreck in the junkyard headed for the steel processor. Just like the time machine, which looked like it was already on its way there. There was stippling on the outer surface from the electromagnetic compression of the gravitational field as the layered cylinders spun violently in oppositional directions. Was that even safe? It was a jalopy. You were taking your chances with this thing even on a one-way trip. “You can only use it once,” Frankie said. “And there are no guarantees. Know what I mean, pal? I doubt you are going to power this puppy up twice and live to tell the tale. You know what I mean, or no? Ain't she a beaut’ though?” “I’ve got it, sure, ‘a beaut’” I told him. “How much?” “Are you kidding? Take it. I’m looking for someone to offload this thing. Do you think I want to rot in a cell? Just get it out of here and it's yours. And one more thing.” “What’s that?” “Forget you were ever here.” I turned to look back at Frankie, a little upset he hadn’t invited me to catch up after all the time I’d been away. I looked into his eyes as if to ask, “What aren’t you telling me?” “Okay,” he said, like that simple glance was enough to crack his defenses. “The prior owner said it is best to overshoot the mark. The gauge is a little ‘temperamental.’ I’d suggest you set it for a week earlier than you need to be, just to be on the safe side.” “Temperamental?” I asked, adding, “Did he specify if it was temporally or proximally?” “Shit. Good question. Jesus. I didn’t think of that.” “If it is proximally, then if I overshoot, I’ll be in the void of empty space…” “Jeez… don’t do that.” “If it is temporally, then I’ll be fine, as long as it is locked in with its proximal sensors.” “Might want to take that thing to a technician before launch. You know what I mean or no?” Then Frankie put his arm around me, lowering his head, bringing me into a conspiratorial circle. He looked up, outstretched his arms, palms up, in the direction of the machine, as if lifting it up to the skies. It was like he was saying, ‘Your chariot of death awaits.’ Then he said, “Hell of a way to go! Stylish. Don’t you think?” I pulled away from his embrace and looked him dead in the eye. “You’ve got the wrong idea here, Frankie. I don’t want to die. I’m going back to square things away with my little girl, Katya.” “Oh, my bad. Let me ask you a question. How, exactly are you planning to do that ?” “Good question. You think this junker will get me back before the problems started in one piece?” “Absolutely. Sure thing,” he said. “Hey Frankie,” I said. “You have a daughter?” “Sure do. Real firecracker, got my hands full with that one.” “What’s her name?” “Gianna.” “Would you take this clunker back to make sure everything turned out alright for Gianna?” “Hey, asshole. What do you take me for? You think I’m stugots? What the fuck is the matter with you?” “No, no. My bad, you’re right. I’m out of my head. Thanks, Frankie.” “You got it.” * * * I decided to take my chances anyway. The whirring sound of the magnetic rotors accelerating sounded like the growling of the revved motor of a muscle car. The shaking of the chassis made my teeth chatter. The trailing of time backward felt exactly like the slipstream hugging the feral body of a race car. A weightless glide along the layered asphalt of the speedway. The acceleration made the spinning of the time machine appear to slow, along with my thoughts, the firing of the synapses of my brain, and the blood running through my veins. I wanted time to speed up, not slow down. I had an eternity of regrets. Too many to fix. There was just enough chop to notice that time was running away from me, as the yacht jumped wave after wave of slow-motion time ripples. There was the familiar sinking feeling of the stomach drop as we bottomed out in the trough of each wave, and the spray of time dross foaming around us. The alternating spells of feeling as heavy as lead, then light as a feather. The swelling of my biceps, my thighs, and my stomach as blood was pressed inward and away from the extremities. The bouncing heave-ho of the time waves, rocking my body to and fro. My eyes rolled back, presaging G-LOC. It was interesting that the weight was under my fingernails. In the crevices of my toes. It was everywhere. The pressure was ubiquitous. It felt like it was ripping my eyelids down. Yanking at my elbows. The hair inside my ears was buzzing with an electrical static that rang like a deafening bell. My vision receded to the size of a pin. My senses lost reliability. My consciousness bobbed in the waves, struggling to keep its head above water. The whomping sound of ataxia and loss of consciousness reverberated in my ears. But I hung in there. Until the space around me began to blur and warp. The space my eyes were glued to was like a mirror—smooth as glass—and then, suddenly, like an ocean wave, turbid and murky. The alternating, vibrating current of space finally cracked open like an egg to reveal a white and slightly yellowed void within, like Calcutta gold and feathered, seared marshmallows. Hard and soft. Hard as glass and soft as a vault of goose feathers. White as cotton but yellowed like just smoked ground tobacco in filtered rolling papers. As I passed out, it occurred to me that man wasn’t meant to take this journey. But I had no choice. * * * I kicked open the metal door as the smoking heap of flaming metal hissed, crackled, and popped. It could have been worse. At least I didn’t need the jaws of life. The yard of the Hilton Housing Project was full of browning grass choking for life, just like I remembered it. Home sweet home! If there was any way to trace it back to me, I would have received a citation for the condition of this jumper. I just had to finagle the instruments so that no one discovered that this thing was coming in from an illegal jump zone, a time when travel was banned. The last thing I needed was the authorities on my tail. First things first. Boris. I knocked on the door of his apartment until he finally came to the door in his boxers. “I’m out,” I said. “Out of what?” “Out of your get-rich-quick scheme. Out for good. And if my name comes up or you come see me to bring it up again, you are going to be on your way to the East Jersey State Pen.” “You’re going to rat on me?” “In a heartbeat.” “Bro, what did I do to you?” “This is going to hurt me more than it is going to hurt you—but I’m not taking any chances.” And with that I sucker-punched Boris, laying him out. I took the hand ties and tied his hands behind his back. Next, I tied him to the bedpost, sitting up and looking stupid. Finally, I called Special Agent Felder and left him an anonymous tip. My ruby-flare-colored Toyota Corolla felt like a performance vehicle after the bumpy ride on that time yacht. * * * By this time, Daryna and I had been separated for six months. She was back living with her mom out on Coney Island, and Katya with her. I drove out there to see Katya. She was there waiting at the door with her plush sloth doll. I took her for a walk down to the amusements. “If you don’t come home with me today, Daddy, I will never forgive you,” she said. I pinched her nose and said, “I’m coming back to stay, malýshka. Everything is going to be okay.”


"Hmm. You said you wanted another western…" The librarian scanned the upper shelves. "Ah. Here. Lonesome Dove . I think you'll enjoy this one." He pulled the book from its tier and handed it down to the man beside him.

"What's your name, again?" "Absalom." "Absalom. Always liked ‘Absalom.’ That's my son's name,” Mr. Danberg said, scanning the book. "Hm." He held it at arms-length and peered down his nose. His mouth hung slightly open as he scanned the blurb on the jacket's inner fold. Snapping it closed, he smiled up at the librarian. "No, thank you." Absalom’s shoulders dropped with his sigh–an oversight he quickly corrected.

“Alright,” he said, with a tight smile, as he re-shelved the volume. “How about Riders of the Purple Sage ?” “Read that one already.” “Da– Mr. Danberg, you’ve read most of these, I believe. Why not something new? We have some westerns that have only been on the shelves for a month or so–” “I don’t want no ‘new’ western!” The old man’s head quivered under the strength of his conviction. “I don’t like ‘em. More like scary stories than…adventure.” He scowled at the nearby table. “Heroes should be good , and villains should be bad .” He raised a trembling hand and slashed the air with it. “In that case, what about Dragon Teeth ? It’s definitely an adven–” “ Dragon Teeth ? That don’t even sound like a western! No. No!” His forehead furrowed as he squinted his eyes, pacing and mumbling to himself. Absalom paled and watched light reflect off wispy, silver-white hair as the man moved back and forth. His bowed head accentuated slightly hunched shoulders that held the echo of strength. He ambled stiffly, bones shuffling under the weight of a long, thin frame; scowl and mutterings firmly in place. “I’m sorry, Mr. Danberg. I believe I misunderstood,” Absalom swallowed. “I bet you’d enjoy a Louis L’Amour.” “Louis L’Amour?” the old man halted, face whipping up. “I like Louis L’Amour. Have you read Hondo ?” His eyes danced and a grin spread wide across his face. “Yes,” the librarian answered, his mouth turning up in a small smile, “...my dad loved that book. I wanted to know why he liked it so much, so I’d sneak his copy and read a chapter here, a chapter there, until I’d finished.”

“Good, isn’t it?”

“Ye–” “Remember when Hondo tells Angie about his wife that passed away? About her name?” The smile froze for a moment, “…My Evie passed away, too,” and it evaporated. “What’s your name, again?” Mr. Danberg asked. “Absalom.” “Absalom. That’s my son’s name.” Absalom clenched his jaw and swallowed. “It sounds like you’ve already read that book, too,” he said in what he hoped was a neutral tone. “Would you like a different one? The Quick and the Dead is another fan-favorite.” “No. It’s…good, I’m sure, but…I believe I’ve read it.” “Then how about Lonesome Gods ?” “No. No, thanks. I believe I’ll just take Hondo ,” he shook his head. “But you just returned it, Mr. Danberg,” Absalom said, gently. “You borrowed that one, last week. I haven’t even re-shelved it, yet.” Mr. Danberg’s brow drew in concentration, and he stared at the floor. At his sides, his hands pulsated into fists. “I bet I could find another adventure-western that you’d like. You can get a cup of coffee, bring it and the book to your room, and settle into your favorite chair to read. How does that sound?” “Young man,” Mr. Danberg said, finally, “I don’t want a different book. I want Hondo ."

Absalom opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Danberg cut him off. “You know why I always get that one? Because I remember it. I remember that story. I…I can’t remember where my house is…or my family… “My Evie… I remember my Evie. She passed away a long time ago. And my son… “What’s your name, again?” “Absalom.”

“That’s my son’s name. …He’s tall, like you, but not as old: he doesn’t have any grey hair. He’s stronger, too. You’re too skinny.” He looked around. “My son would like this place. He reads all the time. Reads and works.” Mr. Danberg smiled. “He’s a good worker. A good boy.” Absalom clenched his jaw against the salt water that threatened his vision. The muscles in his face pulled tight as he smiled. “Mr. Danberg?” a female voice called from the end of the aisle. A woman in her late-thirties wearing fuchsia scrubs approached them. “It’s about time to go. Did you find what you wanted?” He opened his mouth, but the librarian saw confusion play across his features, stealing his words. “We were just heading to the main desk to get it,” answered Absalom with a nod. Behind the desk, he scanned the book and double-checked its information.

“I bet I know what that is,” the woman beside Mr. Danberg grinned. “You got Hondo , again.” “That’s right,” he said, eyes wide and mouth opened on a smile. “How did you know?” “Just a lucky guess,” she winked, as Absalom handed the book to Mr. Danberg. “Let’s go. They’re looking for us outside.” She cocked her head toward the glass doors where they could see a tall, white van waiting in front of the building. “Will we see you, this evening?” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked Mr. Danberg toward the entrance. “As soon as I get off work,” Absalom nodded, holding the door. “Is he your boyfriend?” Mr. Danberg asked as they exited. “No, no,” the nurse laughed, patting his shoulder. “He’s coming to see you .”

They continued to talk as they reached the van, but Absalom couldn’t tell what they said. He watched as she helped Mr. Danberg into the van, then held up a finger to the driver and jogged back to the building. “Was everything okay? He seemed to be having a good day,” she asked as Absalom opened the door for her. “Yes, I think so. The mood swings were minor. Very minor.” “Good. You looked a little upset when I came to get him, so I just wanted to check.” “Thank you,” Absalom nodded. “...He remembered me, a little. He didn’t recognize me; but he remembered me.” She offered a sad smile, but remained silent. “I know not to count on it happening again; but still…I’ll take it. Thank you for bringing him, every week.” “It’s my pleasure. I'm glad you set this up for him. I think it’s good for our residents to get out, sometimes, if they’re able.”

He opened the door for her as she walked back to the van. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Danberg,” she called. “Mr. Danberg’s going with you,” he grinned. “Please, call me Absalom.” He watched as she closed the van door and it pulled onto the street. “Bye, Dad,” he whispered. “See you, soon.”


Trigger warning: this story depicts rape. I read somewhere that every cell in the human body is replaced every seven years – which isn’t entirely accurate. Some cells take upwards of ten to fifteen years to replace themselves. Some cells, like the ones in the eye, never replace themselves. But, it’s still a nice thought. It’s comforting to imagine that every seven years, the human body erases like an Etch-a-Sketch, leaving behind a clean slate that hasn’t been touched.

I was raped seven years ago. I went to a New Year’s Eve party with two of my girlfriends after they expressed that I had spent a “morbid” amount of time holed up in my room post-breakup. They said I couldn’t hide away forever. They said I was being dramatic, because

everyone

goes through a bad breakup in college. They said my ex-boyfriend wasn’t hiding – he was out partying and spamming the world with social media updates. They said I wasn’t coping; I was deflecting. They sat in my room, listing off the reasons I should attend the party that night, and, by the end of it, I was so exhausted from their speech that I agreed to go just to shut them up.

Except, I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to find an outfit or spend time getting ready. I didn’t want to go to a party full of complete strangers and pretend to have a good time. I didn’t want to pose for their pictures or make forced conversations with whomever was near me while they danced and romped with boys to ring in the New Year. I wanted to stay home, under my blanket, un-showered, and binge eat Oreos until I felt sick. I was hiding, and I liked it that way. The breakup had left me feeling vulnerable and exposed, like a body butterflied on a surgical table. I imagined there was a gallery of people, including my friends, watching behind the glass as the pieces of me were pulled out and examined in an attempt to find whatever had been broken.

The night went as I had expected. My friends drank heavily and toasted “new beginnings” while sloshing cheap champagne on the floor. I found a corner and made it my home for the night, avoiding small talk by pretending to be deaf from the loud music. My ex-boyfriend showed up briefly, which sent me into the bathroom where I stayed while people banged on the door trying to come inside. When I got the text saying, “all clear,” I stumbled out and held my stomach as though I had been throwing up to alleviate the angry mob that had formed outside. I helped them call a cab and watched as they tumbled over their high heels and climbed into the backseat, cheering and laughing the whole way.

I had walked to the party since it was only a few blocks away from my apartment, so I zipped up my jacket and carefully clutched my keys between my fingers as a makeshift weapon. It was a relatively quiet area, but with all the parties being held, I didn’t want to take any chances. I had made it almost a full block when a boy approached me, tripping out of a driveway holding a half-empty bottle in one hand and a beer in the other. He was younger, maybe my age, with shaggy blonde hair that fell over his eyes and a big, toothy smile.

First, he asked me if I needed a ride home, which I politely declined without missing a step. He kept following me, however, asking if I wanted to be “escorted” back to my place. Though I tried to shake him off, he refused to back down. At some point, he dropped the bottle and the beer because I felt his hands creep around my shoulders. He asked where I went to school as I shrugged him off of me, but I didn’t answer. I kept my head down with my knuckles turning white around my keys. We rounded another block, and he kept talking and asking questions that I wouldn’t answer. Finally, in a moment of frustration mixed with an edge of panic, I stopped and faced him and told him to leave me alone.

Judging by the look of shock on his face, he wasn’t the type of boy who had been turned down a lot in his life. He stood there, dumbfounded, as I turned and kept walking. I thought I had finally gotten rid of him when I rounded the corner just a few yards away from my apartment complex. I didn’t look behind me, but I didn’t hear him talking, which I took as a good sign. I relaxed my shoulders and loosened the grip on my keys.

He came up behind me swiftly, placed a hand over my mouth, and told me not to scream. I tried to grab my keys, but he took his other hand and grabbed my arm, twisting it around my back painfully. I felt paralyzed by the overwhelming urge to scream while simultaneously trying to wager my best chances for survival. I wanted to fight, but I also wanted to live. In that moment, when I was rendered powerless, I didn’t care what happened to me as long as I came out on the other-side.

It was a brutal forty-five minutes, which felt like an eternity. I knew how long I was there because his watch kept flashing in my face as he fumbled with his belt and jeans. Once he had pulled me into the parking garage of the complex and found the stairwell, he started talking about how much he

wanted

me. He repeated over and over, “This is going to be so good.” I stood there, too scared to scream or run, while he undid his pants and pulled them down, clutching himself proudly. In that moment, I thought about the women who fight back. I pictured them in my head, in my situation, running for the stairs or attacking him head-on, punching and kicking and biting until he gave up. I thought about the women who walk away beaten and bruised, with pieces of skin under their nails because they dug in so hard. I wasn’t one of those women.

I was submissive by nature. I hated confrontation. I agonized over the thought of arguing with someone, even in a classroom setting. If a teacher told me I was wrong, I didn’t defend my opinion in front of the class with my shield raised – I quietly accepted defeat. In conflicts with previous boyfriends, I would shrivel down like a kicked dog and apologize – even I was right, even if I didn’t mean it. I looked at the boy in front of me, lit up by the fluorescent lights, and I knew he could easily overpower me. He already had. I knew he could probably knock me out with one punch. I knew I wasn’t quick enough to outrun him. With all of those factors at the forefront of my mind, I stood there sobbing and anticipating while he prepared himself. I didn’t fight back.

He had been drinking heavily, so he was having a hard time “getting it up.” He demanded that I undress while he watched me, stroking his limp, lifeless member. He asked me to perform oral sex, which didn’t seem to help. He told me to press myself against the wall, and he came up behind me, fumbling and breathing heavily into my ear. Then, he asked me to say, “No.” I tried to bite my tongue, but he wrapped his fingers in my hair and pulled back, yelling at me to refuse him, so I did.

He seemed to like it when I told him “no,” and I repeated the word in a flat monotone while he thrusted into me, moaning and telling me how good it felt. He pulled out and ejaculated onto my underwear victoriously. I kept myself pressed against the cold, stone wall while he got himself dressed. I didn’t want to look at him. Then, he said, “I’m so sorry.” I felt a disgusting pit form in my belly when he apologized. It twisted and pulled until I thought I was going to puke. I heard the door to the stairwell close, and I quickly put on my clothes – balling up the soiled underwear and putting in my pocket – before racing out of the garage. He was already gone.

I ran back to my apartment in a full sprint after a sudden rush of adrenaline kicked in. Once inside, I sat down on the bed and tried to weigh out my options. I didn’t know who to call – everyone was either drunk or asleep by that time. I stared at the floor, counting the threads on my carpet, before finally deciding to drive myself to the police station. The scene kept replaying in my head, and I took mental notes each time, trying to make a detailed report. I wanted to be prepared for any questions that might be thrown my way.

The aftermath was arguably worse than the rape itself. There are two crime scenes in a rape case – the area where it happened and the body of the victim. A few officers were dispatched to the complex, and I was rushed to the emergency room to have a rape kit made. If I had felt butterflied and exposed before, it was nothing compared to the feeling of having every square inch of my body inspected and documented right in front of me. They took my clothes and gave me sweat pants, clean underwear, a sports bra, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. They took pictures of everything, any small cut or bruise that would indicate the severity of the assault. They swabbed my mouth and my vagina in an attempt to find any DNA that might have been left behind. I was put under a microscope, literally.

My description, though thorough, wasn’t enough to identify the boy who had raped me. Months went by, and I was assured that the police were doing everything in their power to track him down. It didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t feel like they were looking hard enough or taking my case seriously. It was never solved. There wasn’t enough DNA left behind to matter, and the samples they found at the scene were tainted. The leftover semen on my panties was helpful, but it didn’t generate anything in the system. My detailed story didn’t paint enough of a picture, and, with the holiday, so many people had traveled to town and left – presumably, my rapist was one of them.

I told my friends, who were shocked and wracked with guilt for leaving me to walk alone. I told my parents, and they tried to convince me to come back home for a while. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had completely uprooted my life, so I stayed. Months turned into years, and the case went cold. My friends stopped tip-toeing around me. My parents stopped calling me every day to “check-in.” Everyone’s life went back to normal, except mine.

About three years after the rape, one of my friends mustered the courage to ask the question that no one else could – why didn’t I fight back? I didn’t know how to answer. I tried to describe the feeling of powerlessness, of fear, of not wanting to die, but she didn’t seem to understand. She, like me, had heard all the stories about the women who take down their rapists, and she didn’t understand why I had just stood there like a willing participant. The counselor I had seen after the attack told me that while it’s true many women to “fight,” a lot of women react the same way I did – in submission. They’re scared of what might happen. They’re passive and agreeable during the rape to, hopefully, make it end quicker. They don’t fight because they know they’ll lose. It was comforting to hear, but I couldn’t make anyone else understand that feeling. No one wanted to say it to my face, but I knew they all saw my submission as permission.

Rape is a power-play, and rapists are profiled based on their “style.” In my case, the boy who raped me got off on the idea of taking me by force. He wanted me to say, “no,” because when I did and he didn’t listen, he felt like he had won. The act of raping a woman is meant to demean her, to strip her of her authority over her body. My rapist was characterized as a “power-assertive rapist.” He wanted to exercise his perceived dominance over me. Maybe he hated his mother. Maybe he wanted to compensate for his own inadequacies. He wanted to conquer me, but I was probably just a physical manifestation of something else he was battling internally. I knew all of this by heart. I wrote out detailed notes almost daily afterwards, reminding myself that I was the victim. I researched my rapist’s profile, trying to get as much information about him as possible because we were suddenly connected.

None of it made me feel any better. I abstained from sex for four years after the rape. I didn’t want anyone to touch me, and I didn’t want to feel aroused – it made me queasy. I went on dates, and I even liked some of the boys I went out with, but I couldn’t let them touch me. Anything beyond a kiss would send me back to that moment in the stairwell. My rapist had taken so much from me, and he was still taking from me years later. I couldn’t shake him. I didn’t even celebrate New Year’s afterwards. It was as though he became a part of me, like an unsightly mole or an extra toe – something I kept hidden and desperately wanted removed, but something that had also grown into me.

It’s been seven years since he raped me, but the rape didn’t stop until I let it. Until the moment I stopped letting it consume me, I was still the girl in the stairwell politely indulging the requests of the boy who ravaged me – I couldn’t leave. It was like being stuck in neutral. I shrank. In the years after the rape, I kept getting smaller and smaller, trimming away pieces of myself until I was just the girl who had been raped. My personality revolved around the memory. By the time I finally let it go and left the stairwell I had created in my mind, I didn’t know who I was. I had been stripped of my identity, and I couldn’t figure out how to get the “old me” back – the “me” who hadn’t been raped.

There was a shift. Instead of grappling with the memory of the rape and the tangible scars it left on me, I was battling with the idea that I had to get back the girl I was before it happened. I wanted to be her again. I didn’t realize until very recently that I was trying to dig up a grave. The girl I was before the rape was gone, buried underneath years of grief and tragedy and heartache. She was snuffed out, and I was trying to summon the dead. So, I decided to mourn her instead of resurrecting her.

New Year’s, a holiday that had brought me so much misery, would be the day I put up her headstone. I spent the last six years hiding in the shadows after Christmas, scared to even look outside. This year, instead of clanking glasses with my friends or watching the ball drop on TV, I’m going to step into the shower, wash off the body he touched, and let it run down the drain. This year, I’m going to put her to rest and cultivate the girl I became after the rape – the girl I’ve been too scared to get to know.  I know it isn’t literal. My cells haven’t rejuvenated. I know I’m not going to shed my skin like a snake, leaving behind a body covered in fingerprints and memories. I know the shower won’t be magical, suddenly transforming me into a girl who hasn’t been raped. I know I’ll be the same, just a little cleaner. But, it

feels different. I’ve waited all year for this moment. I spent the last month buying a new shower head with five settings. I picked out a special body wash for the occasion. I put candles around the bathtub. I even bought a new towel set. I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the moment the water will hit me, turned to the hottest setting I can stand to ensure every piece he touched will melt. It will be ritualistic, maybe even a little cathartic. This year I won’t hide in my room with the door locked, reliving those moments. This year I’ll celebrate.