   It felt like a cauldron was brewing in my stomach from the nerves of walking into the creepy abandoned house that everyone had warned me about. I had no choice though, it was my only clue in finding my missing friend Carmelita.   There had been stories circulating about the old house ever since I was a kid, but I swallowed the fearful thoughts and continued on.   “Carmelita, you in there?” I shouted from the porch.

 I turned the rusted door knob and peeked inside. “Hello?” I could see bits of the end of the dark house from the sunlight peaking through. The walls and ceiling had large cracks and there was an overgrowth of weeds taking over like an infection.    I reached for the dangling steel beaded pull chain and it miraculously turned on a light. “Hello? Someone in here?” “Sit still, you mangy chucho! Or you’ll sell us out!” whispered a faint voice. My eyes darted around the room and I watched a skinny and malnourished dog barking at a rusted kettle for coffee. “Nobody’s here! Go away!” whispered someone from the other room. “Shut up! You, mocoso!”   I rushed to the living room with an antique TV inside. “Carmelita?” Carmelita had been my best friend who had vanished after a big fight we had. It wasn’t like her to not return. Something had to have happened. After speaking to the neighbors, I tracked her last whereabouts nearby in the banana forest by this old ramshackle place. Carmelita was always the explorer, openly venturing into uncharted areas when she wanted to be alone.

Another voice from the kitchen spoke. “My beloved, can we drop the act? I want to offer the poor thing a cup of brew."

“Don’t you dare, I said!” "Oh, but she looks so tired, have you seen her?”       The secret was out. All the hairs on my arms and legs seemed to prick out of me like porcupine quills. I felt frozen at the sight while the ragged dog licked at my arm.      In the living room, there were two inanimate objects with faces that should not have been talking. A colorful ceramic vase holding some dead blackened roses from within and a branch-woven Acapulco chair. I could make out the articulating face of an old woman in the vase formed by primary colors of acrylic paint. And the chair had also manifested expressions of a chubby child’s face smiling in its threading. I had bumped into the kitchen walls from fear. The flower vase looked as if it was holding in something foul to say towards the chair who had a glooming face tilted down. “I’m sorry, Tía. I have a big mouth, you know I do, and I can’t help it.” “I’ll deal with you later, Óscar.” she turned to me with a furrowed brow. “My princess, please, no need to panic. We’re not mad at you. We know why you’re here. We just don’t think it’s particularly safe at this time.” “We know where to find Carmelita.” blurted the chair sheepishly. “I said shut up, Óscar!” yelled the vase. “O’ don’t be so hard on the youngster.” The weathered voice of an old man spoke again, and this time it came from the kitchen. I walked over and found the rusted steel kettle moving by itself and it poured a fresh steaming cup of coffee in a mug for me.

“Don’t be timid, little one. You look exhausted, please, I insist.” Something about their voice had been calming to me. They started to remind me less of a group of possessed terrifying spirits and more like a familiar relative. The kettle smiled at me while steam rose from its spout. It had a friendly face formed into it, and a little rusted blemish in the middle that resembled a thick mustache. I walked over and drank his coffee and he gave me an approving nod before turning his attention to the living room to call over the child. “Óscar, have you no manners? Offer our guest a chair,” he shouted. “Sorry, sorry, Tio!” The chair waddled over behind me and invited me to sit. “Go on, little one. Sit down.” Señor Kettle said. “I’m sure you have some questions.” I had been appropriately antsy sitting on something that could speak, but the warmth of the coffee helped comfort me. The taste had hints of chocolate and sweetness that I enjoyed. I took deep breaths and then the words spilled out from my mouth faster than I could process them. “You have to tell me what’s going on and why you all can speak? I’ve been looking for my friend Carmelita. We got in a nasty fight yesterday and she hasn’t returned home to her parent’s house,” my voice cracked. “I think your name is Óscar? You said her name earlier. Please, do you know where I can find her?”

“It’s complicated,” said the flower vase, hopping over to the kitchen table. “What do you mean, complicated? I need answers. I need to know where she is now!” “Ahem, little one,” said the kettle. He was kind but firm, like a loving grandpa speaking to a grandchild. “Don’t be mean to the Señorita now. She is simply trying to tell you in a way you can understand. Please be patient with her.” I sighed and muttered. “I understand, I’m sorry.” The three of them seemed to be staring at me, almost like they were going to break some bad news to me. The idea of my friend Carmelita being dead was overcoming me. I shook my head over and over, almost in anticipation. “No, please, I can’t take it. Just tell me if she’s dead.” “Not quite,” said Señorita Vase. “Huh?” “The witch.” She paused. “She took her...” “Took her? Took her where?” I demanded answers. “Into her second home.” “Where is it? How far?” “Listen, sweetheart. Carmelita is in a spiritual transitioning period.” “She’s going to come out like us!” said Óscar with his voice muzzled by the weight of my back pressing against him. “I wonder if she will come out as a really bouncy ball and play with me.” “It’s the witch’s curse,” said the vase. “There’s nothing worse in this world than loneliness. Carmelita is likely to come back as a part of our home here. According to the spell, a person will assume the form of the treasured item they have the strongest connection with. Same as us three.” “I don’t understand.” I took a look at their faces and fell back onto Óscar with tears that streamed like a broken river path down my face. “So she’ll never be the same again? So, will she remain trapped here forever?” “It’s okay, my princess. Everything will be OK. Your friend’s spirit will still be alive. That’s what’s important. The witch will never take that away from her. “But why would anyone do this to someone innocent?” “Everyone here has suffered in her will. She’s hurt, so she wants to retalliate and hurt innocent people.” My husband and I used to own acres of coffee fields not too far from here. We were in this area to look for more land to own, and my nephew Óscar had traveled along with us in hopes of buying the deed to this land. It’s how she found us. We wandered around into her trap, like mosquitoes to a spider web. “It’s one way to put it,” said Señor Kettle. “Truth is, she isn’t what you believe. We have just never forgiven her for taking our comfortable lives away from us. But, at times she's not a vile woman." “Oh, quiet, I can’t believe you’re wasting sympathy on her.” The kettle and the vase began to bicker with each other all the while, I couldn’t help think about Carmelita’s parents and how heartbroken they would be. Then curiosity got the best. I started to wonder what could Carmelita possibly come back as." She was someone who preferred being outside and enjoying nature and the wildlife. Someone who never lived a materialistic life much like myself, we played outside constantly as opposed to the other kids in school. Then I could almost sense the witch’s presence in my gut. It was the heavy gust of wind that confirmed it, whizzing through from the rooftops while leaves shooting out like a hurricane had passed, even the passive street dog had ran away.       “The old woman is back,” said the kettle. “I better brew a fresh batch.” The flower vase escorted me to a dresser where I hid with only a small space to peek. The pressure in the room started to feel heavier when the witch entered. Each of her footsteps made my heart pulsate a little forcefully. Then I noticed her as she walked into the kitchen. Óscar waddled quickly enough to support her while she fell back without looking first. And Señor Kettle was able to brew a hot coffee of his own will. “Careful, Señora Ayala, it’s hot,” he said. “Hope you didn’t get too wet from the rain outside. It sure is a gloomy day, isn’t it?” The old lady smiled. “Oh, it wasn’t too bad.” She was an unassuming woman with grey hair who wore brightly colored clothing, a pink buttoned shirt with a long floral skirt. She balanced a hand-woven basket on her head as she placed it on the table beside her. On top, I could make out individually wrapped pastelito treats, exactly like the chicken patties my mom loved to make. They even smelled delicious, too. It surprised me to learn that this powerful witch worked as a merchant selling food in the marketplace. “Señora Ayala, I saw you walking with a young girl earlier this morning.”       “And? What’s it to you?” “Pardon me for asking, Señora Ayala. I was just curious if we would have more guests living with us. I’d like to welcome them to the family.” The witch looked at the vase and reached her frail arm over to it. She grabbed the dead leaves inside and yanked them out. “I’ve got a special gift for you, ma’am.” She used her telekinesis to hover over an item from her basket. They unraveled by themselves to display a bouquet of beautiful colorful roses. She took a whiff of them. “Wow! They’re beautiful!” the vase said. “Tia, Tia! Can I smell them too? Please, please.” The old witch lowered her arm so that Óscar could smell them beneath her. “What you think, little fat boy?” “Mmmm!! Smells so good!” She fitted them on top of Señorita Vase’s head.

“Baya!” the witch exclaimed. “Now you look more beautiful. And since you’re all getting so nosey!” she paused and looked around at the attentive eyes of her furniture, appliance, and pottery. “I have another surprise for you. We do, in fact, have someone joining us today.”       My eyes wandered around the room and I waited until I felt it through knots in my stomach that Carmelita had been in my presence.

“I want to go back to my home now,” said Carmelita. “Ah, you sweet beautiful child,” said Señorita Vase. “Come join us first.” “Please, my parents are going to be worried sick about me.” I stumbled out of the dresser. “Carmelita!” I yelled. It took me a moment to spot her, but I immediately knew when I saw her. She was something that made sense for her. Carmelita was a girl with a profound love for birds, who had always ran around to different parts of the village to watch out for her favorites and then she’d draw them in her sketchbook. She’d run around holding bits of bread to feed them so that she could get a better look. There she stood as a little bird feeder. A beautiful hand-crafted wooden bird feeder with gorgeous colors, her eyes as honey-brown metal-crafted sunflowers, the same color and shape as her very own. Her mouth was a subtle opening to the feeder. She almost wanted to frown, but smiled when she saw me. Her mouth led to an elongated chin forming from the plate where the birds would feed from.       “I’m sorry for getting mad at you, and saying those awful things to you” she cried. “Carmelita. I’m not upset with you about any of that. I just wanted to make sure you were safe.” I hesitated to pick her up and run out of the door because I was never brave when the world called for it. My body had always frozen when I needed to be stronger. “Okay. I’m up to here with the disrespectfulness. Didn’t your parents teach you not to break into the homes of strangers, little girl? Rather than bothering a poor elderly woman, you should be out making money for your parents!” The witch moved a dresser in my path so I wouldn’t get any ideas. “Please, don’t kill me,” I shouted. “Please Señora Ayala, I beg you. The girl had not seen anything. She thinks she’s hallucinating, for Christ’s sake. She won’t tell a soul about this old shed.” “Oh, shut up, you tin can. You know more than anyone, the damage has already been done,” said the witch. Her voice sounded more upset. “There’s only one left thing to do with her.” She waved her small hand over to possess a broom that came gliding through the window and then captured into her grasp. The old wooden broom also had a face, one shriveled into the stiff fibers, it let out an expression that appeared concerned. “We’re going on a brief trip, little girl. It will be a fun excursion for a day and it doesn’t make sense to waste time, so go on then. Take my hand, you runt.” My knees buckled until I could feel Óscar forcing me to sit on him. I thought he was taking me to her, but he waddled wide steps closer to my friend. “What do you think you’re doing?” asked the Witch. “Friends should never be apart!” Óscar said. The Witch propelled a knife over to the chair which ripped bits of its string threading. “Don’t you hurt my boy!” Señorita Vase yelled. She set out to tackle the witch but was caught in mid-air. The witch slammed her across the dirt floor and watched her shatter into a million pieces. Señor Kettle eyes widened and he sprayed hot coffee at the old woman’s arm and caused her to whip her telekinesis hand away. “Bayunco! You’ll pay for that!” Óscar continued to drag me over close enough to grab Carmelita.       I rose from the chair holding Carmelita tight against my chest and ran towards the door that led outside. The witch had shut it. “You must keep going, young lady!” yelled the Kettle. “She can’t do anything to you if you leave this place. Far Far uh-“ The broom had knocked him off the table. And while I struggled to open the door, an angry face molded out from it. “Ah, troublemakers everywhere! Tsk tsk. Don’t think you’re leaving here, cipota.” the old door said with his rough low voice. I turned the knob again, and it wouldn’t budge. “Get out of the way!!!” Carmelita yelled louder than I had ever heard her before. The door laughed. “No chance, Pendeja!” I paced around, trying to find another exit, but there was none. I turned around to the witch who had been rinsing cool water on her burnt arm. She turned her attention to me before I heard something that sounded like machinery drilling against the door. A little tear fell from the door’s left eye. “Make it stop! Ahh!!” he yelled. “They’re eating me!” Then they all bursted inside through the door, in came a murder of crows flying aggressively followed by flocks of tropical island birds including the beautiful turquoise-browed motmots that Carmelita had been obsessed with. There were dozens of quails, hummingbirds, sandpipers, godwits, woodcocks, and shanks all rushing through for the rescue. They blinded everyone in the house and pecked at the old witch's face. It was our chance to leave. Some birds nudged me out of the door and I ran out of the house and down past the banana forest, stepping on moldy fruit along the way with Carmelita encouraging me on and daring me to hop over the chicken-wired fence.

I could hear the crying sounds of the witch screaming out. “Pleaaaase! I’ll take care of the both of you like you're my very own daughters! Estupidas!” After running for what felt like thirty minutes through the mud and the rain, wrapping my arms tight around my best friend, the birdhouse, I was relieved we escaped. I had known the nightmare was over because Carmelita's weight became heavier and heavier the further I went until I could no longer support her. I tumbled face first onto piles of damped wet leaves and was woken up by the licks of the mutt from before. And then I smiled seeing my friend in her human form laying just a few feet away, tattered and bruised, but breathing. I owed it all to those courageous strangers who supported us and cared when they had nothing to gain.


I look at the clock — 3:15. I shudder; my nap was going so well. “Should I go to Walmart or not?” I ask myself while looking at the cat, as if she could answer me. She doesn’t move. I think, “Well, it’s supposed to snow tonight so I can’t go.” Then I remember I have a PCA at 5:30 and the round-trip takes two hours, so I need to decide. I ask the cat, “Lisa, what do you think?” Again, she doesn’t move until I yell her name three times. Then she pops up, so I ask her again, “Lisa, what do you think?” She lays back down. “Thanks, Lisa,” I think, half-jokingly. I get up from my makeshift nest. “I guess we’re doing this.” My body groans. “God, when did my body get so old?” Now I need to get this body transferred from the couch to my wheelchair. One foot there and one foot there, neglecting to move the footrest. I laugh, “They sure don’t teach this method in physical therapy.” I have to steady myself and remind myself to concentrate. Stand…pivot…and plop down…success. Buckle seat belt, and we’re good! I get my coat, then like a second-grader, I concentrate on my zipper. Living my whole life with one hand that works and one that only grasps after the other hand puts something into it, I have developed a method. The method betrays me, and after 15 minutes and a lot of sweat,  the coat is zipped! I look at the clock again, 3:45. Well, I can get there and back in 1 hour 30 minutes, I just have to go quickly. I rush over to my desk and grab my Bluetooth headphones and my cell phone. I quickly fumble with them to turn them on. I love my music! OK, I’m finally ready to go. I zoom down the hallway to the elevator. I get in and go down. I burst through elevator doors a little faster than I meant to. Thankfully, no one was in the lobby. I go out to the bumpy area that passes the apartment parking lot. I look both ways and on to Jewett Street. Now I must make a choice — the long way or the short way. The long way is safer but it doubles the trip. The short way involves crossing four lanes of highway at only a stop sign. It’s a hard choice; the shortcut halves my trip but I know I probably shouldn’t. I debate for what seems forever, but in reality, it’s maybe 30 seconds before I have to choose. The long way it is! I do need to be fast, but the traffic is too heavy for a dart across Highway 23. I turn on good old Lyon Street. It has bike lanes on it, which makes the drive so much easier. It goes the driving lane, bike lane, and a lane for cars to park. I try to stay in that parking lane, I figure there’s the whole bike lane between me and the passing cars. However, lately, it’s been hard to use the parking lane because of all the cracks due to winter. They pull my wheelchair and chew up my airless tires. Suddenly, my chair comes to a dead stop and spins 90 degrees. I know this feeling, “Damnit! That awful pothole. Every time, Chelsie!” I simultaneously begin my emergency routine. Remove hand from joystick, close eyes, and tuck. I tuck because I had a friend who tipped his wheelchair over and broke his arm after trying to brace himself. My wheelchair comes to a stop and I open my eyes and check out the damage. “OK, no damage.” I trudge on. Fifteen minutes later, I’m at Walmart. Let the games begin… I enter the sliding glass door and grab a basket. The door greeter eyes me. I know this look; she’s not sure what to do. I understand her dilemma. Some people with disabilities get upset and yell at the person trying to help. I just don’t like how she stares at me with this questing look. I would like to say, “It’s OK, I got it.” But chances are that with my speech impairment, it will for sure bring her over and maybe with more concern. So I quickly get my basket and pray she doesn’t come over. My first stop is the pet section. I don’t want to forget Lisa’s food. I can usually handle this section by myself. Carefully, I start to pick up the cans of cat food. My fine motor skills make grabbing the little flat cans tricky, but usually, I can get them. Suddenly, one falls on to the floor. “Uh oh.” I decide to continue loading the cans. Oops, another one bites the dust. I finish getting the cans loaded. Then I quickly look to see if there is anyone around. I’m all by myself. I would reach down and pick it up, but that requires joggling the big blue basket on my lap. Therefore, I use my foot to kick the cans off to the side, feeling a little guilty that someone must come along and pick them up. Continuing on my journey, I pick up a few more items: shampoo, body wash, lotion, light bulbs, etc., with no problem. Then I go to the housewares section to get the long straws I use for bottles of pop. They are on the top rack. I know I should ask for help, but it can be such a pain to hunt someone down. I elevate my wheelchair as tall as it goes and get as close as I can to the rack. And then I stretch as far as I can… damn, my fingertips can barely reach the package. Now I must go find a person in a blue vest. Suddenly, another customer comes down the aisle. Meekly I make my way towards him and politely ask if he could help me get something down. He says yes. I wheel over to the straws and gesture towards the straws. After a few times of having to gesture to the right, he gets the straws. I smile and say thank you. I’ve learned with a speech impairment, interactions like these should be done with as little speech as possible, or else I get a blank stare from people. My last two items are Spicy Doritos and Diet Mt. Dew. First are the Doritos. I get to the chip section and find the Spicy Doritos and of course, they’re on the highest shelf. I elevate my chair as far as it will go and my fingers just barely reach the shelf. However, I have a very unique method to get them down! I put my fingers through the slats on the shelf from the bottom. I poke the bag of Doritos until it sits half on the shelf and half off. Then I make sure my basket is in place, poke again, and she scores — the bag of Doritos falls in the basket! Finally, I get to the pop section to get a 24-pack of Diet Mt. Dew. I reach down and grab one, using all my strength to pick it up. Gently I set it down on my footrests, maneuvering it perfectly so that it balances on my footrests. Next, I tilt my wheelchair back and put my feet behind the 24-pack, creating a sort of cradle for the pop. This way the soda won’t fall off when I’m driving down the road. This has happened a few times and it isn’t fun picking up pop cans off the road. I carefully make my way through Walmart to the check-out lanes. I pass by the ever-expanding section of self-checkout lanes. I’ve tried those and even though I can do it, the worker usually ends up coming over to help me anyway, defeating the purpose. Therefore, I usually go straight to the regular check-out lane. I get in line and use all my strength to set my basket on the counter. I struggle before the nice young man in front of me offers to help me. The cashier behind the checkout begins to scan my items. Thankfully, today I get through the checkout lane without too much difficulty. The cashier even remembers how to put the bags on the back of my chair. I quickly make my way to the sliding glass doors and head home. This story was meant to illustrate what a trip to Walmart looks like for one independent person with a disability. All the incidents I included have happened, although they did not occur on the same visit. I wanted to capture the challenges and difficulties I experience during my visits. However, I also wanted to convey the positive things I experience, such as people offering to help me. Also, I wanted to express some of the humor that goes through my head. Sometimes I have a good trip and I have little to no issues. Other times, I have a lot of issues, leaving me very stressed and emotionally drained. When I tell people about my trips to Walmart and the challenges I have, their natural reaction is to look for ways to help me. I look at the difficulties experience in Walmart and in life in general as something I, unfortunately, must deal with; however, I choose to deal with them with a positive attitude, understanding, patience and humor.


I am having a hard time writing as I sit here at the kitchen table. I am not in a writing mood. Sometimes, here at the kitchen table, I have been in a spectacular writing mood. I sat here with my Dell computer on middle school summer vacations and seventh-grade half-days, typing away as I ran my hands over the rhinestoned computer back, tapped my fingers on the tabletop. I stayed up until the house was dark and still and my eyes were sore and dry, immersed in the swings and roundabouts of imagination. I was going to write a famous book that surpassed even Harry Potter . It was going to be so epic, and my mother would be so proud, and of course then I wouldn’t have to go to college. Other times, I have not at all been in a writing mood, here at this round glass table. I have stared at the fingerprint-smudged glass, not seeing it as anxiety roiled through my chest, a beast, twisting my heart with its acid claws. I have sat here all alone after shouting matches with my parents over college applications, after feeling as though, if only computers didn’t cost so much, I would smash the stupid keyboard with my mug of tea. I have sat here empty after pulling down the blinds around the kitchen table so that I didn’t have to see how darkly the night was pressing in. Most times, here at the kitchen table, I shift about in the mildly uncomfortable leather chairs, and I do not think about writing at all. I have often sat here and studied into the wee hours of the morning, a strange, thick pressure in my chest and a hand clutching at my frowning forehead. I have scrawled frustratedly through monstrous calculus homeworks, picked diligently through redundant chemistry puzzles, broken down over English essays I wrote and yet didn’t understand myself, as sometimes happens with English essays. I have cried at five in the morning at this table as I finished a calculus review sheet. My head felt as if it would split in two. I have drunk more cups of steaming ginger tea than I can count here at the kitchen table. Cups of ginger tea leave a round, foggy mark on the glass surface when my mother sets them down, the shape of a full moon late in the night. The ginger tea is dark, so that you can’t see the bottom of the cup. I have squeezed more honey bottles than I can count dry at this kitchen table, because my mother never stirs in enough honey. She says it is bad for me. I have eaten so many dinners at this table. I know a rotating list of foods that my mother conjures in her scrubs: soy sauce-sautéed vegetables with rice; steaming tofu soup; orange fried rice, sometimes with spam; Korean barbecue with lettuce and spicy red bean paste; pesto pasta salad. I can’t pinpoint what we talked about when we ate all those times, just that we talked, and that we teased each other, and that my dad always finished first because he ate so fast. And that my mother scolded my sisters and dad when they forgot to thank her for the food. I have shifted my leather chair at this table so that my mother could crouch and gather the crumbs and dirt from underneath it. I have sat down at this table and felt bad that my mother crouches down to gather up the crumbs and dirt from underneath my leather chair. I have sat here and typed out a Google Sheet designating chores to everyone in the family but her, so that she wouldn’t have to sweep the floors and wipe the fingerprints off the table and whip dinner out of thin air in her scrubs. I’m leaving fingerprints on the table as I write—I will wipe them later. I have chugged hot ginger tea at this table late in the night, my other hand sprawled over a precalculus textbook. The tea scalds my throat with ginger spice and boiling heat, but I drain it, teary-eyed, as my mother sets down a hot snack by my elbow and asks, in her polka-dot nightgown and night glasses, how much longer I will be up. My sister has sat in the seat next to mine, here at this round glass table, in the night with the blinds drawn down. Her eyes have dried out over math study guides, she has picked through the mud of biology textbooks till dawn just barely kissed the windows. She has fallen asleep here at the kitchen table, the cup of steaming ginger tea our mother placed by her head cooling through the night.

Our youngest sister will, too, sit here at the kitchen table, maybe in that leather seat across from mine, or in the one I sit in and type in now. She will take out her pens and pencils, and when she sets them down our mother will set down a mug of piping hot ginger tea next to them, and tell her not to stay up too long. Then she, too, will lift her feet off the ground as our mother crouches down in her scrubs to gather up her crumbs. Just as her mother, our grandmother, did in their little house in New Jersey, reaching with a cloth beneath the thin wooden table and telling our mother to lift her feet a bit more, shift her hard chair back an inch or two. Just as her mother did, crouching down six decades ago to clean the dust by our grandmother’s feet beneath the low, glinting wooden soban at their house in Korea, telling our grandmother to drink up—ginger tea is good for your stomach . And when I close my eyes, I imagine that one day, perhaps it will be me. Me, crouching here as I weave through my daughter’s ankles, gathering up the dirt and glancing up to study her tired, determined face through the smudged glass of a table, the blinds drawn closed around us.

I hope that she will not stay up too long.


The Locked Door I like to put the blame on Rachel. I mean, she was already four years old. It’s not like she was just a baby. This position may not score points with the committee reviewing one’s credentials for possible admittance into the “Father’s Hall of Fame”, but I think it’s good to assess culpability where it rightfully belongs. It’s never too early to teach your kid a little personal responsibility.

I don’t see how any of this is my fault. In the first place, it was obvious that we needed a larger structure to store our fishing poles, tackle boxes and life jackets. The old outhouse that we found on the property when we bought it was woefully inadequate, even though it was a two-seater. It had a certain charm to it, but I felt that revisiting images from its previous function every time I grabbed a fishing pole was unsettling and unnecessary. So, the impetus for the entire unfortunate event was completely reasonable.

It is also significant to note that neither my wife nor Rachel herself made any contribution to the design, size, location or construction of the storage shed. Despite my repeated telling of the story of the little chicken who didn’t help make the bread, they were both idling away their time while I alone had to handle the entire project. Had they participated in the effort, either one of them could have insisted on the inclusion of an escape hatch. I think that you can begin to see that this was not my fault. Now, I don’t like to point fingers, but the guy who put the door in the storage shed also bears some responsibility. How was I to know that he would install a doorknob with a locking mechanism? I’ve opened a lot of doors in my life, and not all of them locked. I’m sure you have experienced the same. Obviously, any suggestion that I should have known the damn door could lock is blatantly unfair. The storage shed, also occasionally, albeit incorrectly, dubbed the “boathouse”, had just been completed, and the fishing equipment had not even been moved from the outhouse to its new home. It is significant to note that I, as the primary architect and project manager, had not yet declared the stricture open for occupancy. That would certainly carry substantial weight in the eyes of the law. I was out in the yard hard at work raking leaves while my wife was engaged in the easy, and relatively meaningless task of gingerly sweeping a few tiny grass clippings off of the backyard patio. Rachel was with me, and even though she was in possession of a small plastic rake, her contribution to the task was minimal, actually negligible. Her entire focus was on the size of the leaf pile as she impatiently waited for it to get big enough for her to jump in.

We were shocked to see a Sheriff’s vehicle spitting up dust and gravel as it sped up our driveway. Needless to say, I was curious. “Can I help you, officer?” “We got a 9-1-1 call from this address.” “What?! No one here called 9-1-1.” “We got a call from a child.” At this point he looked down at a small piece of paper. “Her name was Rachel.” Oh, my God. Rachel called 9-1-1?! How could this be? She was standing ten feet away from me. I immediately wondered what the Deputy Sheriff was thinking in terms of Rachel’s motivation for placing the call. I was tempted to point out to him that she appeared to be healthy and bore no visible signs of physical abuse.

The Deputy Sheriff added, “And the 9-1-1 operator said she was quite rude.” Oh, my God. Now we have rudeness added to an unnecessary 9-1-1 call. Fortunately, my wife spoke up. “Rachel! Did you call 9-1-1?” I think it was the “rude” comment, and not so much the call itself which prompted Rachel to quickly turn away and pretend to be someplace else. I was trying to come up with a way to join her in the disappearing act of the mind and deferred to my wife’s softer style of interrogation. “Rachel?” “What?”  You have to love it. “What?” What do you think what? “Did you call 9-1-1?” “Yes.” “Why did you do that, honey?” (See, I would have left out the “honey”.) “I got locked in the boathouse.” Oh, my God. Rachel got locked in the boathouse, the one that was all my idea, the one I designed, the one I had built. I had never even thought of the possibility of a kid getting locked inside. And she was with me! She had been “helping” me rake leaves. How in God’s name did she end up in the boathouse? I shot a furtive glance in the direction of my wife, and it was immediately clear to me that I would be held to account. Now, in my defense, Rachel was sneaky. I can only assume that she waited patiently for me to take my eyes off of her for just a split second, and then she bolted for the boathouse. It was a short distance away, and she was fast. Looking back, I’ve come to believe she actually planned the whole thing. The officer looked in the direction of the boathouse which was just twenty feet from the shoreline. Oh, my God. Now we have an unnecessary 9-1-1 call, a rude kid, and parents who let their little kid wander around unsupervised next to a lake. Mindful of my dad’s frequent admonition that “things could always be worse”, I could only hope that our dog, who had been barking incessantly since the lawman’s arrival, wouldn’t run over and bite him.

Further in my defense, I need to note that we were in a very shallow area of the lake. The water was only two feet deep for the first fifty feet from shore, and Rachel knew not to go near the water without her mom or dad around. She was also under the impression that the shoreline was inhabited by a number of unusually large, mean and nasty snapping turtles. But I didn’t think the officer would know that. He didn’t. Fortunately, his only reproach was in the form of a good stern look. Rachel went on to explain that she went into the boathouse and closed the door behind her. When she tried to leave, she discovered the door was locked. Again, this would be a result of the total lack of communication of critical information from the door installer guy, and not my fault. She yelled and pounded on the locked door, but she couldn’t get our attention. This was obviously a feeble effort on Rachel’s part which only adds to her responsibility quotient for the entire affair. Apparently, after giving it a good twenty to thirty seconds, she deemed her situation an emergency and called 9-1-1 on a phone line I had put in the boathouse. Applying her keen sense of intuitive thinking which runs rampant through her father’s bloodline, she figured out how to unlock the door, left the boathouse, and joined us in the yard, failing see any need to mention the call for help.

We were fortunate that the officer had children of his own and understood how such a thing could happen. After he left, we held a family tutorial on how to lock and unlock the door to the storage shed, followed by a brief discussion on the topic of making 9-1-1 calls. I was (unfairly) singled out in a brief lecture from my wife on the need to maintain constant vigilance over small children. Now, I think it is plain to see that none of this was my fault. I also point out that I had the misfortune of having Rachel be the kid that got locked in the storage shed. Had it been my boy, none of this would have happened. When he was little, he said if anything bad happened, he’d call 9-9-1. Great, I’d be lying on the kitchen floor having the big one, and my kid would be calling 9-9-1. At least we wouldn’t be having the sheriff show up for no reason.


Arthur yanks on his mittens and quickly rubs his palms together in a pathetic attempt to generate some warmth. He wonders (for at least the hundredth time) why he hasn’t moved away from this godforsaken town with a windchill that makes Antarctica look like paradise.

His car door creaks open as the cold December air sucks his breath away and freezes his nose hairs. Careful not to slip on the black ice in the parking lot, he places his boots firmly onto the ground and hoists himself up out of the car.

A mother and her three young children bustle past him, one of them crying “Mommy, slow down!” Arthur barely has time to leap out of the way in order to avoid a collision with a stroller the size of a golf cart.

Christ, what’s everyone in such a rush about? Arthur thinks to himself while shuffling towards the grocery store doors. The last thing he needs is to slip and fall in the parking lot. Being surrounded by a flock of do-gooders hastily running over to help a poor old man up off the cold, wet concrete sounds like his worst nightmare. Just thinking about it gives him a shiver of dread down his spine as he imagines the pity he’d elicit from the worried faces of strangers.

Arthur wouldn’t be wandering into the grocery store alone, worrying about falling if Cece were still here. What would she think of him if she saw him now? Grief blooms in his chest.

The sudden chime of the automatic sliding doors snaps Arthur out of his daydream. He notices a folding table set up outside the store entrance. It’s covered with a cherry red tablecloth and decorated with cut-out paper snowflakes, the ones he recalls making as a child in elementary school. There’s large thermoses resting on the table surrounded by stacks of styrofoam cups and bags of marshmallows. As Arthur approaches, he notices the sign boasting, “Best hot chocolate in town!” Adults and children hurry around the table pouring hot chocolate for those who have wandered up to the table for (what’s probably not) the best hot chocolate in town.

Despite the cold, these people look pretty cheerful. A donation box sits perched on the far end of the hot chocolate stand, explaining that all proceeds will be donated to the local food pantry. Being in the presence of people doing good just to do good brings a pit to Arthur’s stomach. This is something he and Cece would have done during the holiday season, but instead he’s plotting how to sneak by them without making a donation. He wonders when he became a bitter old man.

But, the feeling of guilt isn’t enough to make Arthur want to stop and make conversation with the friendly volunteers.

“Would you like some hot chocolate?” He hears a tiny voice calling up to him from the ground.

Arthur peers down at the small girl dressed in a shiny purple jacket with a purple knitted hat and gloves to match looking back up at him expectantly.

“It’s really good. I promise!” She exclaims hopefully.

At first, he says nothing. The child has a sprinkle of freckles across her round cheeks and little nose, both turned deep red from the cold. Two braids the color of honey stick out from the bottom of her hat. Her dark brown eyes shine up at him and her bright smile doesn’t falter.

Not a bad salesperson, I’ll give her that. “Um, no. No, that’s alright,” Arthur mutters as he tries to walk past her.

What kind of monster am I, turning down a simple cup of hot chocolate from a little girl? She is not deterred. “Are you sure? I can even put mini marshmallows in it!” The confident voice of this young child reminds him of his own daughter when she was that age. There’s no doubt Olivia inherited her charm and cheerfulness from Cece.

Cece.

Cece would be beaming back at this girl, already having said yes and standing in front of the table chatting with the other adults. He can just imagine the look on her face when she’d take her first sip and crouch down to tell the girl, “This really is the best hot chocolate in town!” Cece always knew just what to say.

Arthur sighs and takes stock of his frozen nose hairs and chapped lips. He figures he can enjoy a quick cup of hot chocolate, throw a few singles into the donation box, and get on with his day.

With resignation he says, “Well, alright. I’ll take one hot chocolate please. But go easy on the marshmallows.” The child squeals out an excited, “Yes!” and hurries back over to the stand where an adult helps her assemble the drink. Arthur approaches the table and thanks the volunteer while placing a few dollars into the box. He smiles tightly, hoping to convey his gratitude while making it clear he’s not in the mood for small talk.

“I really hope you like it. I think it’s the best one I’ve made today!” The girl grins brightly at him. She turns away but after a few steps looks over her shoulder and calls back to him, “Oh, and Merry Christmas, sir!”

Arthur brings the steaming cup to his lips and hesitantly takes a small sip.

Laughter fills their kitchen.

“Mom, I want you to open my gift next!” James shouts from the living room, where he’s sprawled across the living room floor in his plaid flannel pajamas. He peels open another chocolate snowman while Olivia peeks into her stocking. The fire crackles loudly and Christmas lights twinkle outside in the dark December night.

“Okay, I’ll be right there sweetheart!” she calls back, quickly pouring steaming milk into four mugs featuring Santa’s face.

“Arthur, would you grab the bag of–” She jumps and squeaks out a surprised “Oh!” Arthur has wrapped his arms around her waist to give her a firm squeeze accompanied by a quick kiss to the spot right below her ear. Cece turns to face him and places her hands on either side of his face, feeling rough stubble on her fingertips. She grins and his favorite dimple on her right cheek appears.

“Kiss me. It’s Christmas,” he smiles back at her.

“Ew!” Olivia shrieks as she slides into the kitchen on her new fuzzy reindeer-covered socks.

Cece presses her nose to Arthur’s before releasing him and turning back to the hot chocolate.

“Mom, don’t forget, I need extra marshmallows with mine,” James says while licking a smudge of chocolate off the side of his hand. Arthur walks over to the pantry, reaching for the bag of marshmallows. He places them on the counter just as Cece swirls a spoon in each mug to dissolve the powdered chocolate. The clink of a spoon against the inside of a mug is the sound of Christmas Eve in their household.

He grabs two of the mugs while Cece picks up the others and he follows her into the living room. He hands one to Olivia who says sweetly, “Thanks, Dad.” James has already taken his first gulp, and yells, “Ouch!” Cece chuckles and shakes her head. “Blow on it first, sweetie.” Olivia snuggles into her spot on the couch while James goes searching for his present for Cece under the tree. Arthur sits next to his wife, placing an arm around her shoulder. He pulls her in close and taps his Santa mug against hers. The golden glow from the fire reflects off her dark brown eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Cece,” he murmurs as he gently presses his lips to hers. Arthur blinks and finds that his eyes are wet. The fist of grief that usually clenches his chest is replaced by a feeling of warmth. He’s finished his hot chocolate.

Pulling the crinkled grocery list from his winter jacket, Arthur steps inside the store.


*** The story also contains controversial themes as lethal injection/death penalty and abortion procedure etc. *** (Joshua name in Hebrew - "God is my salvation" Anne name- “God has favored me”) It may surprise you that a celestial being like me is fascinated by a mere mortal like you. I am not ashamed to admit that often times I roam the earth to observe beings like you. You don't know it, but humans are such riveting creatures, that even us - heavenly entities - leave the presence of God to meet you. To get an eyeful of you. I have seen you before, but I decided to finally introduce myself that night, at the cemetery. You were sitting on the ground, the unearthed dirt still damp and fragrant, in front of the tombstone. Shivering in a thin coat hanging on your thin frame. Elbows resting on knees, your red eyes were boring a hole in the fresh etchings of the tombstone. There was a book next to you on the grass. “God is dead" by Friedrich Nietzsche. And an empty bottle of vodka. I didn’t bother to obscure my appearance. You were too distraught, too broken to care about the luminous presence descending behind you. “The angel of death, aren’t you?” you asked with a scowl. Perceptive for a drunk philosopher, I thought. You remained seated, unimpressed by my presence. Or the meaning of it. “Off duty,” I assured you and, as I came nearer, I dimmed my radiance completely, so we could sit together and have a normal conversation. I enjoy the simplicity of such intimate, human act. I sat down on the bench next to you. You were in mourning, so I kept quiet for a minute or so, uneasy to have disturbed your peace. I can be nosy, though, and impatient. Sorry to ruin the impression of us, flawless beneficent beings. When interacting with humans, I tend to mirror them. Forget about rank and decorum for a little while. It’s refreshing. The inscription on the tombstone read: “Anne-Marie Brown, 1994-2021. ‘You are a little soul carrying around a corpse.'” Epitectus.” “That’s all she wanted on her… tombstone,” you explained, your voice quivering.  “ Epitectus.” “They don’t teach philosophy where I come from,” I replied with a chuckle. Philosophers don’t abound in heaven, either,  I thought, but kept it to myself. “It was her favorite quote. She was a librarian, and a wide-eyed believer.” That’s how you two met, at the library. You were looking for "Beyond good and evil," by Friedrich Nietzsche,

your favorite author . Such title

was bound to prompt a debate between an unapologetic believer and an equally stubborn philosophy teacher. It lasted long past business hours. For several weeks afterwards, in fact. And throughout your honeymoon. “She wasn’t afraid to embrace philosophy,” you said. “Unlike me, she was brave and open-minded." I knew Anne, but you could barely hold yourself together, in front of your wife's freshly dug grave, so I just nodded, in agreement. My silence had the opposite effect, though. “If you're not here to drag me to hell, what ARE you doing here?” you asked. “You don’t believe in heaven and hell, do you? In angels and demons.” I replied. “And yet, here you are, in your ridiculous robe and sandals in December. Drawn to the stench of my corpse, no doubt about it. Sorry to break it to you, Angel. I have no soul. I have nothing to give you." “One who loves so deeply can’t be without soul, Josh,” I added. “What would you know about love, Angel? Besides blind devotion to your God?” “A God whose existence you’ve denied all your life? "Don't flatter yourself. You know absolutely nothing about me. Come back when I’m sober. I’ll debate you then, if you dare.” You laid on your side and closed your eyes. Felt asleep with a deep, shuddering sigh. When the cold of the ground seeped through to your bones, you got up and staggered home. I made sure you found the bed before collapsing, sinking into a fitful sleep. <><><> “What do you know about love?” you asked me the other day. I am sorely obtuse when it comes to human love, you’re right. I am one of God’s myriads of angels, created eons before the earth’s foundation was laid, long before the first seed was buried in the garden of Eden. And yet, I know nothing about human love. Adoration, lust, infatuation. Parental love, brotherly love. Camaraderie. You, on the other hand, were created in God’s own image. Love was one of the many gifts you've received at your birth. And attached to it, was free will, to use or abuse it, as you wished. Can you grasp such a notion, Joshua Goldstein, professor of philosophy? You, in your godly beauty, are above us, indomitable angels. Had I been gifted with feelings, I would have thoroughly envied you. Hated you, even, for having been created in such glorious way. You don't know it, but angels and seraphs pause in their earthly duties to gaze at you. Marvel at you, humans. God’s earthly children. And yet, you choose to believe Nietzsche. That miserable creature you worship. I wish I could tell you of his fate, where his wretched soul rambles around these days. But I am not allowed. There are truths your frail being can not endure, your mind can not comprehend without imploding. He was right about one thing, though, your Nietzsche. “In heaven, all the interesting people are missing.” Nobody misses him, I assure you. <><><> While you were sleeping, duty called. The execution of an inmate. Triple murderer. Just about your age. I wish you could witness this, Joshua. In fact, I wish you and I could trade places sometimes. It would be enlightening, for both of us, I believe. There were two dozen witnesses there behind the glass, eager to see their fellow human put to death in such barbarous way. Gnashing their teeth, hatred running hot through their clogged arteries. The inmate was laying on his back, his hands and feet strapped tightly to the gurney. He was calm, obliging, unlike the technicians around him and the skittish prison officials, bracing themselves for any screw-ups that would embarrass them in the press. The condemned was smiling, looking up at the ceiling. I wondered if he could see me, as I was waiting patiently for the procedure to be over. Or maybe it was the last meal he had had earlier. His last supper. A fascinating aspect of human society: Granting a death row inmate a lavish meal before pouring poison into his veins. He had requested something his grandma cooked for him as a child: three pieces of fried chicken, collards with ham, buttermilk biscuits, a thick slice of hummingbird cake and thee scoops of peach ice-cream. A bottle of Coca Cola. He didn’t waste a crumb, licking the fork, nodding and shaking his head with pleasure. Letting the sweet bubbles of the beverage tickle his tongue. An hour of bliss. A feast his body would not even begin to digest before life would be squeezed out of him. I watched him eat, in awe at the pure happiness that feast gave him, less than an hour away from his gruesome demise. We, celestial creatures, don’t require physical sustenance, yet, I wish I could experience that bliss once. It would so enrich my existence, I believe. After failing to find a suitable vein in the young man's arm, they tried the neck. Then the veins between his neck and shoulders. They were still struggling to insert the catheter in. "Should I lean my head down a bit?" the condemned offered. The executioners' hands were trembling, nervous at the commotion of the crowd behind the glass, irked by the amateurish spectacle. The condemned assisting his slayers in the contract killing. The eye-rolling and head-shaking stopped when the inmate's body began to convulse and contort, his chest heaving, gasping for air. Sputtering. Babbling. Their ears pricked up, straining to make out what he was gushing: "Jesus, remember me when You come into your kingdom!" he cried while poison was snaking its way to his heart. They blinked in disbelief. A degenerate like him calling out to Jesus? After a while, his body stopped twisting and twitching. His torso settled down, his forehead unwrinkled, the corners of his mouth lifted in a radiant smile. "’Truly I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise ,’" he whispered and gave his last breath. Like vapor escaping freshly turned up soil, his soul left his body and rose to the ceiling where I was waiting. He walked into my arms and smiled, the smile of a newborn feeling the warmth of the sun on his cheeks. <><><> You’re crashed on your bed, boots and coat on. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so we could talk, but you drink yourself to sleep these days. I made sure Anne's grave had fresh peonies today, though. So, sleep some more, friend, if you need it, while I attend to my duties. I'll be back to check on you. <><><> It took me a while to figure out who was I there for in that hospital room. The young woman was laying on her back, her bare feet resting in stirrups. Her aura was strong, pulsing with vigor. There was another being there, though. Small and anxious, blinking in the dark of her womb. His aura was pallid, vacillating. His little heart was beating rapidly in his collarbones, his tiny fingers probing the walls around him, looking for a way out. He wasn’t bigger than the size of your palm, Josh, but he was a fighter, sensing the threat looming in the room. He turned his head when the doctor came in, listening, one tiny finger in his mouth. The doctor approached the patient and injected a numbing medication into her cervix. He then sat down, between the young woman’s legs, and proceeded to dilate her cervix to get to the uterus. He was talking to her in a soothing tone, explaining each step of the procedure. He had no words for the other being, a few inches from his face. The little human grew agitated as the doctor opened the uterus and slowly inserted a tube attached to a suction device. His little heart was beating wildly, so visible through his translucent skin. I marveled at the weave of veins and arteries, his fully-grown organs, his tiny fingers and toes, his nose and ears with which he was trying to assess the danger he was in. Unlike you, Josh, he so desperately wanted to live. You should have seen him. He was jerking around, away from the mouth of that instrument pressed against his side. I closed my eyes when the doctor turned the sucking machine on. I could hear the screams of the little being, being sucked out of the uterus, limb by limb, into that odious contraption, but my hands were tied. All I could do was wait for the screams to die out and for his little soul to emerge in all its splendor. I smiled at him and opened my arms. I named him Dominic. “Belonging to God. “ No one ever enters the kingdom of heaven nameless. <><><> “I don’t want you here,” you said and leaned against the headboard. The mere effort made you lose your breath. Wince in pain. You hadn’t eaten in days, hadn’t showered since the funeral. The bookshelves in the bedroom were bare. Just like the floor, your bed was covered in books, all debating heaven and hell, good and evil. Life and death. And bottles of vodka. “I went to the cemetery. You weren’t there.” “Go to hell,” you said. “Oh, right. You belong there. My bad.” “I don’t, actually. That’s a common misconception, Josh. You’ve read all these books here and still have no clue of the most rudimentary notions of heaven and hell.” “I’d like to debate you, Angel, but my head is killing me. Come another time, would you?” “I had the florist place fresh peonies of Anne’s grave. Pink and white, her favorite.” That had you speechless for a few seconds. You closed your eyes at the mention of her name as though it pierced a fresh wound in your heart. “How decent of you. That still doesn’t make you any more welcome here. I want to be alone. Die alone already.” “That’s not what Anne would have wanted for you.” “She shouldn’t have left me alone then.” “It’s not like she had a choice. She was sick, dying from cancer. In enormous pain. No human should have to endure that pain.” “But she did have a choice, Angel,” you shouted. “While I was here praying to God to spare her, to save her life, she was in the other room, praying to God to take her. To take her away from me!” The woman I loved more than myself! The woman I would have gladly died for!” you cried in despair. “And who did God listen to? Her, of course! He listened to her! He favored her prayers over mine!” You grabbed books off the bed and threw them at me. They went through me as through steam in a shower. You then grabbed half empty bottles and hurled them against the walls. They shattered loudly, sending shards flying, spraying the books on the floor with vodka. “That’s not how prayer works, Joshua. God doesn’t have favorites, either.” “Go away, Angel," you replied, exhausted. “I need to be alone.” <><><> Nobody dies alone, Joshua. No one departs from the earth unaccompanied. Is there any consolation in that? I wouldn’t know it. I had the florist deliver fresh peonies to Anne’s grave today. It gives me pleasure seeing her name surrounded by fresh, scented petals. He did not favor her prayer over yours. But God answered her prayers regarding YOU, Josh. Those type prayers never remain unanswered – and that’s all I’m going to reveal about it. <><><> My duties took me away for a while. But I was brought back in an instant when the fire erupted in your bedroom. I could only stand there and watch you, on the floor, surrounded by flames, torching the vodka-soaked pages along with the rug underneath. Some of your precious books were still burning in the fireplace. As the smoke started to fill the room, I wanted to call your name, to shake you to consciousness. But it wasn’t my duty to intervene. So, I stood there and guarded you, instead. It didn’t take long for the whole room to be engulfed in flames. And for the firefighters to arrive, along with all the chaos that a house fire ensues. All your books were destroyed. Under your charred body, however, Anne’s favorite book had survived. Humans would call it a miracle. Not even one drop of water had touched it. Anne's bookmark laid on top of the pages. A paragraph highlighted, underlined, jumped from the page: “For God so loved the world that he gave His One and only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.” Was I mistaken, Josh? When you gave your last breath, it sounded like Anne’s name. At last, your soul drifted above your remains. You smirked when meeting my eyes. “You’re hard to get rid of, Angel,” you said, and squeezed me in a bear hug. “You just have to try harder, my friend. You have an eternity to do so.”


Who Said Life Was Fair A loud persistent voice was beginning to penetrate my brain fog. “Brookfield Police, Annie, are you alright?” I shook my head trying to clear it. Someone banged loudly on the door. The fuzziness was going but I could not find my voice. I could now hear talking outside my front door and I tried to rise. That was when I discovered I was no longer in bed; I was sitting on the kitchen floor. As I tried to lift myself up, my foot slipped and I slid back down. I heard a loud voice say, “Okay, unlock the door.”

I heard loud footsteps enter my apartment and felt a soft touch on my shoulder. A gentle voice said, “Is this Miss Harris?” I looked up. A uniformed police officer was standing over me. In the hall I could see the worried face of my landlord, Steve. He nodded. “Thank you Mr. Chan, you can go back to your apartment.” “Yes, yes of course.”

“Miss Harris, Annie, can you tell me where you are hurt.”  A voice from another room said, “There’s no one else here.”

“Okay Mike, tell the paramedics they can come in now.” I found my voice. I whispered, “ I’m okay. I had a nightmare. I must have been walking in my sleep and fallen. Oh no, was I screaming? Did I wake my neighbors? I’m so sorry to have caused all this fuss.”  “How about we just let the paramedics check you over?”

“No please, it was just a horrible nightmare. I’m not hurt.”

“Then where did all this blood come from?” I looked down. I was covered in blood. Pools of it covered my kitchen floor. It was sprayed on my cabinets, on my curtains, everywhere. I glanced up at the officer who had spoken to me. “It’s not mine,” I said, horrified by the sight. “I’m not hurt.” The face of one of the paramedics appeared over the policeman’s shoulder. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. The cop glared at him. “Hey, I’m sorry,” the paramedic said, “I’ve just never seen so much blood in one small space before, but I can tell you this much, it isn’t hers. She’d be dead if she lost this much.” “Just check her over,” the policeman said sternly. The EMTs entered the blood spattered kitchen avoiding the broken glass on the floor. They began looking me over. I just sat there, dazed and confused until I was loaded onto a stretcher.

All the while I

kept repeating, “I’m not hurt, it isn’t my blood.” The medics quickly confirmed what I had been saying. A few minutes later one of them said, “We’ll take her to the hospital as a precaution and have her checked out thoroughly, but I can tell you that her vitals are strong, her heart”s a little fast and her bp is high which is understandable, but we can’t see any wounds.” The policeman looked down at me, a puzzled look on his face. “Have you been in the apartment alone this evening, Annie?” “Yes, I went to bed, alone. I must have fallen asleep and had a nightmare. Am I still dreaming?” My agitation began to grow. I glanced over to where I had been sitting in the kitchen. It looked like the scene of a massacre. It also looked terrifyingly familiar. It couldn’t be. Ghosts don’t bleed.

“Get me off this stretcher!” I shouted. “I need to get back to bed so that I can wake up. Please,” I added in a softer voice. “You don’t understand what has happened.” I struggled to get off the stretcher. I was now bordering on hysteria. “Get me off of this thing. Please,” the policeman nodded to the paramedic and I felt a slight prick in my arm.I looked first at the paramedic and then at the policeman who leaned closer to me. “Annie” he replied, kindly. “I found you sitting in a pool of blood. Something happened in this apartment this evening.For your own safety, we have to make sure you are really alright. The first step is to get you to the hospital.” I began to protest. I just need to be absolutely certain that you are okay.” I suddenly began to feel very sleepy. The policeman’s face was getting fuzzy. I seem to remember mumbling, ”Okay,” before I recognized a voice I knew all too well, whisper in my ear. “Talk your way out of this one, bitch.” And then, oblivion. “What do you suppose happened back there? ``One of the EMTs, Eric, called back to his partner Chris, who was sitting next to me in the ambulance.

“Beats me, but can you believe all the blood? It looked like someone bled out ….. Eric, pull over!” “Why?” “You have to see this, just pull over.” Eric pulled into the curb and turned around in the driver’s seat. “What the hell”

The two men stared down at me.. As they watched, the blood covering me began to slowly dissipate. Chris was the first to find his voice. “You’re seeing this, right?” “Uh huh, I don’t know exactly what I am seeing but I am seeing it. Let’s get to the hospital asap,” he said as he spun around in the driver’s seat. They arrived at BGH in record time. “What do we tell the doctors,” Eric asked as they wheeled me into emergency.

“The truth. We play it like we would in any normal case.” “How the hell will we do that?”

“Let me do the talking, okay?”

“You got it. I just want to get away from her as quickly as possible.” A doctor approached the two men. Chris began the spiel he had been practicing on the drive. “The patient is 36 year old Annie Harris. Neighbors heard screams from her apartment and called the police who in turn called us. We found her sitting on the floor of her kitchen, a broken beer bottle in her hand. We couldn’t find any outward injuries on the patient. Miss Harris was confused and claimed she had just been sleepwalking. The police asked us to bring her here as a precaution.” “Any evidence that she was intending to cause self harm?”

“Despite the bottle in her hand, we saw no marks on her to indicate that she had tried to hurt herself,”

Chris replied.

“Okay guys, we’ll take it from here?” “Are you off the clock?” Eric asked his partner. “Yup, and I plan to get royally drunk. You?”

“Oh yeah, and I’ll join you if you don’t mind. And pal, let’s make a pact. We won’t ever speak about this call to anyone or each other again.”

“Deal”. Back at my apartment the forensic team had arrived. The policeman in charge, Gilbert Desjardins, greeted the head of the team. “Michel, at this point I don’t know what happened here. We found a woman sitting in this kitchen surrounded by all this blood. That broken beer bottle was on the floor beside her. Interesting thing, she didn’t appear to have a mark on her. Blood doesn’t appear out of thin air. Work your magic. Let me know what the blood tells you.” “I’m on it,” Michel replied. “Mike,” Gil said to his junior officer as the two men left the apartment, “Head over to the hospital and call me when Annie wakes up. I want to talk to her when she has calmed down.”

“Will do.” Taking one last look at the horrific scene, Sergeant Desjardins left and returned to the station. He had no idea the turn this case was about to take. I began to wake. The first thing I noticed was the noise surrounding me. It was clear that I was no longer in my apartment and that I was most likely in an emergency ward. The hysteria that I had felt earlier had been replaced by an eerie calm. I kept my eyes closed. I didn’t want to talk to anyone until I could process what had led to me now finding myself in a hospital bed. As I lay there, it suddenly came flooding back. That night, I had gone to bed fairly early, around 10 p.m. I fell asleep quickly and woke up with a start. A glance at my clock radio told me it was just after 2 a.m. My kitchen was down the hall from my bedroom. The kitchen light wasn’t on but an eerie silvery white light was emanating from the room. I got up and walked towards it, knowing and dreading what I would find. There, leaning against the counter stood my husband, swinging his customary bottle of Labatt Bleue in one hand. But something was decidedly different. Oh, his nasty sneer was still glued on his stupid face but this time he didn’t look the least bit spectral. Lord help me, Sean, my dead husband had somehow managed to manifest fully. I wasn’t looking at a ghost. What I saw before me was a flesh and blood human. “What’s the matter, sweetheart, don’t like the new me?” I somehow managed to stutter, “What…how?” “I’ve been working hard,” he replied. “You didn’t seem near scared enough on my last visits. It’s no fun coming to call on my girl if I can’t get a rise out of her.” I don’t know how I found the words but I managed to utter, “You scared me, happy? Now get out!” He was dead. He couldn’t possibly hurt me. Could he?

It was as I was backing away that he lunged for me. I knew what was going to happen next.

Sean grabbed me by the throat and shoved me hard against the kitchen counter. He was a big man and normally I wouldn’t have stood a chance against him. But he appeared to be very drunk.I managed to knee him in the crotch. He uttered a curse, let go of my throat, and doubled over. The beer bottle fell to the floor and shattered, spilling beer everywhere. Without thinking I reached down and grabbed the neck of the bottle. With all the force I could muster, I drove the jagged end of the bottle into his neck, just like I did on the night I killed him. Blood spurted everywhere. Sean was vainly grabbing at his throat. He looked at me pleadingly. I could have run. I could have run screaming into the street as I had done on many other occasions. But after years of physical abuse I knew that if Sean survived, I was going to suffer badly.

So I sat there and watched. Blood was now gurgling in his mouth. He fell to the floor, and reached a hand out to me. I watched, the broken bottle still clasped tightly in my hand. After what seemed to be an eternity he shuddered and fell still. That’s when I screamed and finally dropped the bottle. Next thing I knew, a policeman was standing over me asking if I was okay. Gil arrived back at his desk to find his phone ringing. The display showed that it was Michel, from Forensics. “You're good Michel but you can’t have finished up at the apartment this fast,” he said good humoredly.

“Gil, can you get back here asap?” “What’s up?” “All the blood in this place, it’s disappearing faster than we can collect samples. I’d bet on my life that it is blood splattered all over this place but it vanishes as soon as I get it on a swab and now it is disappearing from the floor walls, everywhere. And get this, I tried taking a video of what’s happening. Nothing, the camera screen is blank. I want you to witness this.” Gil had been walking quickly to the car as he spoke on the phone. “I’m on my way.” He called Mike. “How is Miss Harris?” “Still sedated but the doctors gave her a once over. No abrasions, no sign of blood loss. The only marks on her are two faint red marks on her neck. They are waiting for her to wake up to ask her about them but frankly Gil, I think the docs are a little ticked with us for sending her here.” “Too bad. I am on my way back to the apartment now and then I will be heading your way. Something really weird is going on, Mike.” “Like what?” “I’m not sure how to explain it. We’ll talk when I get there.” A few minutes later, Gil and Michel stood staring at my pristine kitchen. Not a spot of blood could be seen anywhere and the shattered glass had disappeared as well. Michel was the first to say anything. “We both saw the blood. Hell, my assistants saw it. One of them took off like a frightened rabbit when it started to vanish. I’ve been asking myself if this scene was staged. Maybe what we saw wasn’t blood at all but with some new “vanishing fake blood.”

“Vanishing fake blood?. Like they might use in a movie or something?” Michel turned off the kitchen light. The room was dark, not a single spot of blue. “I sprayed the floor with Luminal. If there had been blood here it would have picked up its trace. You can see for yourself, nada, nothing.” “And the broken glass?” “I haven’t a clue,” Michel said flatly.

“It can’t just have disappeared.” “But it has,” said Gil, “it has. I’m headed off to the hospital. If anyone has any answers it will be Miss Harris.” “Welcome back to the land of the living,” a perky voice said. A poor choice of words was my thought. The voice belonged to a young nurse standing beside my hospital bed. “How are you feeling?” she continued. I

managed a small smile and replied, “A little groggy but other than that I feel fine, just fine.

“Good. I will just track down the doctor and tell him you are awake. Oh, and there is a policeman waiting to talk to you as well.” I closed my eyes again. I racked my brains trying to figure out what on earth I was going to say to them. I called after her. “Did the doctor find anything wrong with me,” I ventured. “He will answer any questions you have when he gets here.” All I could think of to explain what happened today was to play dumb.I would stick to “I don’t know” and “I had a nightmare.” But I had a much bigger problem. Sean. I closed my eyes.

I had my first visit from Sean about a month after his death. I had been asleep and was awakened by a whisper in my ear, “Hello sweetheart,” it said. I recognized the voice. After all, I had listened to it for years. It terrified me but I really thought it was just a nightmare. This happened several times over the period of a year. I saw a psychologist who told me it was post traumatic stress disorder and put me on Paxil. The whispers stopped. But if I thought it was over, I was mistaken. One night I was woken by Sean’s voice demanding my presence in the kitchen. “We’re out of beer,” he yelled. I remember feeling compelled to go. Just like when he was alive. He called, I jumped to attention.This time I got out of bed and walked to the kitchen only to find it empty, but the air was frigid. I think it was that night that I came to the conclusion that I was not having nightmares, I was being haunted. I decided to move. I moved several times over the years but he always found me. He didn’t visit often but each time he did, he was stronger. First he was just a shadow and then a misty figure that I could recognize. I did try talking to a priest once, but he sent me on my way. Maybe because I wasn’t a member of his church. I don’t know. I hadn’t seen him for two years when he showed up last night in his new form. I was scared but also angry. He deserved to die. We’d been together for seven years, the same number of broken bones I’d received at his hand. He got what was coming to him. I had even been cleared of any charges. Justifiable manslaughter they called it. I didn’t deserve to be persecuted by his ghost. Yes, they found traces of Atavin in his bloodstream. He had a prescription for them. They weren’t to know that I had ground some into his mashed potatoes that night. Not many, just enough that combined with his nightly beers, would make him a little unstable. Unstable enough that a well placed knee to the groin would disable him long enough for me to kill him. No, he was a brute and I was his innocent victim. But now what to do. How on earth was I going to get rid of him this time? Sadly, that was to be taken out of my hands. Gil Desjardins arrived at the ER and spotted Mike sitting in a chair near the reception desk. Before he could reach him, an unGodly scream filled the room. Instinctively both men ran towards the source as did several doctors and nurses.

Just a minute before, I heard the curtain around my bed being pulled aside. The perky nurse stuck her head through and said, “Your husband is here to see you.” She smiled and moved briskly away. Before I could say a word, Sean appeared at the foot of my bed. He leaned towards me and in a menacing whisper said, “It’s time for payback, sweetheart.” I screamed in terror. And that’s how they found me, dead, my mouth open, my eyes wide with fear. So unfair.


“Tell me again why living in Florida during the summer is a good thing,” I said, turning on the garden hose. “It's nothing but nonstop heatwaves.” Sitting nearby on a lawn chair, my roommate and best friend Crystal let out an exaggerated sigh. “I would but I’m suffering from heatstroke so hurry up and hand over the water.” “You don’t think this is a bit pathetic?” I adjusted the flow to an easy stream before handing the hose to her. “Sitting in our backyard, dressed in hot pants and tank tops while soaking each other with a garden hose?” “You got a better idea on how to keep cool with the AC on the fritz?” she said, letting the water pour down her head and shoulders. “We could get a pool.” Crystal flicked the hose in my direction, cool water splashing me across my face. “I think you’re the one suffering from sunstroke. There’s no way we can afford a pool.” “I didn’t mean we get a big one,” I said, wiping the water from my eyes. “They do sell above ground pools. They only cost a few hundred.” “I don’t know. Putting together a pool sounds like a lot of work.”

I took the hose from her and drenched my chest and the back of my neck. “It’ll be worth it though. We’re going to be hot no matter what we do. At least with a pool we get rewarded for it.” Crystal shook her head. “I’m not interested in doing it. Too much money, too much work just to use it one or twice. You have to maintain a pool and neither one of us will put in the effort.” I was too hot to argue and she actually had a good point so I let that idea go. “Alright, then what do you want to do? The AC won’t get fixed until sometime tomorrow and it’s only 12:45 now.” “Let's go for a drive. The car has air conditioning so even if we just cruise around for an hour it’ll be worth it.” “Just aimlessly drive around? Won’t that just burn gas?” “Again, the car has working air conditioning so it’ll be worth it.” I tossed the hose on the ground and turned it off. “Fine. You’re driving.” We both retired to our rooms to clean up and dry up. The temperature in the house felt like the inside of an oven set for 350. If it didn’t cool down by bedtime I was going to sleep naked in the bathtub and I didn’t care if Crystal put me on blast for it. She was waiting for me in the living room, fanning herself with a magazine. “Why don’t we fill the car with as much stuff that will fit and move to Vermont. I hear the hottest it gets is 80 and it snows there.”

“If we hadn’t just renewed our lease for another year I would agree,” I said, following her to the garage. “Though driving in snow sounds rough.” “So we’ll either use Uber or hibernate during the winter months,” she said, hitting the garage door opener on the wall. “A few snow days has to be better than being cooked alive in your own home.” Inside the car felt like the bowels of Hell and I nearly broke the air conditioning dial twisting it to max as soon as Crystal turned the key. Thankfully we have a good car and the temperature soon went from death to heavenly cool. It felt so good that I leaned against the dashboard, face next to the vent and stayed there until my skin became stiff and numb. We drove in silence for some time before Crystal said. “I’m thinking about going back to school.” I was too caught up in the joy of breathable air that her words didn’t fully register. When they did sink in I sat up and looked at her. “You’re going back to where?” She wouldn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the road. “School. Cosmetology to be exact. I want to be a beautician.” “Why? I mean it’s great that you want to do it and all but what made you decide?” She shrugged. “Lots of things. I’m sick of working two dead end jobs that don’t excite me anymore. I’ve been working at Pax Boutique for almost 5 years, it’s given me retail burnout. I love doing hair and makeup so being a beautician should be fun.” “Are you going to be able to work and do school at the same time?” “I’d keep working at Pax for as long as I can since I’ve been there the longest and I like it better than working as a Pizza delivery driver. I haven’t applied yet or anything, I was just thinking about it.” I pushed back my seat in a reclining position and angled the air to blow over me. “Well, if you want my opinion I say go for it. Apply for financial aid and see what happens. You’re 25 so it’s not like this is your one shot at college.” “You think so? It’ll be a lot of money. I don’t want to screw you up because I blow all this money and we end up not being able to pay rent and our friendship gets wrecked over this.” I reached over and poked her arm. “Don’t worry about that. We’ve been friends for how many years? Since grade school, right? Between the two of us we’ve blown money on many boneheaded ideas and get rich schemes. Going back to school isn’t a boneheaded idea.I hate school so if I went back it would be throwing money away. You on the other hand seemed to love schoolwork. I used to get so pissed and jealous when we got our report cards and you got top grades and I was down around the middle. You’ll do great so go for it.” Crystal smiled. “Thanks. I’ll start looking into my financial aid options tonight. There’s a school about an hour’s drive from here. I think the course is 8 months, give or take, after which I’ll have to pass the state licensing examination before I can find work.” “One thing at a time,” I glanced out the window at our surroundings and perked up.”Hey, we’re near Bruster’s ice cream. Let’s stop there.” “You buying?” I brought my seat back up and reached underneath where the emergency money was kept. We try to keep $100 there at all themes though it never lasts, it’s constantly replaced at least once a month. Luck was on my side and I pulled out a $20, more than enough for two cones or shakes. “This is our last splurge so lets make it count,” I said, handing the money to her. “Once you become a big shot hairdresser you’re buying me dinner at Sky.” “Keep dreaming.” I laughed, found a good song on the radio and cranked up the volume.


I don’t know what it is about this stupid blade but every time I touch it, I can’t stop the images that cloud my vision. My whole world turns shades of white and grey while the images play out what I can only guess to be some part of a past life. It never makes any sense to me, but one thing that never fails to take my breath away are the piercing bright green eyes that shine through the dull images drawing me in and pulling me this way or that until I come back to reality completely unaware of where I am or how I got there. I’ve been lucky thus far, my conscious self-coming back in places where the trees provide a dense protection of wise shade, water lazily flows in thin veining streams, and the animals are the only eyes to be seen for miles. My mother had said this blade was the key to my future, but as I stand here staring at the shiny, sharp, object latched to the belt around my waist all I feel is apprehension and resentment that she didn’t say more. Although I look back on my time with my mother fondly, she often frustrated me with her way of making everything into some form of a riddle. I always felt there was more she wanted to say, but I guess she never felt comfortable speaking her truths aloud. She was more affectionate than most others in our village were towards me, but I don't think that says much because she really didn't have the relationship with me that I saw other women in the village having with their mothers. Truthfully, I always felt quite out of place here. Like I never really made sense in their world, and never would. That's why I always lost myself in these woods, feeling more at home on my own in the elements than where all of my family and friends resided. As I pace back and forth lost in my thoughts about life and how I ended up with this magical, yet incredibly frustrating blade, the hairs on the back of neck begin to rise, a telltale sign in this forest that something is coming and whatever it is, it’s not good. Before I can start the trek to find my way back to the village, the sky grows dark and unnerving. I arch my neck to peer up at what could cause the sudden disturbance, sure enough, there it is. A vast and endless array of the most terrifyingly beautiful black scales. An endless night sky. Ehecatl. That’s when the screaming begins. I had heard the stories of nearby villages facing the wrath of such a demon but didn’t think our time to face such a creature would come so soon. Just as it had begun, it had ended. What lay before me, what was once my home was now a pile of ash and bone. From what I could tell there wasn't a single person that had made it out. Before my mind can catch up to what my body decided to do, I was off. Wherever this creature was going, I would follow. Until my feet were bleeding and my lungs were gasping for air, I would follow. This thing, this Ehecatl, stole my life away from me in a matter of minutes and I would chase it down until I could return that very favor. By the time it had finally landed the night stars shone bright in the sky. I continued to move forward solely relying on my intuition. I let my feet lead the way up, up, up. As I made my way the path I was following on the mountain continued to narrow, I now found myself shimmying along with my back pressed up against one side and my toes still dangling over the ledge while tiny bits of rocks from the very edge plummeted down, down, down. I can’t stop. Even as rain rolls in and starts to tickle my face with tiny drops that I knew would soon be consumed by thunderous booms and striking blasts of light, I can’t stop. I hear the rumbling begin just as I start to lose my footing, I slip just over the edge and the free fall commences, I turn around as quickly as I can and reach for my blade that is strapped to my waist hoping to plunge it into the rock, but as soon as the cold metallic blade bites my fingertips, the world begins to fade as shades of grey and white begin to form and the world as I knew it begins to fade once again into nothing but a pair of piercing green eyes. I could feel whatever was coming before it had physically touched me. It was like an electric current that found it’s way to my very core. I was sure I had been struck by lightening until I felt something catch me. My vision was still clouded with images of white and grey making it impossible to tell reality from whatever visions danced before my eyes. I had to be dreaming as I was gently lowered into the soft, wet ground. Whatever had saved me had dropped me in an open field filled with nothing but overgrown grass and what appeared to be a small log cabin. As I quickly gathered my bearings the storm started to pick up so before I could think I started to run as fast as my legs would carry me to that log cabin standing on the opposite end of the clearing. Without so much as a knock I opened the door, hoping whatever I found inside would be less confusing, less intriguing than whatever had just happened to me outside. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was empty, and whilst it was small it felt incredibly inviting, as if I already knew where everything was I made my way over to the only window that this cabin had to try and figure out what had saved me, when I saw it. It wasn’t the sheer size of the beast that disturbed me. It wasn’t the way his wings looked like they could take down an entire army in one small swoop. No, it was the all too familiar, piercing green eyes that stared directly at me through the rain. As if what I was seeing wasn’t unsettling enough, I continued to watch as those piercing green eyes shrunk, and changed into a mess of lean muscle, and curly black hair as dark as the night sky. I couldn’t stop myself from walking towards the door and opening it to get a better look at whatever this was that I was seeing, but when I saw the large gash in his side spanning from his hip all the way up to the bottom of his rib cage. Without so much as a second thought I rushed out to him just as he started to fall to the ground. With his head in my hands, I ripped a piece of my cloak to apply pressure to the wound and helped him slowly sit, then stand and hopefully make it back to the cabin and out of the relentless rain. Time seemed to both fly by and stand still as I worked to try and repair the skin that had somehow gotten mangled by the elements as this man that I have been seeing for the past several months in flashes of my imagination faded in and out of consciousness. After what felt like a lifetime the bleeding began to subside and curiosity got the best of me while I studied the unconscious face of the monster in front of me. How could something so beautiful be so destructive? Why had I been seeing him in visions? What was his tie to this very blade that my mother gave me before she passed away? As I started to get lost in the thoughts that were running through my mind at an unnerving speed, I was suddenly rooted to my spot and pulled back into the moment at hand as his eyes flew open. I don’t know what drew me to him, but I leaned in slightly as I took in the sharp curves of his chin and cheek bones waiting for his lips to open and say something, anything really to explain what was happening. I knew that this man in front of me was the very creature that I was hunting down to slaughter mere hours ago, the irony of the fact that I just saved the life of the thing that killed everything I held dear to my heart does not escape me. Yet, as I looked in his eyes, I knew there was more to whatever he was, and whatever he was doing that I couldn’t help but feel pity for the lonely gleam that shone through. A small gasp escaped me as the words “You have my blade.” Rang clear as day through the silence. I jumped back not because I was scared but because the deep, raspy voice that came from him felt like something I had heard a million times before. As if reading my thought, and not having the patience to wait for me to work through whatever ideas were working their way through my brain, he slowly stood and walked his way over to me, I was sure it would be my end, but for some unknown reason I wasn’t scared. I closed my eyes and waited as I felt his fingers brush against my waist, shooting another jolt of that electric current I had felt earlier, grabbing the blade my mother had given me. I don't know why I had the sudden rush of relief flooding my body as the blade left the strap on my waist, instead finding it's home in this man's hand, but it felt like the blade had been crying out to me for so long and it had now finally found where it had been dying to go. In that moment, I knew I could not be the one to take his life. Within a matter of minutes and a few words from that unnerving voice, I had gone from hatred and anger to awe and confusion. I could not explain what compelled me to to do what I did next, but I knew it was meant to come to fruition. I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his without hesitation, before he could do anything to stop me. What happened next took my breath away as all I could see was a different version of those very same images that would play in shades of white and grey only this time they weren’t. As if some veil had dropped, I could see everything in vivid color, I could hear the voices of the images ringing loud and clear in my mind.

It was no past life. Those images they were memories from a time before I lived in the village that I had called home, thinking that was where I was born and raised. I was wrong. This was wrong, but it was the truth. That place was no home to me, I had only been there a measly year and a half. The truth was beautiful and cruel. These memories, they revealed my world to me like a storybook. I didn't fit in, I didn't belong in that village because it was never truly my home. I watched and listened as my childhood, happy as can be, and my young adulthood made their way back to me and the lies those people embedded in my brain using their ancient magic were unraveled. It was like that blade and these lips that I kissed were piercing my very soul and opening it up to what my reality was and how much I truly missed it. My heart ached as I saw my life before I was taken, before I was changed, play out and dance in wonderful color. My family, my life, and him. He was no monster. He was my other half. He was the better part of myself. He wasn’t destroying the lives of the people I loved he was burning down every village of ancient witches who had stolen my life. He was searching for me. In that moment when I took a step back to peer into those endless green eyes my heart cracked a little more and I knew, I had found my way back home.


My heels spoke with every step. Thoughts bounced off the walls as I ran, reflecting back onto me. I halted in front of the cage and pounded on the small black button like a barbarian. To anyone else at any other time I would have looked insane, but this was a far from sane time. Come on...come on.. God! Just open! *Ding* Ugh finally! A small can of pepper spray in one hand, along with stacks of paper in the other. My heart was hammering out of my chest. I stuck my left foot through the door, almost tripping on my other. Then I heard distant yelling of what sounded like someone racing almost as fast as I was to get to the second floor. The door closed. I was safe. For now. *Ding* 9... *Ding* 8... *Ding* 7... *Ding* 7... Wait. *Ding* 7.. *Ding* 7.. huh? The dinging ceased a few seconds later as I was just about to cover my ears from the incessant noise. I felt the cage stop with a loud thud. No! No! No no no no! This isn't happening. Not now. Not with him battering against my mind. I searched the numerous buttons lined against each other and my eyes eventually landed on an button outlined in red, with what appeared to have a small phone on it. My finger rapped against it. No answer. Of course! This had to happen now! I thought with disdain. After a few more minutes I eventually gave up. My feet were already sore from what seemed like miles of running. I came to the conclusion that I was going to be here for awhile, and might as well get comfy. My papers floated to the ground and I pocketed the small can. *Ticktock* *Ticktock* I looked around the cage and searched for the sound. *Ticktock* *Ticktock* As I was starting to tire from the din. I nodded my head up, closed my eyes and heaved a long awaited sigh. A slight shine of white gripped my eyes. My eyelids fluttered open. A clock on the top? I pondered. What is this? The Ritz-Carlton? I clocked my head and peered at the two arrows. 11:22 PM. 38 minutes is fine. I stepped to the side of the cramped cage and crouched down. It felt surprisingly soft. Carpet. Carpet? Strange. Well I suppose that's the least of my worries. It was a shade of light purple, adorned with a seductive gold trim. I plopped down once more with my knees against my chest, I wrapped my willowy arms around and began to contemplate what to do next. Let's go over what we know. I was running. I was waiting. I was stuck. I buried my head into my small frame and dug my nails, well more like claws, into the carpet. Just then a thundering *Boom!* shattered through the floor. I've always hated rain. At least the lights remained. Claps of thunder and lightning could be heard from the south wall. I glanced to the door hoping someone. Anyone. Would somehow magically pry open the doors. However, I knew deep inside the only thing prying those metal doors was that wretched creature. My spine crept over as I brushed a loose strand of hair from my face. Exhaustion was holding my hand, I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to escape this prison. God knows how long it's been. I glanced up at the oval timepiece. 11:37 PM. I took a glimpse of the entrance of the enclosure. A small vent caught my eye. I crawled over to it, careful not to send my papers sprawling, and perched in front of it. My eyes skimmed over the uneven surface, I trailed my delicate fingers across it. It was opened, but only just enough to hear sound, not to see anything other than the tan panels. I gently put both hands on it and pushed. Other than the slight creak it made, it was silent. Good. Silent is good. I pushed with more force, but nothing. I pushed a final time as another creak escaped its lips. It wasn't giving anytime soon. I took my hands off feeling a bit defeated, but was soon cut off by a *Pitter patter* The rain lightened up, a gleam of hope ran rampant across my vision. This way I can hear his steps. I took my hands up to the wall and stood up feebly. Fatigue consumed my body. A sudden high-pitched scream echoed through my bones. The walls started to rattle, causing the small clock to come crashing down. I yelped, but quickly covered my mouth with my hand. Afraid to cause any more ruckus. I hoped the previous noise was enough to dull my own commotion. He’s getting closer. I bent down and carefully picked up the shards. Once I had picked up almost all of them -the others to small to see- I set them down in the corner opposite the vent. Afraid to cut myself, I looked down and cautiously crossed the floor to the other side. At first it was barely noticeable but then it started to rock me. The rattling was back. From what you ask? Well, it could be an earthquake, but I had an inkling it was much worse than any natural disaster. I squatted down and laid my body there as best as I could. The elevator being quite small -even for me- was a challenging task to do. The rattling stopped. Then the two lights at the entrance burst. My hand reached up to my face to block it. I felt glass piercing my fragile skin. A piece dug into my leg and through my navy blue jeans. I clenched my jaw and waves of agony rolled out from under it, across my entire head, and even down my neck. There were multiple small shards stuck in it. A few even managed to catch on my cheek. As an unearthly cry filled the room, I let out my own cry of dread. I was too terrified to care if he had heard. Just as sudden as the cry the rattling begun once more, but this time I felt the elevator start to drop. He was climbing the ropes. Each tug could be felt across my entire being. I started to count each one. At about fourteen I heard a what sounded like faint breathing. I held my breath terror-stricken. At nineteen he stopped. A breeze shifted through the room, and with that sent a bitter shiver up my spine. He was here, and there was no denying it.