inkstainedfingertips | Recent Entries

Late to the party, but this is my declaration of intent to participate in LJ Idol's "Wheel of Chaos."

“Come with me.”

I lead you down a staircase so long it feels like we’ve descended to the center of the earth. The air around us is cold and damp, and the stone corridor we're in seems to stretch on forever. The musty stench of mildew is strong, and the walls on either side of us are marked with patches of lichen that seem phosphorescent in the dim light.

As we walk, the steady drip-drip-drip of water echoes all around us, louder than our footsteps. We eventually find ourselves before a large steel door that's dotted with dirt and spots of rust that make it seem like it's been here since the beginning of time itself.

I pull an ancient key that’s dark and made of iron from my pocket and slip it into the lock, straining just to turn it. A moment later, the hard clunk and dull scrape of the lock disengaging echoes around the corridor.

Planting my feet on the stone floor, I brace myself and pull as hard as I can. The heavy door opens with a screech and squeal so sharp and piercing, it's reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard, making both of us wince.

A soft breeze flows out of the chamber that caresses our skin like the warm breath of the ten thousand spirits waiting for us beyond the doorway. You’re more nervous than before, uncertainty marking your features. But there truly is nothing to fear here.

I gesture to the open doorway. “Please. After you.”

You hesitate, still nervous, but curiosity seems to compel you forward. You precede me into the chamber beyond the door then pause and wait for me to catch up. It’s not quite as dim and murky as it is in the corridor and the air, though damp, is lighter. Somehow, though, the musty, earthy odor is stronger here.

“Please,” I say and motion you forward.

We pass a long row of cells on either side of us, all of them empty, and I see you shudder. If you listen close, you can still hear the voices of those who once occupied those cells. Nobody is ever truly gone. Still, the feeling is bleak, the silence almost oppressive, and it seems to weigh heavily on you, making you turn to me with an anxious look on your face.

“Don’t be afraid. There is nothing for you to fear here.”

We come to the far end of the chamber and stop. Before us are three cells, each of them occupied. You take a step forward, moving closer to the cells—but not too close—keeping yourself at a slight remove from the bars before you. As you study each of cell’s occupants in turn, I am studying you. And when you finally return your gaze to mine, there is a thoughtful look on your face and a thousand questions in your eyes.

You need not give voice to them, though. I already know what your questions are. They’re the same questions everybody who passes through this chamber has asked. The same questions I’ve already answered more times than I can count.

I gesture to the first cell, to the small handwritten sign affixed to the wall beside the door that reads,

chasing_silver…

“She would be an excellent choice. She is steady, consistent, and knows how to hold your attention with a compelling story.”

You look at me, seeming to need more. Fair enough. You should have all the information you want before making a decision as weighty as this.

“Her stories have an almost philosophical bent. She leaves you with questions about life, death, morality, and spirituality. She might even make you question your own humanity. Her stories lead with the head and engage your mind. She makes you think. As I said before, choosing her would be an excellent decision.”

Your eyes linger on her for a long moment as you process what I’d just said. But then you turn to the next cell, glancing at the sign on the wall which reads,

xeena...

“Another excellent choice,” I begin, already knowing you need more information. “Her stories blend the real and fictional in a clever and powerful way. You can find bits of her reality, her life, interspersed with achingly beautiful, yet brutally horrifying turns of phrase. She holds a mirror up, challenging you to look within, while exposing herself at the same time. It’s the authenticity and raw vulnerability of her tales that smack you in the face the hardest. Her pieces lead with the heart and make you feel. That’s where her strengths lie.”

You nod, your eyes lingering on her for a moment longer before you turn to the final cell and the sign beside it,

inkstainedfingertips

You immediately turn to me with confusion painted upon your features. It’s an expected reaction, one I've seen many times, and I laugh softly.

“Yes, he’s wearing a mask,” I tell you. “He’s got secrets, this one.”

You frown and look slightly ill at ease. But you were in for a penny before, so you’re in for a pound now, and it is my job to tell you all you need to know.

“It’s easy to look at the gore and violence his words convey and see no further. But if you look closer, you might see there are bits of the real person hidden within the prose,” I tell you. “Real life and fiction often mirror one another, and it’s perhaps fair to wonder whether his tales are much like the mask he wears—meant to obscure his reality and hide who he really is while also putting it on display for all to see. But yes, he is an acquired taste, to say the least.”

You take a step back, and I watch as your eyes drift from cell to cell to cell, a thoughtful frown upon your lips as your mind churns. The weight of the decision you must make seems to be pressing down on you. I see the indecision on your face, but it is time for you to make your choice. There are others waiting who must pass through here to weigh their own decisions.

I turn to you. “Three stand before you, but only one may emerge,” I say, then preempt the next question I know you’re tempted to ask. “What happens to the other two is not your concern. You may only set one of them free.

Your frown—and your expression of indecision—deepen. I can tell you sense the gravity of the choice that sits before you. As is my duty, I hand you a ring of three iron keys. Your hand trembles as you reluctantly accept them.

“It is time to choose.”

Your steps slow and halting, you raise the keys and approach the cells…

* * * * *

It’s really easy for me to make a case for both

chasing_silver AND

xeena to win the season. Both are incredibly talented and passionate writers. They come to the topics from opposite but very powerful directions.

As I said above, from my perspective,

chasing_silver comes at it with her head, crafting stories that have an almost philosophical bent that makes you think, while

xeena comes at them from the heart, spinning stories that are achingly beautiful, emotional, and authentic.

Though opposites in approach, both give you a real sense of who they are through their words. It’s a wonderful skill and one that has made for some truly memorable pieces that have stuck with me long after reading, such as

chasing_silver’s tales about the glass cat and death, the man who spoke to trees, and her piece about the pandemic. Those are pieces that inspired things I continue to think about, even weeks after their crafting.

On the other side of that coin,

xeena has penned some pieces that were like a gut punch on a first reading and continue to be a dull ache in my heart in the weeks since. Her piece about her battle with Xia and Mia, the doomed lovers, and her piece with the six vignettes were all equal parts hauntingly beautiful, tragic, and terrible all at the same time. They were all memorable and continue to make me *feel* as I think back on them.

Like I said, both are incredibly talented and passionate, one who leads with the head, one who leads with the heart, and as a reader, both approaches appeal to me. And I suspect that, given their successes over this season, appeal to quite a few. Both embody the Idol spirit, and either one would be a fantastic choice as this season’s champion.

As for me, I’m absolutely honored to be among these two talented, fierce competitors, and I’m profoundly grateful for the support that has gotten me to this point. When I first signed up, I had no expectations of where I might end up. I simply wanted to enjoy the process and learn to spread my creative wings a little wider than I’ve been able to in recent years. From that perspective, mission accomplished. To still be here at the end with two fantastic writers such as these is just gravy.

So, rather than argue my case, because I am honestly no more deserving of being here than anybody else who’s competed this season, I want to take this opportunity to say a big thank you to

xeena who has been so warm and welcoming, and whose vocal support has truly helped me find the joy and passion in my work again—things that have been missing for a long while now.

I also want to thank my friend,

drippedonpaper who strongly encouraged me to sign up all these weeks ago. Without her, I wouldn’t be here right now in the first place, so I’m incredibly grateful for the nudge she gave me.

I also want to thank everybody who’s voted for me week after week and kept pushing me forward. I am profoundly thankful to you all. And lastly, Gary deserves a big thank you as well for continuing to put out this labor of love season after season after season. Thank you for giving us all a forum to share our works and ourselves.

It’s been a wonderful season, and I walk away with nothing but gratitude and a rekindled passion in my heart. To me, that’s a big win no matter how the final vote shakes out.

Tall, ancient trees ring the clearing, rising up like skeletal fingers reaching into the vast and unrelenting darkness of the heavens above. Stars twinkle like chips of diamond in the velvety darkness above, cold and distant, but beautiful. Aside from the crackle and pop of the wood being consumed by the flames in the fire pit, the world around us is as silent as deep space.

“From what little you’ve said, I think it sounds like it could be really good for you,” Brian says. “It sounds like it could be the break you’ve been waiting for.”

I frown. “It could be.”

He stares at me, making me shift on my seat, uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. I stare into the flames, watching them writhe and dance, bathing us in alternating flickers of shadow and light.

“Seriously, man, at this point, what do you have to lose?” he asks.

“More than you might think.”

“Like what?”

I shrug and take a long swallow from my beer bottle as I try to put some order to my thoughts. I mean, he’s not totally and completely wrong. Personally, I don’t have anything to lose. On the other hand, not losing doesn’t necessarily mean winning, either. But what would I really know about that? Winning has been a rarity in my life. I’m far more accustomed to the other side of that coin. Losing seems to be my lot in life.

A soft wind blows gently, feeling like a cool breath on the back of my neck that makes my hair stand on end and I shudder as goosebumps break out along my skin. I turn and stare between the trees, my stomach clenching so tight it’s almost painful when I see what looks like shadows moving among the shadows. The sharp crack of a branch snapping echoes as loud as a gunshot in the darkness, making me flinch.

“There’s something out there,” I say.

“Dude. Relax, it’s just an animal,” Brian says with a chuckle.

“Damn, man. You act like we’ve never been camping before. What’s up with you?”

Brian and I have made the trip out to these woods at least once a year ever since high school. It used to be more often than just an annual event, but Brian’s got a demanding job and life that takes up most of his free time, keeping him from hanging out with me as much as we used to. My life is far less demanding.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Seriously, what’s up with you?”

I shrug. “Just on edge tonight, I guess.”

“Is it this offer that’s got you all rattled?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Understandable. It’s not every day somebody offers you a chance to change your life,” he says.

“No. It’s not.”

"You still haven't told me what the job is," he says.

I shrug noncomittally and take a swallow of my beer as I stare up at the sky.

“You’re going to take the offer, right?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I say.

“Why are you even hesitating?” he asks. “I mean, I don’t want to sound like a dick or be insensitive or anything, but I think it’s time I give you some tough love. It’s something I haven’t done nearly enough. Maybe if I had, you wouldn’t be just treading water like you are.”

“I don’t need you to lecture me,” I say.

“Look, you’ve been out of work for a while now. You’re stuck in neutral, man, and you have been for a long time. You’re just going through the motions, and it kills me. You’re smart, you’ve got talent, you just… you have no drive. You seem content to settle for the bare minimum.”

“It’s not like I’ve had many opportunities.”

“No, it’s that you haven’t taken advantage of the opportunities you’ve had.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Rather than give voice to the withering response sitting on the tip of my tongue, I take another swallow of beer, washing the bitterness and bile out of my mouth. Brian is looking out for me. He’s always had my back and simply wants the best for me. I know this. But he’s had it a lot easier than I have in life. He’s had more opportunities and more strokes of good fortune than I’ve had. He doesn’t see that. Can’t understand what it’s like to have to stumble over all the roadblocks life has thrown in my way. He doesn’t get it, and he never will.

He leans forward, holding my gaze. “Dude, from what you’ve told me, this could change the entire game for you.”

I nod. “It could.”

“So, why are you hesitating? What is there to even think about?”
I take another swallow of beer and sigh. “Because the cost might be more than I can bear,” I finally say, my voice soft as a whisper.

Brian drains the last of his beer and sets his bottle down. He stares into the fire for a moment as if collecting his thoughts then gives himself a little nod and looks up.

“Bro, you know I love you, right?” he says. “And that I only want to see you succeed and life the very best life you can?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Then I want you to take what I’m going to say in that spirit. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” I reply knowing already I’m not going to like what he has to say.

“Good. Because I need you to hear me on this,” he says.

“All right.”

“Your attitude is all wrong, brother. To get what you want in life, to be able to grab hold of your dreams, you have to be willing to sacrifice. You have to be willing to bear whatever the cost may be,” he presses. “There should be no price you’re unwilling to pay to get what you want, man. None. You know what I mean?”

“It’s not that easy.”

“It is that easy.”

I drain the last of my beer and toss the bottle to the ground. Brian can sometime get up on his high horse and be preachy as hell and it pisses me off to no end. He’s always been like this. He doesn’t realize his privilege or how high and mighty he sometimes sounds. Doesn’t realize things have come a lot easier to him than to other people—namely, me. And he doesn’t realize what a condescending prick he sounds like when he runs off at the mouth like this.

Another cool breeze blows through the clearing with a feeling like fingertips brushing my skin, and I shudder. I swallow hard and shake my head.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” I say.

“I do know. Because I’ve had to make the same choices, brother. I’ve been where you are.”

“Trust me. You haven’t.”

“I have. I made a thousand excuses for not going after what I wanted,” he said. “And my therapist helped me realize the reason I was making those excuses and not being willing to put myself out there was because I was afraid of failing. Sound familiar?”

“Not really,” I say.

He gives me a wry smile. “It does. We’ve been friends for so long I know you better than you know yourself. And I know you’re so afraid of failing, you’re paralyzed, man. You’re stuck in mud and you’re not willing to fight your way out.”

“More insight from your therapist?”

“Yes. And if you’d just open your mind—”

“I don’t need therapy.”

“The simple fact that you’re not willing to jump on this opportunity that would change your entire life would suggest otherwise.”

“Sounds like you’ve got my life all figured out.”

“Only because I’ve been right where you are,” he says. “I’m just telling you what’s gotten me to where I am, man. My fear of failure kept me from advancing. From reaching my dreams. But I’m telling you, the only real failure, the only true failure, is doing nothing, man.”

I pull another beer out of the cooler, twist the cap off, and take another drink, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. Intellectually, I know he’s right. I get it. But there are some lines we shouldn’t be willing to cross. Some sacrifices we shouldn’t be willing to make. And there are some prices we shouldn’t be willing to pay simply because the true cost really is too high.

But the thought of having everything I ever wanted tickles the back of my mind. I’d be lying if I said the thought of not having to struggle just to get by, of having to decide between paying the rent or paying the electricity bill, of having to eat ramen for another week because I can’t afford anything else, wasn’t attractive. But that life comes at a cost. It will require me to step outside my comfort zone and make sacrifices I never thought I’d have to make.

The wind soughs through the branches of the soaring pines all around us, making a low, moaning sound that chills me to the core. My heart races and I blot my palms on my jeans. The sound of leaves shuffling and twigs cracking echoes all around us. Brian doesn’t seem to notice. But I do. I know what’s out there.

“I’m telling you, if you don’t put your fear aside and take this chance, you are going to regret it for the rest of your life,” Brian says. “You literally have nothing to lose.”

“And like I told you, I’ve got more to lose than you think.”

“If you keep thinking like that, you’re never going anywhere,” he says. “You’re going to be stuck in the same shitty apartment, scratching to get by month after month. But eventually, you’re going to fall off that edge and then what? What will you do then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you want more? Don’t you want better for yourself?”

“Of course I do. I'm just not sure this is the way to get it.”

“The only way you’re going to get it is to grab hold of it. To be willing to sacrifice for it. To pay whatever price you think needs to be paid.”

The anger is rising in me like a dark tide, and I shake my head.
“Just leave it. I didn’t come out here to be lectured, man.”

“No, it sounds to me like you came out here to whine and complain about your situation instead of fixing it. Just like always,” he fires back.

“Just leave it alone.”

“I won’t, man. I can’t.”

“I’m telling you, just leave it alone—”

“You have a way to fix your problems.”

“Which will only create more problems.”

Brian glares at me. “So, you’re happy to live your life this way? You’re satisfied being… this?”

“And what is this?” I growl.

“A fucking loser, man,” he said. “There. I said it. Your life is pathetic and you’re a loser. Having the ability to change your life and doing nothing about it because you’re scared makes you an even bigger loser.”

I jump to my feet, my face red, my heart hammering in my chest as adrenaline and rage surge through me. My vision blurs as tears well in my eyes and my breath quickens.

“You know what? You’re right, Brian. I am a loser,” I say. “But that’s going to change. I’m going make the sacrifice I need to change my life. And I’m going to do it right now.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

“I accept your terms,” I call into the darkness. “I’ll make the deal.”

"What the hell?" he asks.

A black mist, as dark as the heavens above, flows out of the trees. Brian gets to his feet, his eyes wide, his features etched with alarm. It slithers along the ground like a living being, circling around his ankles and slowly starts to move up his legs. He’s trying to move but can’t. It’s like he’s stuck in wet cement and he pales as an expression of panic crosses his face.

“What the hell?” Brian gasps as he turns to me. “What’s happening?”

“I’m making the sacrifice necessary to change my life,” I say. “I’m finally doing something, Brian. Just like you always tell me I should.”

Brian is lost in darkness as the mist envelops him from head to toe. His shrieks of agony ring out, echoing through the trees around us. I want to turn away but can’t. I thankfully can’t see through the mist that’s wrapped itself around him, but Brian screams as if his flesh is being pulled off his body. Tears stream down my face.

Brian’s screams taper off and the mist dissolves. For just a moment, Brian’s skeleton is left standing, as if it’s alive. But then it collapses into a pile of clean, white bones. I fall to my knees and bury my face in my hands as I sob. His presence is like a heavy weight pressing down on me and when I pull my hands away and turn my face up to him, the man is smiling at me.

The man is wearing the same black three-piece suit he was in when he approached me in the bar and offered me the deal. For the bargain bin price of the soul of somebody who means something to me, I will never know want again. I will have wealth, women, and whatever I could possibly want whenever I want it.

“So,” the man says cheerily. “Are you ready to begin your life anew?”

I get to my feet and wipe the tears from my face. The waves of nausea that have been battering me finally begin to ebb and a cold calm settles over me. I’ve finally done something and changed my life. I will never want for anything again.

“Yes,” I reply. “I am.”

“This is stupid. Is this what they pay you for? To do arts and crafts?”

He chuckles softly. “In a sense, I suppose. I prefer to think of it as giving our hands something to do while we talk. Creativity has a way of freeing our minds.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Give it a try. What do you have to lose? It's not like you're going anywhere. Consider it a way to pass the time.”

I run the tips of my fingers across the edges of the shards of ceramic pottery in front of me. It’s rough in some spots, smooth in others. I sigh and glance at the clock, silently counting down the minutes until this is over.

“You realize this isn’t over until I say it’s over, don’t you?” he asks pleasantly. “We’re on my time in here. Not yours.”

I roll my eyes. “You enjoy the power trip, don’t you?”

He gestures to the pieces on the table in front of me. “Give it a shot.”

“The only way out is through, huh?”

“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.”

Taking two pieces that appear to fit together, I dab the brush into the pot beside me and begin to spread a thick layer over the jagged edges. Surprisingly, I lose myself in the work, taking care to not spread too much or make the layer too thick. Doing everything I can to make it all just right. To make it all perfect.

“Good,” he says. “Now, tell me about the first memory that pops into your mind.”

* * * * *

A smile on my face, pride and excitement coursing through my veins, I run home. Finding my father in his usual spot—in the recliner, beer in hand, in front of the TV—I thrust my report card into his hands. Bouncing on my heels, I’m beaming, waiting to bask in the praise I’m sure is about to be lavished upon me.

“You got a B in math,” he says.

“I struggle with math,” I reply. “But it was almost an A.”

“Almost an A is not the same as getting an A.”

“But I got A’s in all my other classes.”

“And a B in math.”

“But—”

“Are you stupid or something? Is that it?”

“I’m not stupid?”

“You must be if you can’t manage an A in math.”

“But—”

“Get out of my sight. You disgust me.”

He crumples my report card in his hand and throws it to the ground. Fighting off the tears, I stare at the balled up piece paper at my feet. Wiping my eyes, I pick it up and slink away, feeling the first cracks appearing in my soul.

* * * * *

“What made you think of that memory?”

I shake my head. “It was the first one that popped into my head.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I have no idea.”

“You have to have some idea.”

I sigh and clench my jaw. “You told me to tell you the first memory that popped into my head. I did. Does it have to have some deeper meaning?”

“In my experience, it usually does.”

“Yeah, well, your experience isn’t my experience.”

“That’s fair,” he says. “But tell me this, why did you do what you did? What I mean—”

“I know what you mean. And I don’t know.”

“You surely have some idea.”

“I don’t. All right? I don’t fucking know.”

“All right. We’ll circle back to that later.”

I line the pieces in my hand up like a jigsaw puzzle then run my brush along the edges, taking care with the ceramic.

“Give me another memory.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the only way we’re going to understand what happened.”

“I don’t want to understand.”

“You need to stop running from it.”

I ignore him and focus on the project in my hands instead, taking care with the details, making sure to get it right. As I do though, my mind rebels and completely against my will, sends me hurtling into the past…

* * * * *

The crowd is going bananas and their cheering rings in my ears as I stand in the endzone with a wide smile on my face. A moment later, I’m mobbed by my teammates as we celebrate our go-ahead score—a touchdown that pretty much cemented the win. It’s my first score and having it come in the biggest game of the season makes it that much more meaningful.

Carrying the ball under my arm—I’m keeping this thing—I trot back to the sideline to Coach Greene who’s waiting for me. Expecting a high-five or an atta-boy, I’m left stunned when he slaps the ball out of my hands and leans close, sneering at me.

“What the fuck was that?” he growls.

“A touchdown?”

“Don’t get cute with me. You were supposed to hit the A-gap not bounce it outside,” he hisses. “That’s not the play I called.”

“Coach, the gap was filled. If I’d tried to run the gap, I’d have lost a yard—”

His face is red as he glares at me. “Are you stupid?”

“No. I just thought—”

“No, you didn’t think. If you’d gotten caught in the backfield, you’d have taken us out of field goal range. If you’d fumbled—”

“But I didn’t fumble. I scored—”

He seizes my face mask and shakes my head wildly. “That’s not the goddamn point. I gave you an order, but you decided to do whatever the fuck you wanted to do.”

“Coach—”

“Details matter, son. Doing what you’re told matters,” he screams in my face. “This is my team, and you do what I say.”

I roll my eyes, which earns me a slap to the side of the helmet so hard my ears start ringing. Still gripping my facemask, Coach Greene yanks my head down and smacks my earhole again, making that ringing louder. But then he pushes me away.

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” he growls. “You make me sick, son.”

My head spinning and my ears still ringing, I walk to the end of the bench where I’ve been exiled and will spend the rest of the game. What should have been my moment of triumph sours like spoiled milk, those cracks inside me growing wider.

* * * * *

“What made you think of that?”

I shrug. “Don’t know.”

“Think about it.”

“I’m busy.”

The pieces I’m working with are small and delicate and I’m having trouble getting them to line up. I grit my teeth and try again. But still, the pieces won’t line up perfectly.

“Goddammit,” I growl.

Frustration running through me, I raise my first, determined to smash these fucking ceramic pieces to bits.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I’m going to make you keep doing this. And if you break those, the pieces you're going to be left iwth will be a lot smaller and harder to manipulate. Actions have consequences.”

“Why am I even doing this?”

“It’s an exercise. And if you just bear with me a bit longer, you’ll see it’s one with a point.”

“Whatever,” I mumble.

“Just keep working and tell me the next memory that comes to mind.”

* * * * *

“I just don’t think we’re good together. The chemistry just isn’t there.”

I stare at her blankly. “This was your idea.”

“I was wrong.”

My heart stutters and I can feel it breaking into ten thousand pieces as I search for the words. Search for a way to make her reconsider this. She reaches out to take my hand, but I recoil, snatching it away like she’s just scalded me. Her face darkens as she wipes away a tear that leaked from the corner of her eye.

“We’ve been so close for so long, I thought we’d be good together,” she says softly.

“We can be. We can work. Just give this a little more time. Give us a little—”

“It’s over,” she says softly. “There’s no sense in prolonging it.”

“Kel, please.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I wanted this to work. I just… it doesn’t feel like you’re engaged.”

My mind is screaming at me to tell her everything that's in my heart. To tell her I’ve loved her since I was fifteen years old. That she’s the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. The only woman I know I’ll ever love the way I love her—with my entire heart. To tell it’s fear holding me back. That it’s my fear of doing something wrong, of losing her, that’s making me keep a distance between us. That I’ve waited my entire life for this moment, to be with her, and now that I have her, I’m so fucking terrified, I can’t even breathe.

In the end, I say nothing. I never do. In the end, I simply break a little bit more.

* * * * *

“Why didn’t you fight for her?” he asks. “Don’t you think she was hoping you’d give her a reason to stay with you? Wanted to see you fight? To give her some spark of hope to cling to?”

I say nothing but my vision blurs and I have to wipe away the tears. Clearing my throat, I pick up the pieces I’m working with and try to ignore him. I just want to finish this stupid fucking project and get the fuck out of here.

“I can see it still hurts you, all these years later,” he says.

“It’s the adhesive. It’s stinging my eyes.”

“The longer you run from this, the deeper those cracks will go.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“I know that’s a lie.”

“You don’t know anything.”

He purses his lips. “So, educate me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“I just want to finish this so I can leave,” I say, arranging a few more pieces.

“Good. Keep working,” he says. “And while you do, tell me something more.”

I have no intention of saying a word. I don’t feel like I have anything more to say. He doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand. Nobody will. But my body betrays me once more. My mind continues spinning back in time and my mouth soon follows…

* * * * *

Thunder rumbles overhead and the rain taps a staccato beat against the window. I sit in the dark and stare at the wall. Meg Myers’ song “Motel,” comes up next on my playlist, filling the room with her powerful voice, her words punctuated with a pain that’s all too familiar…

“You’re weak. Broken in a motel. You blink. Tears are falling down. Down. Down. And you’re free. Free inside your own hell. You speak. Someone let me out…”

My cheeks are wet with tears, my heart and soul have finally shattered into a million pieces. I can’t say it’s been just one thing. It’s been death by a thousand cuts and I’ve finally reached my breaking point. I don’t see any way back from this. I’m tired. I’m spent. I’m done.

Popping the cap off the bottle in my hand, I tip it back and fill my mouth. Picking up the bottle of Jim Beam beside me, I wash them down, then repeat the process until both bottles are empty. My head is muzzy but for the first time in as long as I can remember, it’s quiet. I don’t hear the cacophony of voices that have been a constant companion throughout my life. The host of voices that tell me I’m not smart enough.

Not dedicated enough.

Not disciplined enough.

Not good enough.

Not… enough.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I hear nothing. It’s peaceful and for the first time since I was a kid, I feel my entire body relax. It feels good. Laying back, I close my eyes and enjoy the silence…

* * * * *

“I couldn’t even do that right,” I mutter.

A small smile touches the corners of my mouth as I put the last piece in place, finishing this stupid project. I push it to the middle of the table and sit back.

“Done,” I say.

He nods then glances at his notebook and looks up at me. “Your friend found you. Said she got worried when you weren’t returning her texts.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Do you know how many calls and emails I’ve received from your friends asking about you and how you’re doing?”

I shrug. “Don’t know.”

“Quite a few,” he says. “Do you know what that tells me?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me."

“It tells me that despite what those voices in your head tell you, you are enough. That you have people in your life who care about you who see you as good enough. As worthy of their love and their friendship,” he replies.

“Maybe they should be in here having their heads examined.”

“The fact that you downplay those who care about you while fixating on the negative memories in your life is telling,” he says. “You see yourself as broken. Perhaps beyond repair.”

“That sounds about right.”

He points to the deep blue ceramic bowl sitting on the table. “This was broken too.”

I hadn’t noticed it before, but the adhesive I’d been using to glue the pieces back together left long, thin, spiderwebbing veins of gold across the surface. The fractures are still clear, but it’s been pieced back together and made whole again. It’s strangely beautiful.

I give him a wry grin. “An arts and crafts project with a purpose.”

He nods. “Exactly. And the point of his project is to show you that life is imperfect and it can break you in ten thousand ways,” he says. “But if you accept that fact, if you embrace the imperfections, you can still build something beautiful from all the broken pieces.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. But instead of giving up, if you accept the imperfections, put in the work, and put all the pieces together, it can be worth it. You can make something beautiful.”

I sit back in my chair and stare at the bowl, my eyes traveling the long, thin threads of gold that run along the smooth, curved surface. My lips curl in a small smile as I reach out and gently slide the bowl back to my side of the table.

“Can I keep this?”

Your mom says she’s sorry and knows it’s her fault things are so screwed up. But she misses you and really wants to see you. Will you come spend Thanksgiving with us?

And here we fucking go. Again.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

For many, the holidays are a time of tremendous joy. Of love and family. Of laughter. Many embrace the notions of peace on Earth and goodwill toward your fellow human. Many believe it is a time you should forgive past transgressions, wipe the slate clean, begin anew, and the host of other happy-happy-joy-joy bullshit that gets crammed down our throats this time of year. For many, the holidays represent a time of hope.

It’s a nice concept. It’s a beautiful idea. But for many of us, the holidays are nothing more than empty platitudes no more substantial than rice cakes, putting a smile on your face you hope doesn’t look too fake, and praying you can make it through the day without snapping so hard, you end up catching a fucking charge. Nothing ruins the holidays quite like spending the night in a holding cell. Or so I’ve heard.

As I sit here, contemplating the text from my dad, I can’t help but think about how many times I’ve read the same exact words. How many times she’s expressed her regrets, her profound sorrow, her love, and her vow to change. Every year, I’m promised that things will be different and that we’ll spend a good day together, as a family. And every year, nothing changes.

“You need to decide.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think anybody will blame you for not going.”

“I don’t think anybody will either.”

“But?”

“It’s not about what anybody else will think.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“It’s about what I think.”

“Which is?”

That’s the trouble, I don’t know what I think, which I realize, is probably stupid. After so many years of enduring the same cycle of hope-disappointment-anger you’d think I’d have figured it out by now. If only everything was so simple. If only everything was so black and white. If only I could remove emotion and my own lifelong issues from the equation, it would make things a hell of a lot easier.

“And what do you think?”

“I have no fucking idea.”

All I’ve ever wanted is to have a normal, loving family. All I’ve ever wanted is to have the sort of family you see in goddamn Hallmark Channel holiday movies. I’ve spent my life silently jealous of my friends who genuinely enjoy spending the holidays with their families. Seeing how the love and happiness shared among their family feeds and nourishes their soul only serves to remind me how fucking anorexic mine is in comparison.

Time and experience have blunted my expectations, though. They’ve taught me I’m never actually going to have what I’ve spent my entire life wanting. And as a result, I’ve found myself willing to accept less. I’ve become willing to settle.

Despite desiring it with all my heart and soul, I no longer need the Norman fucking Rockwell kind of family. I don’t need Leave it to Beaver or the Brady Bunch. But enjoying a holiday with a family less dysfunctional than the Gallagher clan on that show, Shameless, would be a nice fucking change of pace.

“You could skip it this year.”

“I could.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I should.”

I can’t recall a time in my life when the holidays were the source of joy so many believe them to be. I’ve never known a time when I felt peace or any sense of goodwill. It hit me a couple of years ago that our presence during the holidays is less about wanting us to be together as a family and mostly about wanting her to feel better about things. Allowing her to pretend, if only for a day, that we’re a loving family. That we’re normal and just like everybody else.

This isn’t about wiping the slate clean and starting anew. This isn’t about coming together as a family to share a day of joy, laughter, peace, and goodwill. No, this is about nothing more than making her feel okay and finding yet another way to excuse her behavior.

“What if you told them you’ll only come if she behaves herself?”
“I’ve tried that. It never works.”

She usually manages to hold it together for the first few hours. Just long enough for me to think that maybe, just maybe, things will be different this year. At some point though, she’ll inevitably slip out of the room and take a nip or two. It’s just to take the edge off, she likes to say. After she starts down that slippery slope though, it’s not long before everything goes off the fucking rails.

“Why don’t you just tell them no? Why not just tell them you don’t want to deal with her bullshit this year?”

“I should.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“It’s complicated.”

It shouldn’t be. Given her track record, I already know what’s going to happen. But there’s that stubborn, stupid piece of me that keeps hoping things will be different this year. That stubborn, stupid piece of me that wants to believe she’ll actually keep her shit together. That stubborn, stupid piece of me that desperately wants a normal, loving family. That wants to feel that sense of joy and love I used to see on the faces of my friends when they were with their families.

I’ve tried to kill that piece of me. Tried to rip it out by the roots and accept the fact that I’ll never have that. I’ve tried to learn to accept what we are and find enjoyment in the small moments, which, to be fair, we do have every now and then. Moments. They’re fleeting and they never last long, but there are moments when I feel something akin to the sort of joy my friends must feel. The sort of love I’ve craved since I was a kid. But no matter how ruthlessly I tear those stupid desires out, they grow back like fucking weeds.

“So? What are you going to do?”

I stare at my phone, reading my dad’s all-too-familiar words. I sometimes wonder if he just keeps it in his draft folder to send every single year like the kind of generic and impersonal Christmas card you send to distant relations or random acquaintances you’re not particularly close to.

“Well?”

“I don’t know.”

Spending the holidays with them and expecting anything to be different is a fool’s errand. I’ve been down that road far too many times already to actually believe otherwise. My mother’s drinking ruins everything. It’s difficult enough to break the bonds of addiction, but it’s even harder when you don’t even try. And outside of the few hours in the morning she manages to hold it together, my mother has never really tried.

Once she starts getting sloppy, things tend to deteriorate quickly. That leads to the annual holiday blowout, which then leads to months of radio silence, which then becomes the fucking text message I’m reading right now. It’s every bit as inevitable and predictable as the sun rising in the east. Any sane person would avoid the drama, frustration, and heartache, pull the covers over their head, ignore the world, and sleep the holidays away.

“But that’s not you, is it?”

“I wish it was.”

“You’re part of the problem. By showing up every year, you’re showing her there are no consequences for her actions. You’re enabling her.”

“I know.”

“And all you’re doing is hurting yourself.”

“I know that too.”

“She cares more about her bottle than anything else. Her addiction is holding her tight.”

“Yeah.”

“You know where this goes. Why are you letting yourself get caught up in all this nonsense?”

“I don’t know.”

My jaw clenched and feeling an uncommon surge of strength, I start typing out a reply. I love you both, but don’t want to do this again. I’m going to pass…

“Finish your message. You’re almost there.”

I stare at the blinking cursor, reading the beginning of my reply. As I do, I imagine the hurt they’re going to feel. I imagine the tears my mom will shed and feel a stab of guilt so intense it takes my breath away.

With a sigh, I delete my message and quickly type out a new one.

I’ll be there by noon. See you then.

“Well, I guess that’s that.”

“Maybe this year will be different.”

“Maybe.”

“This is the season of hope, after all. Right?”

Kyra ran her fingers along the cold, steel bars that separated her from the world beyond. Snowcapped peaks jutted into a dull gray sky. In the distance, lighting flashed but she couldn’t hear the rumble of thunder through the inch-thick pane of plexiglass behind the steel bars.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit the inside of her cheek viciously to keep them from falling. Showing weakness would be the end of her.

"Stop it. Pull your shit together," she murmured to herself.

She ran her fingers through her ash-blonde hair, grimacing at how limp and greasy it felt. She felt like she hadn’t had a proper shower in weeks. It was just one more indignity on top of the massive and unrelenting pile of indignities she’d already been forced to suffer.

“It’s not going to get any closer, no matter how long you stare at it.”

Kyra turned to see a tall, stout woman with short black hair and dark eyes staring back at her, a small smile on her thin bow-shaped lips. She was new to the pod.

“What?”

“Your freedom,” she said. “You can stare out the window all you like but it’s not going to get any closer.”

Kyra rolled her eyes. “Great. Thanks.”

The newcomer sat at the table beside her. Kyra sighed.

“I’m Stacy.”

“I’m not really looking for company, Stacy” she said.

“Yeah, they said you were kind of a loner.”

Kyra said nothing since it was true. She’d been in that particular pod for a little over a year and hadn’t said much of anything to anybody. She wasn’t there to make friends.

“How much longer you got?” Stacy pressed.

“I’m not in the mood for a chat. No offense.”

“Hey, having a friend in here, somebody you can talk to, can make the time go faster,” she pressed. “Can make it not so lonely too.”

“Maybe I’m not interested in making a friend.”

“Maybe I’m selfish and need somebody to talk to.”

“Then go talk to one of the others.”

She waved them off. “They’re idiots. You seem interesting. I only like talking to people who seem interesting and like they’ve got a story to tell.”

“What makes you think I have a story to tell?”

“Because I’ve got a sixth sense about these things. It’s my superpower.”

A wry chuckle burst from Kyra’s mouth despite herself.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but everybody in this pod is just a variation of the same story. We’re all here for the same thing. Just like you.”

“Maybe, but you look more interesting than they do.”

Kyra shook her head, a bitter laugh bursting from her mouth. And as her eyes stung with tears, she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough that the coppery taste of her own blood filled her mouth.

“So, what’s your story?” Stacy pressed. “How did you end up here?”

Talking to people and sharing her story wasn’t something Kyra had even intended to do. She’d been content to quietly do her time with the hope that one day, she’d get out and be able to live her life. There was something about Stacy though, that made her want to talk. To open up and share with her if for no other reason than to lessen the weight on her heart.

“Douglas Adams. I ended up here because of Douglas Adams,” Kyra finally said.

“Who? Is that your boyfriend?”

A sad smile touched her lips. “No. He’s a writer.”

Stacy looked at her with a confused expression on her face. Kyra didn’t notice though. Her mind was already plummeting down the rabbit hole, pulling her back in time…

* * * * *

“The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul. That’s a good one. I’ve read it like a hundred times,” he said. “But I’m still partial to Hitchhiker’s Guide.”

Kyra looked up from her book to see a tall, lanky boy with shaggy blond hair and warm blue eyes standing over her with a small smile on his lips. She was new to the school and had no friends yet, so she’d contented herself at lunchtime by reading a book. It was fine. She had always been self-contained and never needed a lot of friends.

He was the first person who’d spoken to her, and it made her feel good. Especially since he seemed, like her, to be a fan of reading. It was something that seemed rare in kids her age anymore.

“I like Adams’ absurdist humor,” she said.

The boy gestured to the patch of grass beside her. “May I?”

“Sure.”

“I’m Toby,” he said.

“Kyra.”

“Nice to meet you,” he replied and pulled a book out of his backpack and handed it to her. “If you like Adams, I think you’d like this one.”

“Starship Grifters,” she read the cover. “I’ve never heard of Robert Kroese before.”

“If you like Adams’ humor, you’ll love this one.”

Kyra smiled and flipped through the book, happy to have made her first friend.

* * * * *

For the next two years, Kyra and Toby were the best of friends. They spent just about every waking moment together, laughing, talking, sharing their books and secrets with one another. Kyra had moved around so much in life that she’d never had a best friend. Not until Toby.

“Hey,” he said.

Toby just walked in like he lived there. Which, he practically did. Kyra’s parents considered him part of their family. He was the son they’d never had. He dropped onto the couch beside her.

“Where are your folks?” he asked.

“Out of town for a couple of days.”

“Oh, that’s right. Your mom told me they had a wedding or something?”

Kyra nodded. “Yeah, some long lost relative or something.”
“What are you doing?”

“Finishing up my applications,” she replied. “I’m shooting for the moon and am applying to Harvard and Yale.”

“Well, you’ve got the grades. They’d be idiots not to take you.”

“Thanks.”

Toby had already gotten into Stanford—and every other college he’d applied to. She was proud of him but also sad that she was going to be losing her best friend to a school on the other side of the country. Kyra hit send on the application then set her computer aside and turned to him to find Toby looking back at her with a strange look on his face.

“What is it? Are you okay?” she asked.

He swallowed hard then took her hand in his. “Kyra…”

His voice trailed off and he looked down at their hands.

“Toby, what’s wrong? You’re freaking me out right now.”

He clenched his jaw and held her gaze. “Kyra, I love you.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach and her throat grew dry. She stared at him for a long moment, unable to speak, unable to move. They’d told each other they loved one another hundreds of times. But there was something in his eyes, in the intensity of his voice that told Kyra this wasn’t the friendly “I love you,” they’d shared so many times before. This was something else.

She licked her lips, her heart quivering with fear. She knew what he wanted her to say. She knew what he wanted to hear. Knew that he wanted her to validate his feelings by telling him she felt the same way. But she didn’t.

“Did you hear me, Kyra?” he pressed, his grip on her hand tightening. “I love you. I want us to be together. I want you to come to Stanford with me and—”

“Toby, you know I love you,” she said quietly. “I just… you’re my friend.”

He recoiled like she’d slapped him as his face drained of color, the meaning of her words clear. She winced and let out a soft gasp as he squeezed her hand.

“Toby, you’re hurting me,” she said.

He looked down at her hand and for a moment, didn’t move. But then he let go and shot to his feet. He stared at her like she’d betrayed him then turned and ran out of the house, slamming the door behind him. Kyra sat alone in the sudden silence of the house, haunted by the look of pain on her best friend’s face.

* * * * *

Kyra sat in the corner, her arms wrapped around knees she’d drawn up to her chest protectively. Her lips quivered and tears streamed down her face. Her clothes were torn, her body bruised, and she hurt in ways she never thought she could. The insides of her thighs were slick with her blood and his spunk.

As bad as her body ached, the physical pain wasn’t the worst of it. The pain in her heart and soul was intense, threatening to send her over the edge into madness. Toby sat on the edge of her bed staring down at his hands, a look of stunned disbelief on his face.

It took a few months for him to get over her rejection. And even when they did start talking then hanging out together again, it wasn’t the same. Their reunion was tense and tentative. Things between them had shifted and Kyra could tell he still carried the burden of his pain. He tried to hide it, but she knew him better than anybody and knew he was still hurting.

But they’d been through so much together and meant so much to each other, Kyra believed he would eventually heal and that being in each other’s lives, if only as friends, was better than not. She thought he believed that too. Kyra touched her lip and winced at the pain and when her fingertips came away red with her blood, she saw now just how naïve she’d been.

“Why?” she asked, her voice trembling as hard as her body. “Why did you do this to me?”

He turned to her, his face suddenly expressionless. “Because I love you, Kyra.”

“This isn’t what you do to somebody you love.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

“Get out of my house,” she hissed. “I never want to see you again, Toby.”

His face hardened and his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. He got to his feet though and quickly zipped up his pants and fastened his belt.

“This doesn’t change the fact that I love you,” he growled. “And that you’re mine. You will always be mine. Always.”

A sudden burst of rage filling her, Kyra grabbed the first thing her hands found—a snow globe—and hurled it at him. He ducked and it shattered against the far wall. But he did as she’d asked and left. Left alone in the oppressive silence of her room, Kyra pressed her hands to her face and sobbed.

* * * * *

“Kyra Marks?”

She looked up to see a kindly woman wearing scrubs standing in the doorway. She gave Kyra an encouraging smile and a nod.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Kyra turned to her mother. “Yes.”

“You know what will happen if—”

“I want to do this. I need to do this.”

Her mother looked terrified, so Kyra gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She stood up and followed the nurse through the doorway. She turned and gave her mom one last look as the door was closing behind her.

“I love you,” she mouthed.

A couple of hours later, she was on her feet again and walking out of the clinic with her mother. As she opened the door, the bright afternoon light was almost blinding. Kyra held her hand up to block the light only to see half a dozen men in black tactical gear holding ferocious looking weapons standing before her.

A woman in black slacks with a white blouse beneath a windbreaker that bore a silver star on the breast stepped out from behind the men. She stared at Kyra like she was the lowest, most contemptible creature on the planet.

Kyra's mother moved to shield her, but the men in black moved first, pulling her away from Kyra. She screamed and fought but Kyra’s heart sunk, and she fell to her knees. Her mother’s shrill screaming rang in her ears as the woman in the windbreaker stood over her.

“Kyra Marks, you are under arrest for violating the Right to Life Act of 2025.”

* * * * *

“I don't know how they knew about the clinic--it was supposedly off the grid. They said they got tipped off and that’s how I ended up here,” Kyra said. “Same as you, I suspect.”

Stacy nodded. “Yeah, about the same.”

“I was sentenced to thirty-five years for murder.”

“Same.”

“And do you know what kills me the most?”

“Tell me.”

“Toby got a year of probation for raping me,” she said. “The judge said he came from a good family and had a bright future he didn’t want to see derailed because of an immature, childish mistake. In fact, he chastised me for leading him on.”

"That's some shit," Stacy said. "But it's a man's world out there now, babe."

Stacy lowered her gaze and shook her head. Familiar waves of nausea washed over her as she remembered every last detail from Toby’s trial—and then hers. The hard bang of the judge rapping his gavel after he sentenced her echoed in her ears, loud as a gunshot.

“Do you know what the judge said after he sentenced me?” Kyra said, unable to stop talking now that she’d started.

“What?”

“Welcome to the new world.”

Before she could go on, the buzzer echoed through the pod, signaling it was time to return to their cells. Kyra offered Stacy a small as the woman patted her on the shoulder. She had to admit, it felt good to unburden herself. To get that all off her chest for the first time. Perhaps she could make a friend in prison after all.

As she walked into her cell and the door slammed shut behind her with a sound that reminded her of the judge’s gavel falling, Kyra noticed a small box sitting on her bed. She sat down and set it in her lap as she opened it. When she got the lid off, she cried out and let the box fall to the floor, spilling the contents inside across the floor. She covered her mouth with her hand and started to cry.

On the floor was a copy of Douglas Adams’ book, The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul, with a handwritten note that read, “Thinking of you. Miss you. Always mine, always yours, Toby.”

“What do you say to those people who call you an artistic genius?”

He glanced at the green light on the small recorder in her long, elegant fingers that had been expertly manicured, her nails a deep, enticing shade of red. A small smile touched the corners of the man’s lips, and he looked down at the camera in his hands. Putting on his best face of humility, he turned to her.

“I’m not a genius. I’m just bold enough to be my true, authentic self,” he replied and gestured to his camera. “And through this lens, I show other people their authentic selves as well. My work has resonated with some. If they want to call me a genius, so be it. I don’t let myself get wrapped up in labels or really, the opinions of others. I just like to work.”

He watched her walk around his studio, studying the photos on the walls. He liked what he was seeing. He’d chosen well. Tall and lean but shapely, she had golden-blonde hair in a loose tail that fell to the middle of her back, eyes such a light shade of blue they were almost silver, and classic Hollywood features, she was a stunner. She would look incredible on film. He'd known that from the start.

“Has anybody ever told you that you look like Greta Garbo?”

She turned to him and scoffed. “No.”

“You do. It’s mostly in the eyes,” he said. “But you share similar facial structures as well. I’m serious, you really remind me of Garbo.”

Her laughter rang through the studio. It was a pleasant sound. Her eyes sparkled and she gave him a look that said she knew she was a beautiful woman but out of social propriety, needed to pretend she wasn’t, putting on a false humility. She wasn’t being her true self.

“I’d love to shoot you,” he said and held up his camera.

“Flattering,” she said. “But I’m here to write a profile on you, not be your subject.”

“Can’t we do both?”

She laughed again as she stopped to inspect a series of photos he’d shot of the homeless. The “Hopeless” series shined a bright spotlight on the plight of the city’s most vulnerable and had been widely praised by social justice advocates.

His series, twelve photographs in all, had been what catapulted him into a rarified artistic air. It had provided him with enough attention that made him a minor celebrity. Actual celebrities—A-listers— and other do-gooders who advocated for the poor and other social justice programs had lined up to take pictures with him.

His subsequent work had launched him into the stratosphere. He’d won awards and earned him a shitload of money. He wasn’t a man who liked the spotlight. He shunned it, preferring to work behind his camera in the shadows on the periphery. He didn’t like having attention drawn to him.

But he had to admit, celebrity had his privileges. Opportunities. And paradoxically, he’d found that the more eyes he had on him, the less people actually saw him. He was able to continue his work and live a life as his more authentic self.

“You would look fantastic on film,” he said. “Let me shoot you.”

She returned to the table and stood on the other side of it, studying him closely for a long moment, a playful smile flickering across her lips.

“My editor would be appalled if I posed for you.”

“Your editor wouldn’t have to know.”

“Pictures for your private collection, huh? That doesn’t sound like a perverted come on line or anything,” she teased.

“Nothing like that. This isn’t a boudoir shoot,” he said. “I’m talking about letting me get your authentic self on film. Yes, I’d like to hang your pictures in my gallery when we’re done, but they’re mostly for you. I think you need to see who you really are.”

“And what makes you think I don’t already know?”

He looked deeply into her icy blue eyes. “I can tell. You’ve never really seen your true self. It’s almost like you’re hiding from it.”

“Oh, you’re a psychologist now? A philosopher perhaps?”

He shook his head. “I just know people. I’ve seen the eyes of so many people I’ve learned to see who truly knows themselves… and who doesn’t,” he said. “That’s my gift. I guess, that’s what you’d call my genius.”

“Your ability to see people for who they are?”

“And for being able to show them who they really are.”

“Is that so?” she asked, sounding amused.

“Let me shoot you. I’ll show you.”

“I’m a reporter, not a model,” she said simply. “And my current assignment is to write a profile on you.”

“I think you missed your calling.”

She laughed. “Now that is a terrible come on line.”

“Probably,” the man shrugged with a smile. “But my point still stands. You’re a beautiful woman and you would look amazing on film. Let me shoot you.”

Her expression was reluctant, and she shifted on her feet, feigning discomfort. It was all a mummery of modesty. She was like every other woman he’d shot before in that regard. They all obeyed social norms that forced them to downplay their beauty. He’d known that from the moment he saw her a couple months ago. She had captivated him from the start, and he knew, in that way he always did, that she would be a fantastic addition to his collection. The moment he’d laid eyes on her, he knew he had to have her. That he would have her.

Her being there, in his studio, working on a profile hadn’t been her idea. Nor was it coincidence. It was all part of a carefully coordinated dance he’d put into motion the second she’d caught his eye. He knew she was scratching and clawing to get some attention at the magazine she worked for. Her editor didn’t know she was there, nor did he know she was interviewing him. But he knew she hoped to make a splash by interviewing him since he never gave interviews. She hoped it would be a splash big enough to move her up a rung on the ladder.

She was all blind ambition. Her career was the most, perhaps only, thing that mattered to her. But he believed it was only when you combined ambition with a true knowledge of who you were that you could ascend to the top of the heap. That you could be considered—as crude as he found the word—a genius.

“What do you say?” he asked. “Let me show you who you really are.”

“Think you can?”

“Absolutely,” he replied and motioned to all the framed photos hanging on the walls of his studio. “It’s what I do.”

Her eyes drifted from photo to photo, an expression of appreciation mixed with a touch of admiration upon her face. Deep down, people wanted to know themselves. Truly know themselves. She was no different. But most people didn’t have the courage or strength to look deep inside themselves and not flinch. Most turned away and refused to see the truth. He helped them overcome that fear to get to the truth of things. He would help her.

She turned back to him, a small smile curling the corners of her heart-shaped lips. “Let’s do it. Show me what you see.”

“Excellent.”

He watched her long, lithe body moving, his mind and heart racing as he allowed himself to imagine what was to come. She switched off her recorder and dropped it into the pocket of her blazer as she walked to the sideboard in the corner of his studio. His gaze traveled the length of her body and he licked his lips as he drank her in from head to toe.

As if she felt his gaze on her, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled but said nothing. Instead, she finished pouring them both a drink then returned to the table where he stood and put one of the glasses of scotch down in front of him. A nervous, almost shy smile crossed her lips and she lowered her gaze demurely. It was all an act, but she was perfect in a thousand ways.

“I’m not used to being the center of attention. I’m not comfortable with it,” she said softly and raised the glass. “I need a little liquid courage.”

It was self-deception, proving she had never seen her true and authentic self. A woman as beautiful as her was surely used to garnering attention. To claim that she wasn't was just more false humility. He offered her a reassuring smile.

“I get it,” he said and raised his glass and tapped it against hers. “To seeing your true self.”

“To genius,” she replied.

After swallowing her drink, she walked over to the sideboard and grabbed the bottle, returning to the table and refilling their glasses.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m a little nervous.”

“Take your time,” he replied. “But you’re worrying for nothing. Everything is going to be fine. I promise you that when we’re done, you’re going to feel… free. Unburdened.”

They made small talk over a few more drinks as he tried to put her mind at ease and get her to relax. She told him about her childhood, about her ambitions, and about whatever else came to mind. He could tell the liquor was starting to loosen her up. That was good. It was almost time.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me get you over into my shooting room.”

She followed him into a room off the main studio floor. He closed the door behind them as she set her bag on the table and turned to him. He flipped on a few lights, looked around, then played with the lighting until he was satisfied. The room was dim and had a moody feel. It was perfect.

“Where do you want me?” she asked.

“Over here.”

He sat her down on a stool in front of a drab gray cloth backdrop. The man walked back to the table and picked up a camera, looking at her through the lens for a moment before walking back over and positioning her body how he wanted her.

“Okay, don’t move,” he said.

He snapped a few pictures from various angles, repositioned her, then took a few more. As he walked back to the table, he started to feel lightheaded. His vision began to waver, and a strange numbness spread through his limbs.

“What the fuck?”

He turned around and flinched when he found the woman standing right behind him, her icy blue eyes boring into his and a cruel little smirk on her lips. She held a small brown, glass bottle up for him to see.

“Doxacurium,” she said. “That’s what you use, right?”

He opened his mouth to reply but found that he couldn’t. His legs buckled and the man felt like he was falling from a great height. And just before his world went black, her voice boomed and echoed around in his head like she’d shouted into a loudspeaker.

“Let me show you my true, authentic self.”

His eyes fluttered then opened and he drew a long, sharp breath as if he’d been trapped beneath the water. His throat was dry, and his heart raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. Fragmented images passed through his mind, the most lasting being that of the woman, the reporter, standing so close to him he could smell the scotch on her breath as she brandished the small brown glass bottle. The memory of her predatory smile sent a cold chill washing through him.

He had no idea how long he’d been out. But if she dosed him with Doxacurium, it had probably been hours. How had she known? What in the hell was going on? When he sat up, he heard the rattle and clank of the chains that bound his wrists and ankles—the wall shackles behind the gray backdrop in his shooting room.

He wasn’t a fearful man, but for the first time, perhaps in his entire life, he hovered on the verge of panic.

“What the fuck?”

The lights turned on with an audible snap that was as loud as a gunshot, revealing the woman sitting on the stool just a few feet away from him. She still wore that enigmatic but disturbing little smile and had a glimmer in his eyes that made him shudder. He swallowed down his fear and shut off his emotion, forcing himself to relax. And to think.

“Who are you?” he asked as he tugged on the chains that bound him. “What is this about?”

She reached into her bag and pulled out what looked like a school picture and the blood in his veins turned to ice. The blonde in the photo had the same icy blue eyes as the woman who was staring at him. Of course he knew the girl in the picture.

“I wonder, did you see her true self before you cut her into pieces?” she asked. “Or was it more a matter of making her see your true self? I mean, this is all about you, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I don’t know who that is.”

She sighed. “Let’s not play these games.”

He tugged on the chains again despite knowing they would not give.

“I don’t know who you think I am or what I did, but you’re wrong.”

She frowned and got to her feet. His heart dropped into his belly and his throat dried up when she pulled a familiar rolling tray over and picked up a photo album. His private portfolio. She silently flipped through the pages until she came to the section he knew she was looking for. She turned the portfolio around to show him.

“Still don’t know what I’m talking about?” she asked.

He looked at the photos of the blonde when she’d been chained up in the very spot he now sat. He looked at her wide eyes, noting the terror that had been etched into her features. Noting the pain as he'd worked on her. She’d been one of his latest subjects. In many ways, she’d been his best. He had enjoyed every minute he’d spent with her.

The next series of photos depicted the blonde in the hours before her death and the things he’d done to her. Photos that depicted every degradation and cruelty he’d inflicted upon her. The photos were so real. So raw. And even now, he could see the true essence of the girl shining through.

It had all been so satisfying. So gratifying. She had been his favorite subject to shoot and her series was among his best work. Even in his current position, the mere thought of the light leaving her eyes at the end of their session aroused him.

“She was my baby sister,” she said.

“Listen,” he said, quickly licking his dry, cracked lips. “I’m sorry—”

“Not yet. But you’re about to be.”

She set the photo album down and took her time, running the tips of her fingers across the variety of tools and knives he knew sat atop the table. He couldn't see them from his position but he knew every instrument up there. Intimately.

The woman picked up his camera and turned to him, the smile that stretched her lips turning his blood to ice.

“Now. Let’s see your true, authentic self,” she said. “Show me your genius.”

His eyes fluttered open and almost immediately, a thick wave of nausea swept over him. As the man got to his hands and knees, his stomach lurched, and he spewed a thick stream of vomit all over the floor in front of him. It splashed on concrete with a wet splash that turned his stomach ever more violently.

His head spun and he was having a hard time focusing. He felt… hungover. It made no sense. He didn’t remember drinking last night. Certainly not enough to be feeling this way.

“It’s the effects of whatever drugs he gave us.”

The voice cut through his consciousness like a knife, sending a rush of adrenaline through his veins. He got to his feet unsteadily, his legs shaking and his belly churning as he turned and faced the woman who’d spoken. Sitting slumped against the wall on the other side of the room, she was petite and plain looking. From her mousy brown hair to her dull hazel eyes, to her obviously off-the-rack clothing that was several years old, there was nothing remarkable about her. She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d ever grab his attention.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

“Stacy,” she replied. “Stacy Carpenter. And you?”

“Miles,” he replied. “What the fuck is going on here?”

She shrugged. “I woke up here, same as you.”

They were in a concrete room filled with old boxes and crates, stacks of newspapers, and other detritus. The lighting was dim, provided by a pair of cone lights, one at either end of the room, and the air smelled musty. Stale. His stomach starting to settle, Miles looked down and took stock of himself. His Rolex was still on his wrist, he felt the bulge of his wallet in his back pocket, and the ring his father had given him after graduating law school was still on his finger. Whatever was going on, it didn’t seem like robbery was the motive.

A low groan sounded from behind a stack of boxes and Miles watched as a dirty, disheveled man rose from behind them. He was dressed in a camouflage jacket and tattered blue jeans. His hair and beard were wild and unkempt and even from ten feet away, Miles could tell the man hadn’t seen a shower in weeks, if not months. He was obviously homeless. The bedraggled man stared at them both with wide eyes.

“Wh—what’s going on?” he asked.

“No idea,” Miles admitted. “Do either of you remember how you got here?”

Neither had an answer. Miles racked his brain, trying to recall what happened last night. He remembered he’d gone out to dinner with a client. After that, he’d walked out to his Bentley… things after that were hazy.

“Goddammit,” he muttered.

“We were drugged,” Stacy said.

“How do you know?”

She turned her head and pointed to the small red dot that marred the pale skin of her neck. An injection site. Miles touched his own neck and felt the raised bump that was still tender. He’d been injected with something, likely from behind as well.

“We need to get out of here,” the homeless man said.

He dashed to the heavy iron door at the far end of the room and pulled on the handle. it didn’t budge. The man pounded on it and screamed for help at the top of his lungs. Stacy had no reaction at all, and Miles guessed she’d already tried it. Breathing heavily, eyes wild and on the verge of panic, the homeless man turned back to them. Beads of sweat clung to his beard and dried, crusted snot ringed his nostrils. Miles grimaced, disgusted by the sight of the man.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. “Who the fuck are you people?”

Before anybody could say anything further though, a sharp squeal filled the air around them. Miles spun around and spotted a speaker mounted high on the wall and beside it, the red, blinking light of a camera. Somebody was watching.

“There are three of you in this room,” the voice issued from the speaker. “By the end of tonight, one of you will be dead.”

A cold chill swept through Miles as he looked at the other two. They looked just as scared and shocked as he felt.

“I do not care who or how, I will leave that up to you, but one of you must die” the disembodied voice continued. “You will have one hour to do it. If one of you is not dead by the time the clock hits zero, you will all be left in this room to die. And trust me when I say, nobody will ever find you down here.”

“Why are you doing this to us?” Stacy cried.

“Because I can,” was the answer.

“Fuck you, bro!” the homeless man shouted.

“Everything you need to complete your task can be found in this room,” the voice says. “Your sixty minutes begins… now.”

The crackle of the speaker cut off abruptly, ending the one-sided conversation. Red numbers appeared on a clock set on the far wall, unnaturally bright in the gloom of their chamber. For several long moments, the three of them were statue still, staring at the clock as their time ticked away.

Miles walked the perimeter of the room, searching for a hidden door, an air vent, or some other way out. Finding nothing, he grabbed hold of the door handle and yanked on it wildly with one hand as he banged on it with the other. Miles pressed his forehead to the door, his breath labored, his heart racing, and a white hot fear burning in his veins.

“Yeah, that did about as much good as when I tried it,” the homeless man sneered.

“Shut the fuck up,” Miles snapped.

“Why is this happening to us? What did we do?” Stacy cried.

“We didn’t do nothin’, lady. This sick fuck just gets off on this shit,” the homeless man said, pointing to the camera. “He’s probably streaming this shit. Making a fortune from other sick fucks who like watching this shit. So, let’s give them a show and two of us can get the fuck out of here.”

The woman’s shoulders were slumped. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her eyes were as red as her nose. She looked like she’d given up already. Disgusted, Miles snorted and started digging through the boxes all around them finding nothing but junk.

“What the fuck?” the homeless man asked.

The homeless man picked up a knife, its blade dull and rusty. He raised his head and gave Miles a look that chilled him to the bone. Never taking his eyes off the dirty, bedraggled man, Miles squatted down and picked up one of the metal pipes that had fallen out of a box.

Miles put his hand up. “You need to put the knife down.”

“The man said if one of us doesn’t die, we all do,” he said. “I ain’t going to die down here. Not for either of you two fucks.”

It was a sentiment Miles could relate to. He wasn’t going to die for either one of them. They were both beneath him and ordinarily, he wouldn’t have given them the time of day. But they could both be useful tools to helping him get out of there.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jake.”

“Good. All right,” Miles said. “If we’re going to get out of this, we need to work together, Jake. All of us.”

“We’re not getting out of this. Not all of us,” he replied. “You heard the man.”

“Forget about him. We can get out of this. All of us. But we need to work together.”

Jake shook his head. “Nah. What we need is to figure out which one of you two is gonna die because it sure as shit ain’t gonna be me.”

“It’s not going to be me either,” Miles said.

They both turned and looked at the small woman sitting huddled against the rear wall. Fresh tears streamed down her face.

“I don’t want to die,” she squeaked.

“But… is anybody going to miss you if you’re gone?” Miles asked. “I mean, no offense, but you kind of seem like a spinster cat lady. And you, my man, you look like you’re living on the streets. What kind of life is that?”

“What about you, Rolex?” Jake hissed. “Anybody going to miss you?”

“Plenty of people will miss me. I’m an important person. I’m wealthy. I have everything to live for, which, no offense, neither of you seem to have going for you. Which is why I think it should be one of you.”

“Is that how you measure a life? By the things you have?” Stacy asked.

Miles shrugged. “It’s one way, sure. All I’m saying is I have a lot going for me. I have a life. An important job—”

“I’m a teacher,” Stacy interrupted.

“And I’m a veteran,” Jake added.

“And neither one of you exactly look like you’re thriving. That’s all I’m saying. But I am. And because I am, I should be allowed to continue on with my life.”

“You’re a real prick,” Jake said.

Stacy just lowered her head and cried quietly into her hands. Jake took a step forward, the knife in his hand and a scowl on his face. Miles held the pipe at the ready. He was in good shape. Fit. He took care of himself and knew he could split the man’s head wide open with one good swing if it came to that. Jake apparently seemed to realize it too because he took a step back.

Miles glanced at the clock. “We’ve got thirty minutes to figure this out.”

Jake continued to scowl at him but said nothing. Miles cut a glance at the sobbing woman then turned back to the veteran. All the while, he felt every second passing. Time pressed down on him like it had a physical weight.

“Come on, man. We’re running out of time,” he said quietly. “She’s too meek for this. Frankly, I’m surprised she’s been able to make it as long in the world as she has. Why don’t you and I just make a deal right now. We do her and walk out of here. Together. The prick who stuck us in here left it up to us to figure this out. This is how we do it. Come on. You and me.”

Miles snuck another glance at Stacy and found her staring back at him. Her face was pale, eyes wide, and a stricken expression on her face. At the same time though, she seemed… resigned. She almost looked as if it was the outcome that she expected. That it was the outcome that made sense to her the same way it made sense to him.

He glanced at the clock, appalled that another fifteen minutes had already bled away.

“Jake, we’ve got fifteen minutes to figure this out or we are all going to die down here.”

Miles turned back to the woman. She hadn’t moved an inch and remained slumped against the wall, looking weak and fragile. His grip on the pipe in his hand tightened and images of himself using it to bash her head in with it started to flash through his mind. He imagined the sound of her skull breaking and the wet, warm feel of her blood on his hands. He could practically hear her screams of agony. Hear her begging for him to stop. Pleading for her life.

As he pictured the scene, a strange and unexpected sense of excitement filled Miles’ belly. As he imagined her blood all over his hands and her cries echoed in his mind, Miles felt himself growing aroused. Without knowing where the urge came from, Miles realized he wanted to do this. No, needed to do this. It was like some door in his mind had been unlocked, allowing something monstrous, some darker impulse, that had dwelled deep within him out into the light for the first time. It was a rush of exhilaration like he’d never known before.

He gave himself a shake, doing his best to control the near-maniacal smile that curled the corners of his mouth. He turned back to Jake.

“We can do this, Jake. We have to do this,” he said. “Look at her. She’s already checked out. We’d be doing her a favor. Come on, man. We’ve got ten minutes—”

His body exploded with a searing pain that drew a sharp squeal from him. Eyes wide, Miles turned and found himself staring into the face of Stacy Carpenter. Her eyes were hard, narrowed to slits, and a sneer curled her lips back over her teeth. He looked down and saw her gripping a rusty knife, her hand and the dull blade covered in thick, dark blood. His blood.

With a snarl, she punched her fist forward again and Miles cried out as the blade sunk deep into his belly. Miles watched the scarlet pool spreading around his feet, the pain so intense, it stole his breath. He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t move. All he seemed able to do was stand there and watch himself bleeding out.

Stacy yanked the blade out of his gut, and he felt a numbing cold in the pit of his belly that was rapidly spreading outward through his body. A hand grabbed his hair from behind and violently jerked his head back. Jake’s lips brushed his ear, his breath was warm upon his cheek and smelled like rotting meat, the stench so thick, Miles gagged. Stacy’s eyes glittered darkly in the dim light as she stared at him, a predatory smile upon her face.

“Guess she didn’t check out after all, huh, boss?” Jake whispered. “Looks like you’re the one who’s going to be checkin’ out, you slimy fuck.”

The edge of Jake’s blade sliced roughly through the flesh of his neck and Miles felt the warm, thick rush of blood spilling down his chest. He fell to his knees and looked down, watching the crimson pool beneath him growing wider. Miles heard a loud electronic buzz followed by a loud clunk and the sharp, metallic squeal of the door opening behind him. Jake stepped forward and with a malicious grin on his face, slipped the Rolex off his wrist. He admired it for a moment before yanking the wallet out of Miles' pocket.

“Thanks, Chief,” he said and chuckled as he walked toward the door.

His vision wavered and everything grew hazy as Stacy loomed over him. She glared down at him, her eyes holding all the warmth of an Arctic glacier. The unassuming spinster cat lady was gone, replaced by something darker, making her look downright malevolent.

“I guess we all have a monster lurking inside of us.”

Light flashed off the blade in her hand as she punched forward, driving it straight into his chest. She left it there as she walked away, her laugh echoing off the concrete walls around him. Miles heard the hard bang of the door being closed again, just before his world faded to black.

“I don’t feel so good, Daddy.”

I turn to my little girl, Sierra, and brush the strands of her sweat-soaked, chestnut-colored hair off her forehead. I gaze into her cerulean eyes, doing my best to stifle my tears. The room is stuffy and filled with an unpleasant blend of rotting meat and body odor.

“I know, baby. I know.”

“Me too, Dad. Everything hurts,” my son, Jackson, says through clenched teeth.

“I’m know, buddy. I’m sorry,” I say, feeling a stitch in my heart.

Somewhere on the street outside, the all too familiar and terrifying shriek tears through the night. My heart races and my stomach churns, but when I see the frightened eyes of my kids, I hold it all in. They need me to be strong right now. I need to be strong for them.

“The monsters are out there, Daddy.”

I offer her a weak smile. “Don’t you worry about the monsters, baby. I will never let them hurt you. Either of you.”

My kids are laying on the small makeshift bed I set up for them, which is nothing but a flimsy, filthy mattress on the floor of the back room of the small convenience store we’ve been holed up in the last couple of weeks. Sitting on the crate beside them, I fight to keep the tears in my eyes from falling. Watching them suffer makes it so goddamn hard to be strong though and I’m not sure I can keep up this façade for long.

Their breathing is shallow, ragged, and there are dark half-moons beneath their eyes. Their skin is pale, clammy, and beaded with sweat, and despite being tucked beneath a pair of thick blankets, they’re both shaking like they’re in sub-Arctic temperatures. I turn away, not wanting either of them to see my face until I get myself under control. The façade is slipping.

“Daddy, this hurts—” Sierra’s sentence is cut off by a vicious fit of coughing.

Leaning forward, I press the cool cloth to her forehead, helplessly listening to the wet rattle in her lungs. When the fit passes, I use the cloth to dab the crimson droplets on her chin.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper.

“Are we going to die, Dad?” Jackson asks weakly.

I shake my head. “No, buddy. You’re both going to be okay. You’re going to be fine. It’s just a little bug that’s going to pass and you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

“When we’re better can we go to Disney World like you promised?” Sierra asks.

“Of course, baby. And you even get to pick the first ride we go on,” I answer.

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

An excited smile crosses her lips that sends a lance of guilt and pain straight through my heart. The lies flow so smoothly from my lips that in any other circumstance, I’d be ashamed of myself. I don’t think I should be judged too harshly for the lies I’ve been telling my kids for months now though, given the situation we’re in. Not that there’s anybody left to judge me anyway.

More shrieking voices outside join the first. It sounds like there are at least a dozen of them out there in the streets. Maybe more. It’s like they can smell us in here or something. I know they can’t. They don’t have superpowers. It just seems like it.

Sierra hugs a picture of our family last Christmas, all of us happy and smiling, to her chest. I didn’t think it was possible given all we’ve already endured, but I swear to God, I feel my heart breaking all over again.

“I miss Mommy,” Sierra whispers.

“Me too, baby. Every single day.”

Life and the world as we knew it ended months ago. It wasn’t nuclear war or terrorism that did it. It wasn’t climate change or any of the other thousand things they’ve been warning us about for decades. No, what ended the world was human stupidity. It was our fucking hubris. It was our incessant need to tinker with shit we had no business tinkering with as we sought out better, more efficient ways to kill each other.

Stupidity and fucking hubris.

Officially, they’ll say the end of the world was triggered by the strongest earthquake ever recorded. Just after it hit, I heard it was 9.5 on the Richter Scale. Some reports pegged it higher. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter if it was 9.5 or 10 though. Whatever the size of it was, the quake and the tsunami that followed destroyed the entire west coast. Entire cities were vaporized, and countless millions of lives were lost in the devastation. Wiped out in the blink of an eye.

And then everything really went to shit.

From what I’ve been able to piece together since then—and my sources are sketchy as fuck, but given the evidence all around me, it all seems to check out—a manmade virus, designed for biological warfare found its way out of the wreckage of some secret government lab in the middle of nowhere that nobody even knew was there. And once it hit open air, it burned through the survivors of the quake like wildfire.

“I’m scared, Dad.”

“I am too, buddy,” I say. “But we’re going to be okay.”

“When are they coming to save us?” he asks.

“I don’t know. But I know they’re coming,” I reply, my voice thick with emotion. “We just need to hang in there a little while longer and they’ll come, buddy.”

“What if they don’t come?” Sierra asks, her voice raspy.

“They’re coming. I promise they’re coming. And they’ve got the medicine we need for you both to get better.”

“But what if they don’t?” Jackson asks.

“They’re coming,” I tell them. “We just have to hold on a little bit longer, okay? I need both of you to be strong right now. I need you to be brave. Can you do that for me?”

They both nod but look as uncertain as I feel. The truth is, I don’t know if anybody’s coming for us. I’ve heard the military has been staged in Utah and is launching search and rescue missions to bring us back to safety. I’ve heard they have a cure for the virus. But I don’t know if it’s true. I haven’t seen anybody in weeks and nobody I talked to before was able to provide proof it was real. We’re cut off from the world and I don’t actually know if there’s anybody even out there.

We’ve been travelling east though, toward Utah, searching for help. Searching for the military that’s supposedly searching for us. For safety and for other survivors of this cataclysm. I’ve kept my kids on the move mostly to give us reason to keep going on. Trying to give them some shred of hope to cling to.

But the truth is, we’re running desperately low on hope. Sierra and Jackson look like they’ve run out completely. I have no idea if there’s a military out there looking for survivors. I’ve got no idea if there’s a cure. I don’t know shit. All I do know is that while the world out there might have ended, my entire world is in here with me, and I’ve been forced to watch it diminish day by day.

“The monsters are out there,” Sierra whispers.

“A lot of them,” Jackson adds.

“We just need to stay quiet,” I say softly. “If we’re quiet, they’ll move on.”

“What if they don’t, Daddy?”

“They will. I promise.”

“What if they get in here, Dad?”

“They won’t.”

Neither of them look particularly reassured and I don’t blame them. I’ve got my old shotgun, a box of shells, and my Glock 9mm with twenty-five rounds. That’s it. That’s all that stands between my kids and what’s outside.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say, though I’m not sure if it’s for their benefit or my own.

I was told the first wave of the virus killed millions of people outright. They just dropped dead right then and there. My wife, Hannah, was among that group. I don’t know why, but some of us are immune to the virus. If not for my kids, I might have gone to join Hannah by my own hand. Although some people we’ve seen say we’re the lucky ones, I feel anything but fucking lucky.

Although, compared to what’s out there I guess I am lucky. It’s a low goddamn bar, but I guess being alive is better than the alternative. What came out of the rubble of that lab in the desert imposed a fate worse than death on those people on the streets outside. The virus changed them. It turned them into something less than human.

I don’t know the exact science behind it, but the virus burned out whatever made them human. They’ve still got human intelligence and in fact, some of their senses even seem heightened. They’re unnaturally fast and they’re cannibalistic. But worse than that, they seem to derive pleasure from the act of killing. They fucking enjoy it. I’ve seen it firsthand and it’s fucking awful.

The virus stripped these people of their inhibitions, burned any sense of taboo from their minds, and turned them into fucking sociopaths with a taste for human flesh. They kill because they like it and eat what they kill because they need the sustenance to survive. They’re… monsters. So, I guess compared to that, we’re lucky. Like I said, it’s a low fucking bar.

“Daddy—”

Sierra coughs and spasms wildly. Jackson shrieks but is too weak to do anything. Falling to my knees beside her, I hold my daughter’s small body down with one hand and gasp in horror as a bloody foam spills from her mouth. I wipe it away as I sit her up and pat her hard on the back like she’s fucking choking on something. Tears stream down my face. I feel useless and have no idea what to do.

Her coughing fit subsides, and I lay her back down. But the circles around Sierra’s eyes are darker and she seems somehow even smaller and more diminished than before. Her breathing is labored, she moans wordlessly, and she seems to be fading. Jackson looks at his sister, the fear on his face palpable. The shrieking outside followed by the sound of the monsters suddenly beating on the sides of the building makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

“She’s getting worse,” Jackson says as he takes her hand.

She is. And so is he. I’ve tried to deny it and have prayed for them to get better. But my prayers have gone unanswered. And as they’ve gotten sicker, I’ve been forced to ask myself what’s going to happen to them. Will they simply pass peacefully and join their mother on the other side? Or instead of dying, will they become one of the monsters? It’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times—a million—and I just don’t know.

Jackson covers his face as he’s gripped by a fit of coughing and I watch in horror as bright crimson rivulets squeeze between his fingers and run down the backs of his hands. When he finally removes them, his face is streaked with blood, his visage ghastly. Tears spill from the corners of his eyes and roll down his face, spattering the front of his shirt with bloody droplets.

“Dad, I hurt so bad,” he says. “When is the medicine coming?”

I blink back my tears. “Soon, buddy. Soon.”

As Jackson slumps back on the pillows, I pull a small plastic baggie out of my backpack and gaze at the white powder it holds for a moment. On a foraging trip a couple of weeks ago, I found a prescription bottle of Oxycodone and crushed the tablets into the powder I’m staring at. Though I try to deny it, I guess in the back of my mind, I knew it might come to this all along.

I glance at my kids as I pull a bottle of water out of my bag. Their eyes are closed, and their faces are twisted with agony. It’s killing me to see them in such fucking agony. Opening the baggie, I dump every bit of powder into the water, then drop it to the floor. As the water grows cloudy, I recap the bottle and shake it vigorously, waiting until the Oxycodone has dissolved entirely.

As I stare at the bottle in my trembling hand then glance at my children, thinking about what I’m about to do, the lump that rises in my throat nearly chokes me. I make no effort to stem the tide of tears streaming down my face, then shake my head, fearing I can’t go through with it.

“It’s time. You know it’s time,” Hannah’s voice echoes in my mind.

My eyes wide, I look around. Her voice sounded so real it was like she was there in the room with me. But I’m alone, her voice nowhere but in my mind. Still, it brings me some small sense of comfort. She’s always been the strong one. The practical one. She was always the one who made the difficult decisions when I didn’t have the courage or strength to do it. It seems that even in death she’s still carrying that burden.

“I can’t, Han. I can’t do it,” I whisper.

“Sierra and Jackson need you to be strong for them now,” she says. “Be strong for them. Do what they can’t do for themselves.”

I shake my head. “But the military—the cure—”

“Is a fantasy. You’ve known that for so long now,” she says. “It’s time. Be a father. Be strong for your children.”

“Who are you talking to, Daddy?”

I look up to see Sierra looking back at me.

“Nobody, baby,” I reply.

“Be strong for your children,” Hannah says.

Feeling Hannah’s gaze on me from somewhere in the next word, I kneel down beside the bed. I can practically feel Hannah urging me on as I raise my trembling hand and give Sierra the bottle of water.

“Drink up, baby,” I say, my voice quivering as hard as my hand.
With sweat rolling down her face in sheets, Sierra raises the bottle and swallows down half of it, unable to get enough moisture into her parched, burning throat. I stop her from drinking it all though and gently pull the bottle away.

“Jackson, buddy, you need to drink some water.”

He groans and sits up but takes the bottle from me and finishes it. Tears staining my cheeks, I take the bottle back and toss it aside.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Nothing, baby,” I say. “Rest now. Both of you, get some rest.”

They both lay back on the pillows and close their eyes. I bite the side of my hand hard enough to draw blood to keep from screaming as the tears flow freely down my face.

* * * * *

They look so peaceful. It’s almost as if they could be sleeping. I’ve been sitting beside the bodies of my children for what might have been hours. Days. I don’t know and don’t really care. Time has lost all meaning as has my life. Those fucking things outside have been beating on the walls and the doors, their shrieking shaking the building around me. But it no longer scares me. I don’t care enough to be scared.

As I lean my head back against the wall, I hear what sounds like the thunderous rattle of gunfire. I hear shouting voices—not the mindless keening of the monsters, but orders—actual words—being shouted amidst the gunfire.

“What the fuck?” I say as I jump to my feet.

“This is Colonel Shaw of the US Army. If there are any survivors on this block, it is safe to come out,” a deep, gruff voice booms through a loudspeaker. “This area has been secured. It is safe to come out.”

As the message is repeated, I run to the front of the store and rip down the boards I’d nailed over the door then step outside and look around in disbelief. Tanks and military vehicles rumble down the street alongside soldiers marching in orderly columns, weapons up and at the ready. It’s like I just stepped into some surrealistic fucking warzone. Twisted, pale corpses, riddled with bullets, lay among the debris on the ground in spreading pools of the thick, black sludge pouring from the holes in their bodies.

Two men in uniforms with bands on their arms denoting their status as medics and air-filtered masks on their faces, rush toward me.
“Sir, we’re here to help. Please, drop the weapon.”

I look down at the Glock in my hand, vaguely recalling I’d tried to use it on myself at some point in my stupor after killing my children.

“Please, drop the weapon, sir. You’re safe now. Everything is going to be all right. Just put the weapon down.”

“Are you symptomatic?” the other asks, the tip of the needle in his hand gleaming in the sunlight. “I can administer the antidote if you drop that weapon.”

The pain that grips me drives me to my knees, and a long, agonized shriek erupts from my mouth. With the faces of Sierra, Jackson, and Hannah flashing through my mind and tears streaming down my face, I put the barrel of my Glock beneath my chin and pull the trigger…

“How many times have I told you to stop talking that fucking nonsense?” he roars.

I’m sitting in the middle of the living room floor and flinch as he screams at me. My body reflexively tightens knowing what’s coming next. The kick he delivers to my back sends shockwaves of agony racing through my entire body but I stifle my cry. It drives the breath from my lungs and leaves me seeing stars. Tears well in my eyes and I fight to keep them from falling. He leans down, his face hovering mere inches from mine, a sneer on his lips. His breath washes over my face, warm and stinking of beer and cigarettes.

“Don’t you dare cry, you little shit,” he growls, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t give me another reason to whoop you.”

As if he’s ever needed a reason before. Not wanting another punch of kick though, I run my sleeve over my eyes and let out a long, stuttering breath. He lingers in front of me in silence, practically daring, if not hoping, I give him a reason to wail on me again. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard the taste of blood fills my mouth. It does the trick though. It keeps me from saying or doing anything to provoke him further. It always does.

With a disgusted snort, he turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door so hard behind him, it feels like the house around me is shaking. I look to my mother who is sitting on the couch with a cigarette between her fingers and a look of disinterest on her face.

“Why do you keep speaking that gibberish? You know he doesn’t like it,” she says.

She takes a drag from her cigarette, sending tendrils of smoke curling toward the ceiling, then turns back to the television, laughing along with the canned laugh track.

I’m ten years old.

* * * * *

“You need to do something,” he says. “You need to stand up for yourself.”

I look away, a familiar sense of shame making my cheeks burn. Deep in my heart, I know Tommy’s right. But whenever my dad is raging the fear wraps around me like iron bands that squeeze the air out of me and all I can do is tremble. Any sense of courage or confidence I might have been able to muster melts away like snow in the warm spring sunshine.

“Dude—”

“Tommy, leave me alone,” I say.

“No. Because you can’t let him keep getting away with this.”

I run a hand through my hair and try to ignore him, turning my attention back to the book in my hands. The book flies across the room, hitting the wall with a hard thud then falls to the floor, face down. I turn to Tommy, my eyes burning with rage.

“You just broke the spine of my book,” I snap. “All those pages are going to be dogeared.”

“There. That’s it. There’s the anger I know is in you,” he says excitedly. “You need to grab hold of that feeling you have right now and use it on the old man.”

“I can’t, okay?”

“You can.”

“I can’t! I’m… I’m scared of him.”

Tommy throws his hands up and snorts in disgust, reminding me a little too much of my father in that moment.

“He’s bigger than me. Stronger—”

“Excuses,” he says. “Those are just the excuses of a coward.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

I’ve known Tommy since I was six. I’m an only child, so he’s like my brother. We’re so close though, that we came up with our own language when we were younger. It’s our thing. It’s how we keep other people from understanding what we’re talking about. My dad calls it gibberish and nonsense and always gets irrationally angry when he hears us speaking it. Personally, I think he just uses that as an excuse to wail on me.

Tommy feels sorry for me. He’s always encouraging me to stand up for myself and to do things well outside my comfort zone. To not back down from the bullies and to not take shit from anybody. I know he’s trying to do something good for me. To lift me up and help me learn to become my own person. And sometimes, it works. Sometimes, I get a rush of confidence. Once in a while, I feel strong enough to stand up for myself. But it never lasts.

Most of the time though, his words go in one ear and out the other. It frustrates him to no end and that’s when he tends to get mean. To say cutting and belittling things. And it’s in those times when I feel like he’s not much different than my dad. He’s always quick to apologize, of course, but his words sting even worse than my dad’s because I feel like he should know better than to treat me the way he tells me I should be fighting against.

“Seriously though,” he says. “I hate seeing him treat you like this. It’s not right. Your dad is a bully and if you don’t stand up to him, he’s going to keep doing it. When you punch a bully in the nose though, they always back down. Always.”

I roll my eyes. “And how many bullies have you punched in the nose?”

My door flies open, slamming into the wall behind it so hard, it knocks a few books off the shelf next to the door. My dad is standing there, reeking of booze and weed, his face red, nostrils flaring, and eyes narrowed to slits. His face radiates pure malevolence.

“How many times have I told you I don’t want to hear that bullshit gibberish in my house?” he fumes. “How many times?”

Before I can answer though, he delivers a backhand that snaps my head backward so hard, I’m half-afraid it’s going to come right off. It doesn’t. But the force the blow carries me across the room and sends me crashing into my bookcase. All the books and toys that had lined the shelves—as well as the shelves themselves—come tumbling down on top of me in a heap. My head is ringing, my vision wavers, and my mouth is filled with the coppery taste of my blood.

This time though, I don’t cry.

I sit amongst the ruins in the corner of my room glowering at my father. My heart races and the blood flows like fire through my veins. But when my father takes a step toward me, his hands balled into fists, the courage inside me predictably melts. I look down and tremble.

“I hear you talking that nonsense again and I swear to fucking God I’m going to beat you to death,” he slurs. “You hear me, boy?”

My voice fails me and I just nod. With a satisfied grunt, my father turns and walks out of my room, slamming the door behind him. The silence that follows in his wake is absolute. My courage failed me once again, but at least I didn’t cry. It’s not much but it’s something, I guess.

I am twelve years old.

* * * * *

“This is ridiculous. When are you going to stand up for yourself?” Tommy asks. “How much longer are you going to let him do this to you?”

I stare at myself in the mirror, gingerly touching my swollen, blackened eye with my fingertips and wince at the sudden flash of pain.

“Well? When?”

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “I don’t want him to hear us. The last thing I need is for him to come in and smack me around again.”

“I’m serious, man. Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life?”

I smile wryly. “He’s going to die one day.”

Tommy stares at me with a look of disgust on his face. “If you don’t learn to stand up for yourself now, you are going to back down from every challenge you face in your life. You will tuck tail and run every time somebody bullies you. Is that really how you want to spend your life? Scared of your own fucking shadow? Letting people walk all over you?”

The frustration that’s been building inside of me finally erupts and I glare at Tommy, my face red, my nostrils flaring, looking for all the world like my father when he’s on one.

“It’s my life. Why do you care?”

“Because I care about you. Because I want better for you,” he replies hotly. “Better than you want for yourself apparently.”

“Shut up,” I growl.

“Then stand up for yourself. Stand up to him. Stop being such a pussy!”

I stare at myself in the mirror, taking in every fist-shaped bruise on my body. On my face. My torso is a mass of purple and black mottling, a roadmap of my suffering. Everything inside me hurts. And not just because of my father’s punches and kicks. A tear spills from the corner of my eye and races down the purple flesh on my cheek.

“What the fuck are you doing in there?” my father bellows.

“Nothing,” I call back.

“Get the fuck out here.”

“How much longer are you going to let this happen?” Tommy asks, his voice soft as a whisper.

“Coming," I call

I am sixteen years old.

* * * * *

Lightning flashes outside, briefly illuminating the room around me. I stand beside the bed looking down at my father. At my mother.

“It’s time,” Tommy says in our unique language—gibberish as my father calls it. “It’s time for you to take a stand and show them they can’t do this to you. Ever. Again.”

My father opens his eye as another bolt of lightning flares, lighting up the room as bright as the noonday sun. The flash glints off the edge of the axe in my hand and for the first time in my life, I see fear in the old man’s face. Thunder rumbles overhead and in that moment, I feel strong. I feel powerful. And for the first time in my life, I feel in control.

“Boy, what the fuck are you doing?” my father says, his voice quivering. “You’d best put that axe down or I’m going to beat you like you’ve never been beaten before—”

“Do it,” Tommy cries. “Do it now.”

My father starts to sit up and my legs shake so hard, I’m afraid they’re going to give out beneath me. My courage is quickly evaporating and the axe trembles in my hands.

“Do it!” Tommy shouts.

As I roar louder than the thunder crashing outside, I raise the axe above my head. My father holds his hands up, his face twisted with terror and as I bring it down, his scream immediately cuts off. I raise the axe again and again, bringing it down with all the strength in my body, thunder punctuating the wet, meaty slaps of the axe biting into their flesh.

I scream until I have no more breath in my lungs as the axe rises and falls, dark red founts spraying into the air all around me. All the years of pain, shame, and humiliation I’ve endured fuel the rage flowing through me—a rage that keeps me going until the axe slips from my blood-slicked hands and clatters hard to the floor.

Breathing like I’ve just run a marathon, my entire is body shaking wildly. I’m exhausted. I lean down, planting my hands on my knees and draw deep, shuddering breaths. My head is spinning and my heart thunders in my chest, but in the absolute silence that reigns over the house, for the first time in my life, I feel… free. The weight that has pressed down on me for so long is gone.

Standing up again, I look at the damage I have wrought. Crimson sprays arc high onto the walls around me and there is a thick, scarlet pool on the floor beneath my feet. Reaching down, I pick up the axe and toss it onto the bed beside what’s left of my mother and father then laugh.

“You did it,” Tommy says. “You finally did it. You stood up for yourself. I’m proud of you.”

I turn to him and find myself staring into the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. I’m coated in crimson, head to toe, and my hair is matted with gore. But when the lightning flashes again, illuminating the room and I see myself, not even the thick sheen of blood can hide the purple and black mottling on my face.

“You won’t have to worry about that ever again,” Tommy says. “You did it.”

“We did it,” I say to myself in the mirror.

I am eighteen years old, and I am finally free.

“What the hell happened? Hailey was perfect for you.”

I feel strange. There’s something odd in the air tonight and it has me feeling anxious. It almost feels anticipatory in a way. What I’m anticipating though, I don’t know. It just feels weird and has me on edge.

“Dude,” Doug snaps.

“Sorry,” I say with a shrug. “Hailey’s a nice girl. We just didn’t have a lot of chemistry.”

Doug runs a hand over his face and sighs. He’s clearly frustrated with me. I look around the half-empty coffee house and give him a minute to chill out. There’s a couple sitting close together in a corner. Their individual Glimmers are pale blue and bright. But the two individual strands wind around one another, blending seamlessly into one thread that’s nearly blinding. They’re old souls who’ve found one another. They’ll be together for the rest of their lives.

At a table a few feet away from them, two people seem to be having a pleasant conversation. Their individual Glimmers are duller, different colors, and they don’t touch at all. In fact, their Glimmers almost seem to be pushing away from one another the way magnets do when you try to push their like-poles together telling me their souls are strangers to each other. They won’t be having a second date.

“Gabby and I are running out of friends to set you up with, man.”

“I’ve never asked you to set me up with anybody to begin with.”

Doug frowns and his expression darkens. It was a cheap and petty thing to say, I know. Throwing what he believes is his kindness back in his face like that isn’t cool. At the same time though, what I said is true. I’ve never asked him and Gabby to set me up with anybody. They seem to be more concerned about me not having a girlfriend than I am.

“I just don’t get you, man,” he says. “Don’t you want to be happy?”

“I don’t need to be with somebody to be happy.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Doug says. “But Gabby and I… we just want to see you with somebody great. We want to see you in love.”

“Love isn’t for everybody in every life.”

“I have no idea what that even means,” he says. “But these women we’ve been introducing you to… we think you could have something really special with them if you just let yourself be open to the possibility.”

“I get that. And it may not seem like it, but I do appreciate everything you and Gabby are trying to do. I guess… I guess I’m just not really looking for something special right now.”

“You’ve been saying the same thing since we were kids, man. You’re not getting any younger. Who or what is it exactly that you’re waiting for?” he asks.

Her. I’m waiting for her. That’s what I’m waiting for. But I can’t tell him that because he won’t understand. I just know at some point, I’ll find her Glimmer. I know it as well as I know my own name. And when I do, our Glimmers will be brighter than even that couple in the corner. They will be brighter than the sun. We are meant to be, she and I.

Doug looks at me and shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”

“There’s nothing to get. I just haven’t connected with anybody you and Gabs have set me up with,” I tell him. “I really do appreciate you guys trying, but I’m okay. Really.”

“That’s debatable. Hailey is hot as hell. She's smart, funny... you are most definitely not okay if you can't find something about her to like. There is something very wrong with you, my friend,” he replies lightly.

“Yeah. Maybe so.”

I used to think there was something wrong with me too. But I’ve been to more doctors than I can count, and none of them have ever been able to give me a satisfactory answer for the things I see. Some have told me I have a neurological disorder—one they can’t identify or diagnose. Others don’t believe me at all and insist I have a mental or emotional defect and should seek psychological help for it. I tried that too and it still didn’t help.

Out of desperation and not having anywhere else to turn, I ended up going to a woman named Sabra who owned a shop with a neon crystal ball in the window. She promised to tell me about my past lives for fifty bucks. I figured it couldn’t hurt anything, so I coughed up the money and sat with her. She told me I had a rare gift. Said I could see a person’s Glimmer--that light that surrounds them that I can see. She told me that those of us who could see the Glimmer were seeing a person’s soul and could see the way they connected with others.

Sabra told me about all the lives I’ve lived. She told me things she couldn’t possibly have known and yet, she did. And she told me about the first time I met her and about the life when our souls first bonded—a bond that’s carried us both through the many lives we’ve shared together since.

We’re different people living different lives, but that bond always brings us back together. It sounds crazy, I know. It took me a minute to wrap my head around it too. But what Sabra told me is the only thing that has ever made sense to me.

So, that’s what I’m waiting for. I’m waiting for her. And that’s why nothing has ever worked out with the women Doug and Gabby insist on setting me up with—they’re not her. Our Glimmers just don't shine together. I don’t know when and I don’t know where—it’s nothing I can plan or prepare for—but I know that at some point, she’s going to come back into my life.

“Are you okay?”

I give myself a small shake. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“All right, listen, I have to go. But this conversation isn’t over.”

“It never is,” I say with a wry laugh.

“Yeah, well, we’re going to keep talking about this until something changes.”

“Tell Gabs I say hi. And tell her I’m sorry.”

“You should tell her that yourself. Hailey’s her friend.”

“Okay. I’ll do that.”

Doug gets up and claps me on the shoulder, a look of disappointment on his face. He turns and heads out, leaving me alone to finish my coffee. As I survey the coffee house, I look at the Glimmers surrounding the other people, look at the way they interact with each other—or don’t—and see a lot of love among them all. It makes me smile. The world is better when it's filled with love.

Another thing Sabra told me was that souls didn’t always find each other in every life. Not for a lack of trying, but sometimes, even bonded souls went through life alone. It’s why I resigned myself to the idea that I was going to be alone a long time ago. It hurts less when you know there’s a possibility you may not find the person you’re supposed to be with. It hurts less knowing I may not find her in this life and that allows me to find some semblance of joy in other things. Like I told Doug, love isn’t for everyone in every life, and maybe true happiness isn’t either.

As I sip my coffee, my heart starts to race inexplicably, and my gaze is drawn to the window. And when I see her passing by on the street outside, a white-hot flash of adrenaline surges through my veins and my skin begins to warm. Her hair is sandy-brown, and her eyes are golden-hazel, her features are softer and she’s taller in this life, but the connection I feel is instant.

More than that, the Glimmer that surrounds her is a familiar shade of red--a shade of red I’ve only ever seen in her Glimmer. In life after life, her Glimmer has always remained the same. It’s her.

I jump to my feet and dash for the door. The street outside is crowded, but I can see her Glimmer standing out in the crowd. It’s as bright as a spotlight. My heart racing, I weave my way through the crowd, dodging bodies and the dirty looks people cast my way as I bump into more than a few of them. I can’t believe that after all these years, I’ve finally found her, and I can’t keep the smile off my face as I'm drawn forward like a magnet and get closer to her.

The light up ahead turns green and she emerges from the crowd, stepping off the curb among a group of others. Her Glimmer is a beacon and she has a gravity all her own that pulls me forward. A laugh bursts from my mouth as I get to the crosswalk, and I want to call out to her. I want her to turn around and see me. To feel the connection that’s filling my soul. The connection that’s drawing me to her. But I don’t know her name in this life. I don’t know who she is. I only know that her soul is bonded to mine and that pure love and true joy are finally within my grasp.

“Excuse me,” I shout. “Hey, excuse me!”

She pauses in the crosswalk and I’m sure she can feel me. Can feel the bond our souls share. She slowly turns around and when our eyes meet, I see a strange look cross her face. She looks at me blankly for a moment, but I feel like I'm finally home after a long, arduous journey. I feel like I've been living in a black and white world and am seeing in color for the first time.

I can tell she recognizes me but just needs a couple of moments to put it all together. Needs a moment to reconcile what she's feeling. My heart is in my throat as I walk toward her, desperate to feel her in my arms again after so long.

She is the first and only woman I’ve ever loved. The first and only woman I’ve ever wanted to love. We’ve lived countless lives together, our love growing stronger and our bond growing deeper with each and every one of them. As I draw near, her Glimmer grows so bright, I have to hold my hand up to shield my eyes. I laugh though, basking in the glow of our eternal love.

The screech of tires and shrieking voices filled with terror rings in my ears. I turn and feel the blood draining from my face when I see the headlights, even brighter than her Glimmer, bearing down. Everything slows down and I find myself seeing the world around me in frame by frame slow-motion. And when I see it plow through the crowd, when I see it strike her, catapulting her into the air, the cry that’s ripped from my throat is shrill and raw.

As the car speeds away, she hits the ground with a wet, sickening thud. I hear the screams and murmuring voices all around me as I dash forward, weaving through the bodies that litter the ground. I can only see her. I drop to my knees beside her torn, broken body. She’s flat on her back and covered in blood. Her arms and legs jut out at awkward angles, and the bone protrudes from several ghastly wounds. Her eyes flutter as she hovers on the verge of unconsciousness and a low moan passes her lips.

“No,” I cry. “Please, God, no.”

In the distance, I hear the warbling sirens drawing closer, but they might as well be a million miles away. Her Glimmer is starting to fade. I take her hand between mine and when I do, her eyes open wide, as if I jolted her with a current of electricity. For a moment, she’s perfectly clear and focused as she looks at me. They might be a different color, but I know those eyes so heartbreakingly well. A gentle smile curls the corners of her mouth and her lips tremble as a tear spills from the corner of her eye and races down her face.

“It’s you,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“It’s me.”

She shudders and her breath is ragged. Her cough is wet and blood sprays from her mouth, piercing my heart with an ice-cold lance of grief. It’s not fair. To have finally found her after all these years only to have her ripped away from me like this isn’t fair. As her Glimmer continues to fade, my heart shatters like glass. I squeeze her hand, and as she closes her eyes, she stops shuddering and smiles.

“I see the day we met,” she says as she grips my hand with a gentle ferocity. “I can see all the lives we’ve lived together. I see the families we've raised.”

“We’ve lived some beautiful lives together. We've had some beautiful children,” I say and choke back a sob.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

“We’ll find each other again. I’m yours—”

“And you are mine,” she finishes, the saying something we’ve said to each other through all our lives together.

The small, fond smile remains on her lips as her Glimmer blinks out like a light being turned off, its absence consuming my soul with grief. I bow my head, and my body shakes as the ambulance finally arrives. A tear falls from my eye and splashes on her cheek as her hand grows cold in mine.

“I will see you again,” I whisper.

“Where is Mr. Davis?”

Everybody glances up and down the line, looking for the stupid but familiar Spongebob bandana Danny Davis always wore around his head. Chef Archer looks down at his watch, an expression of irritation crossing his face.

“Very well,” Chef Archer says with a tone of disgust in his voice. “We will have to begin our final challenge without him.”

He pauses for a moment to let his words sink in. As I glance at the faces of my classmates, I see the gravity of the situation hasn’t escaped them. The stakes couldn’t possibly be higher. Chef Archer’s assistant hands him a clipboard and looks it over.

“All right. As of this moment, based on your work over this semester, everybody in this class has accrued enough points to graduate from this program, so kudos to you. That is something to be celebrated. This is the first class I’ve had in a very long time where I could say that. So, congratulations, chefs. Your talent and passion are an inspiration.”

The tone of his voice doesn’t quite match his words, but whatever. I was almost sure I had enough points to graduate, but hearing confirmation of that feels like an invisible weight I didn’t even know I was carrying has been lifted off my shoulders. Honestly, that should be good enough for me. That’s what I wanted and what I set out to do when I enrolled in the program.

Chef Archer gives everybody a moment to bask in the glow of relief and pride, and to congratulate one another on surviving the gauntlet this program was. But just a moment.

“All right, that’s enough,” he says sternly.

With military precision, silence falls over the kitchen as we line up and snap to attention.

“As I explained when this program began, the two top point-getters will earn an invitation to study abroad at the world-renowned Italian Culinary Institute,” he says. “As of this moment, there are four individuals within striking distance of those two spots—Chefs Davis, Burns, Antonelli, and… Morgan.”

I can’t help but hear the disdain in his voice as he reads my name—last, of course. I don’t know if it’s because I’m in fourth place or if it’s just another way for the man to slight me. Chef Archer has hated me from the moment I walked through his doors. He’s tough on everybody but it seems like he’s had an extra little something for me. He says I don’t have the artistic or technical skill to make it in this industry. He says I don’t have the dedication or the passion. I hate the guy with everything in me and personally, I think the fact that I’ve got a shot to go study in Italy says he’s wrong. It says he doesn’t know shit about my dedication or my passion. But hey, what do I know?

After he read the list of us who have a shot at the top two spots, the air seems to go out of the kitchen as the other aspiring chefs in the room realize their shot at Italy is over.

“All right, let’s get started,” Chef Archer calls. “To your stations.”

“Yes, Chef,” the class intones in unison.

“Can you believe that prick Davis?” Burns says in a hushed whisper.

“Asshole thinks he’s got this all sewn up and decided to take the day off.”

“That’s exactly his style,” Antonelli agrees.

I shrug. “To be fair, he’s been the best in our class from the jump. He probably does have enough points to snag one of the two spots. I think the rest of us are playing for second place.”

“Yeah, well, rubbing it in our faces like this is pretty fucking shitty,” Burns hisses.

“What can you say? He talked a lot of shit, but he backed it all up,” I tell them.

“Yeah, whatever,” Antonelli grumbles. “All I know is I’m not looking forward to spending a semester in Italy with that asshole.”

Burns scoffs. “You think you’ve got the other spot on lock, do you?”

“Damn right I do.”

Burns and Antonelli, in the stations to my right, continue to gas each other up while talking shit about Davis. I don’t say much though. As hard as it is for me to admit, they’re all better than me. I don’t have the natural talent they do, and I’ve only gotten to this point because I’ve busted my ass. Knowing I was starting at a deficit, I’ve studied and worked twice as hard as anybody else in this kitchen. Chef Archer, prick that he is, questions my dedication and passion, but I know have it in spades over anybody else here. I’ve worked myself into this position.

And the real bitch is that this position isn’t what I came into the program wanting. The apprenticeship in Italy was never my goal. But Danny Davis, who is an even bigger prick than Chef Archer, helped make it my goal. He made me want to aim higher. Achieve more. Because he’s been an asshole from the start and made sure I knew he was better than me, telling me I’ll never be a real chef or anywhere near his level, he made me want to be better than I thought I could be. And here I am, vying for a spot for a coveted apprenticeship. I guess maybe I should thank him for that.

“Listen up,” Chef Archer calls. “You have four hours to present a dish of your own design to me. You will be judged on quality, taste, and presentation. The points I assign to your signature dishes will determine your final rankings in this class. And your rankings might have a bearing on the restaurants willing to hire you. So, even if you’re not in the running for the program in Italy, don’t think your final presentation is not critical. It is.”

Chef Archer glances at his watch again, seeming to be dragging his feet, perhaps hoping his favorite pupil will come bursting through the doors. When he can’t put it off any longer though, a look of disappointment crosses his face, and he nods to himself.

“Four hours. Your time begins now,” he says. “Good luck to you all.”

And just like that, the kitchen explodes into chaos as twenty-two chefs start gathering what they need to create their signature dish. I was up all night planning and prepping for today so I’ve got my dish all mapped out. With my game plan firmly in mind, I begin moving, calmly and efficiently, growing more confident with every ingredient I put into my dish.

“Two hours down,” Chef Archer calls out. “Two hours to go.”

Unlike my classmates, I didn’t get into this to be well known. I don’t want to be a celebrity chef. I don’t care if I never have my own show on Food Network and I don’t give a shit about Michelin stars. Being a famous chef in an even more famous restaurant isn’t my goal. For me, cooking is art. It’s passion. It’s… love. For me, cooking is a way to communicate. A way to express myself. And to let others know how I feel about them. My mother taught me that.

Raising me on her own, my mom worked hard but we didn’t have much. What I do remember most though, was that she could put together an elaborate meal, worthy of a goddamn Michelin star, out of the scant supplies in our pantry. It was never just blue box macaroni and cheese. She always dressed it up and somehow, made it almost elegant. My mother showed me love and care by the way she cooked for me. Not going hungry wasn’t enough for her. She wanted me to enjoy our meals. Because she couldn’t do much more for me, she wanted me to have that.

That’s why I’m here. Because of her. Because she showed me how intimate, loving, and caring it can be. I’m here because I want to give that experience to others. It’s why I don’t give a damn about fancy restaurants and snobbish clientele. What I want is to make others feel loved and cared for by what comes out of my kitchen. Like I was. More than anything though, I want to know she’s looking down on me and is proud.

“Thirty minutes to go,” Chef Archer calls. “You should be thinking about plating already. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

That’s it. That’s my goal. That’s what I wanted when I walked through the doors on day one. And that’s why Chef Archer can take his pretension and his judgment of me for not being as well-heeled as the rest of his students and shove it up his ass. I’ve got more love and passion for this than that son of a bitch will ever know or understand.

“All right, time is up.”

Chef Archer’s voice cuts through the din and as one, all activity stops. I look around the kitchen and see expressions running from confident to terrified. I sneak a peek at what Burns and Antonelli put out and know I have them beat. They’ve got good looking plates, but it can’t compare with what I made. I have never moved with such purpose before. And I’ve never put out a dish with more love and more passion than what’s on the plate before me. It’s absolutely perfect.

Chef Archer walks up and down the lines, looking at and tasting what we've put out, judgment in his eyes and in the expression on his face. He’s not impressed with most of what he sees, and the chefs seem to wither beneath his silent criticism. As he approaches me, I feel my mother in the room. I feel her love. I feel her strength and her pride. I know that no matter what happens, I made her proud. And that makes my heart swell as a smile touches my lips. Nothing he says will be able to dull that shine.

Chef Archer’s eyes linger on my dish for a long moment before he samples it. As he chews, he raises his gaze to me and the expression on his face is surprised. And grudging.

“Very nice,” he says before moving on.

It’s as close to high praise as I’ll ever get from the man. But it’s enough. And now, all that’s left is to determine whether I scored enough points to catch Danny Davis.

* * * * *

“Hey, congratulations, man,” Antonelli says as he gives me a high five.

“You too,” I reply. “It’s going to be a good semester in Italy.”

“Damn right it is,” he replies. “I guess we got lucky that Davis such an arrogant asshole he didn’t think he needed to show to win.”

“Nah. We earned this.”

“Yeah. We did, didn’t we?” he says with a smile. “Hey, what the hell did you use in your dish, anyway? You blew Archer away with it.”

I shrug. “It’s an old family recipe. It’s a secret.”

“C'mon. You can tell me.”

“It’s a secret.”

“All right, fair enough,” he says with a laugh. “Hey, some of us are going out for a drink to celebrate. You in?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. I just want to finish cleaning up here.”

“All right. I’ll see you there then. Maybe if I get a few drinks in you, you’ll give me that secret family recipe.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I reply with a grin. “See you there.”

Antonelli walks out of the kitchen, and I lean against the counter, a smile on my face. All alone, I relish the moment. I did it. I actually did it. It still seems unreal, but like I told Antonelli, we earned this. I earned this.

I open the small refrigerator in my station. As I pull the metal tray out, my eyes fall on the stupid, but familiar Spongebob bandana, now bright red, tucked under the cuts of raw meat. My lips curling in a smile, I dump it all into the black trash bag in the can at my feet. Despite what Chef Archer believes, I am good at this. I’m very good.

And I'm not afraid to admit it anymore because like Danny Davis always said, it ain’t bragging if it’s true.

Motes of dust dance in the beams of sunlight that slant in through the half-open blinds. The shafts of golden light fall on the boxes and loose stacks of keepsakes piled all over the floor. Some things are already in boxes marked “donation,” and others are in boxes with the contents written out on the sides in thick, black Sharpie ink. She’s always been organized and efficient but seeing our life together broken down and sorted like this hurts in ways I didn’t know I could hurt.

As I walk around the room, I pause and look down at a blue shoebox. A small, fond smile touches my lips when I see the collection of magnets we collected from all the different places we visited. That was always our thing. The magnets were mementos of the happy times we shared while we traveled. A physical representation of our adventures. Every single one of them holds a host of memories that, even now, fill me with a warm sense of nostalgia. That warmth, though, is tempered by the knowledge that we’ll never put another magnet up on the refrigerator together.

Fighting off the waves of emotion that threaten to drown me, I move on to her framed collection of butterflies. In another stack are her stamps and in another, the small packages that hold her bobblehead figures. She’s always collected all manner of things, some strange, some beautiful, all unique. She once told me that some things just call to her and when they do, she becomes obsessed with them. She says she's compelled to find and collect all that she can.

Her collections fill our home, making it so jumbled and chaotic, the house seems like it’s part salvage yard and part pawn shop. But I loved her, which meant that I learned to love the seemingly endless stacks of things that came with her. Loving the woman meant I had to love the entire kit and caboodle. I didn’t get to pick and choose what I wanted to keep and throw those things I didn’t like back. I was okay with that because I loved her with everything in me and the mass of clutter that came with her became somehow endearing.

When she walks into the room, the shafts of sunlight she passes through make her fair skin and chestnut-colored hair glow with a golden luminescence that still takes my breath away. She’s every bit as beautiful today as the day we met, and the impact she has on me hasn’t diminished a bit.

“Hey,” I said.

Her face is drawn and paler than usual as she passes me without a word, reminding me that nothing in this world ever really lasts. Standing near the back of the room, I watch in silence as she finishes packing the box with the rest of her butterflies, then tapes it shut. That done, she writes “collectibles” on the side, and I idly wonder where she’s going to put the butterflies in her new place. Or what her newest collection-slash-obsession might be.

What I really wonder, though, is what she’s going to do with the magnets. Our magnets. It’s a silly thing to think about, but I can’t stop from wondering where she’s going to put them. Or if she's going to put them up at all? Will seeing them cause her pain? Will they stir bad memories? I only want those silly magnets to bring her warmth and remind her of the happier times we shared. But I guess that’s not up to me. Not anymore.

She sits down on a small stool and picks up an acoustic guitar she’d bought years ago. For a little while, she’d been obsessed with learning how to play and had practiced nonstop. She took lessons, watched tutorials online, and did everything she could to learn the instrument. Truthfully, she wasn’t very good, but she was so passionate about it, and it seemed to bring her so much joy, whenever she picked it up, it made me happy as well.

She hasn’t played for a long while, though. And I haven’t seen the joy it once brought her in an even longer time. As she fingers the strings and plays a little tune, it draws a smile across my lips. I listen to her play and reminisce about the times I’d sit back and listen, laughing along with her as she tried to strum out a song.

“I always loved listening to you play. It made me as happy as it made you. I don't know if I told you that enough,” I say.

She frowns and quickly sets the guitar back in its case, filling the room with an oppressive silence once more. I'm filled with a sadness and a sense of loss that's so overwhelming, I can barely breathe. I feel empty. I feel lost.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I never meant for this to happen. Please, forgive me.”

She remains silent as she gets to her feet, the pain and anger on her face compounding my own misery. How had this happened? How had it all come to this?

The tears on her cheeks glisten in the fading sunlight as she maneuvers around the piles of things that fill the room, some of them mine, most of them hers. She puts some things into the donation boxes, others into her keeper boxes.

She sorts through the detritus of our shared life. The bycatch of the life we built together. And now, as I see more items going into the donation boxes than are going into the keeper boxes, I realize I’m watching the parsing of two lives. The untwining of our world together. Two are becoming one again.

She picks up the blue shoebox, and my heart leaps into my throat. Tears splash onto the surfaces of the kitschy little trinkets from New Orleans, London, Seattle, and a hundred other places. And as she stares at the magnets, the container that holds them hovers above the hungry, gaping maw of the donation box.

Emotions twist her features as she tries to decide whether to keep them or wipe the slate and start anew. She starts to loosen her grip, seeming to be working up the strength to drop it into the donation box and be done with it all forever.

My heart fracturing, I step forward and lay a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t. Please don't.”

She says nothing, but her face tightens. She hesitates, then after an agonizingly long moment, gently sets the container of magnets into the keeper box. She turns to me, and I smile, holding my arms out, wishing for nothing more than to share one last hug with her. Fresh tears race down her face as she lowers her head and walks toward me, stepping into my waiting embrace.

But she passes straight through me as if I’m no more substantial than shadows or smoke, and my fracturing heart shatters into a million jagged pieces. She pauses and turns back. It’s as if she felt me. As if she sees me. My heart races, hopeful that I might get to say my final goodbye after all. But then her face clouds over as she turns and hurries from the room. The sound of her sobbing fills my ears, each choked cry like a nail being driven into my soul.

Two lives have become one.

“I don’t need anybody,” I say. “I never have.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

“I don’t.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“Fuck you,” I snarl.

“You should just do it already.”

I run a hand across my face, trying to quell the quiver of fear in my heart. “I’m scared.”

“Stop being a pussy and do it already. You know you want to.”

“I don’t,” I say, my voice weak even in my own ears.

“Liar.”

I’m lying to myself again. I do want to do it. That’s the problem. Thunder rumbles overhead and the rain tap-tap-taps on the window like somebody is out there trying to get me to let them in. Despite it being noon, the world beyond the windows is as dark as midnight. Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the room with its silvery light like the flash from some divinely powerful camera. Thunder crashes again, this time so loud and violent, it shakes the house around me.

The power went out about an hour ago and save for a few burning candles, the room is dark and filled with the pungent aroma of burning wax. The low, soft music playing from my phone blends with the mournful moan of the wind outside creating a chorus of tragedy that pumps a fresh wave of despair through my soul. I know they say when there’s a power outage, you should conserve your phone battery, but what’s the fucking point?

I pull the framed photo out of the box sitting on the floor in front of me. A faint smile touches my lips as the soft, orange glow of the candles flickers across her face. Seeing her again, if only in this photo, fills my heart with that familiar longing for her that hasn’t abated since the day we met when we were just teenagers, connected and bonded. It was us and only us. We were young and everything seemed possible. Everything seemed forever.

“Boy, you really fucked that up, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” I say.

“You spend that many years, praying for a chance, and then you go and fuck it all up in such spectacular fashion... I mean, wow. What a loser.”

“Shut up!”

The glass in the frame explodes, spraying the room in a hail of jagged shards as it hits the wall. A loud, shrill scream echoes around the room.

“Feel better?”

“Fuck off,” I whisper. “Just leave me alone.”

“No can do. That’s not how this works.”

Sitting down in front of the box again, I pull out another picture. This one is of all of us. My group. My tribe. My squad. Whatever you want to call it, these were my best friends. No, they were my family. The smiles are wide, and you can just feel the festive atmosphere the picture exudes. We were young and everything seemed possible. Everything seemed forever.

“Happier times.”

I nod. “They were.”

“Not anymore though.”

“Shut up.”

“You should just do it and get it over with. Why are you hesitating?”

I refuse to respond and instead, look at the faces in the picture, remembering the friendship and love with that warm hit of nostalgia. I remember the sheer happiness I felt when we were all together. I’ve never had much of a family, but they made me feel like I did. They made me feel a love and happiness that was uncommon in my life, and I was grateful for it. I was grateful for them.

Their voices and laughter echo through my mind. It makes me think of ghosts in an old, empty house, which seems appropriate since I feel that’s what my soul has become—a haunted place. A place that had once been filled with love and joy but now lay in crumbled ruins with nothing but the wraiths of misery and pain wandering its empty halls.

“One by one, you shut them all out though. Didn’t you? You fucked things up just like you fucked things up with her. That’s all you do—fuck things up.”

“Leave me alone,” I say.

I drop the photo back into the box then pick up the half-empty bottle of Jack and take a long swallow, grimacing as it burns its way down my throat and into the pit of my stomach.

“Stop stalling. Just get on with it already.”

“Stop rushing me,” I growl.

“Pussy.”

“Fuck off.”

Setting the bottle down, I look at the pictures in the box in front of me. My head is crowded with memories, my heart bursting at the seams with emotions I haven’t felt in a long time. My vision wavers and my eyes sting as they well with tears. I try to wipe them away but more race down my cheeks anyway.

“I don’t need anybody,” I repeat. “I never have.”

“You know you don’t believe that.”

I don’t know when things changed. I don’t know why they changed. For a while, I told myself it was just a fact of growing up. We all had our own lives. Our own paths. I told myself the bond we shared when we were younger wasn’t sustainable and that as we grew, as our priorities in life shifted and changed, that time in our lives had simply passed us by. It was great while it lasted but nothing in this world is forever.

“You’re lying to yourself. You know that right?”

“Fuck off,” I say.

“Why are you here? What brought you to this point? It’s past time that you’re honest, if only with yourself. You should at least do that.”

“Be honest with myself?”

“It’s not your strength, I know. But give it a shot.”

I take another swig from the bottle and ponder the question. If I’m being honest with myself, I’d say that after I lost her, the love of my life, the girl I’ve loved since I was a kid, I changed. My ability to love was blunted. My ability to be open and the joy I once held in my heart faded. I boarded up the doors and windows in my heart and was simply going through the motions as I drew inward. I built a wall around myself, locked the gates, and shut everybody else out. I simply forgot how to feel anything.

Inside those walls though, I was screaming for help, but nobody came. Nobody even knocked on the door to see if I was okay.

“I don’t need anybody. I never have,” I say.

“You know that’s not true.”

The truth is, for so long, I’ve felt like I’m drowning. I keep going under and the people I relied on to help keep me afloat left me. I am alone and adrift at sea. No phone calls, no texts, no emails—nothing as simple as a note on my door asking if I’m all right. Nothing but this vast, dark, and empty sea that surrounds me with land far, far from sight. I am alone.

“But you don’t need anybody, right?”

“Fuck off.”

Eventually, I got used to it. Eventually, it became comfortable. Eventually, it took more effort to sustain a relationship than I have to give. If I can’t count on the people I once loved to be there for me when I needed them most, then who can I count on? And what’s the point of continuing to try? What’s the point of anything anymore? Eventually, I reached the point where trying to sustain a relationship, or human contact at all if I’m being completely honest, just didn’t seem worth the effort. If those I love most can’t be bothered, then there’s no point.

I’m done trying.

“There. Finally. The truth. Don’t you feel better having gotten that off your chest?”

“Leave me alone.”

“It’s time. You know it’s time.”

The gun sits on the floor beside my box of memories, the candlelight glinting dully off the burnished steel. I take a final, deep swallow then throw the bottle across the room. It hits the wall with a hard thud but doesn’t break and loudly rolls across the floor.

My hand trembling, I pick up the gun and stare at it. Honestly, I thought I’d be more scared than I am right now. But the fear I felt earlier has faded. Right now, I don’t feel much of anything other than a sense of resignation. A sense of the inevitable. Somehow, I think my path has always been meant to end right here.

“It’s time.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I say.

Holding the gun by my side, I get up and walk over to the picture of her I’d thrown across the room. I shake out the shards of glass the pull the picture out of the frame. A tear splashes on her face and slides down the glossy picture. Carrying it back, I sit back down and set the photo on the ground in front of me, then set the picture of my tribe on the ground next to it. A faint smile curls my lips as I take in all the faces, letting myself revel in the memories and the emotions they inspire one last time.

“Get on with it.”

“Shut up!” I roar, my voice echoing around the empty room around me.

My eyes drift to the gun in my hand and that familiar tide of despair rises up inside of me. I try to hold onto the love and happiness I once felt but unseen hands reach up from the darkness and pull me deeper. My heart is swamped by despondency, washing away everything else, leaving me as cold and empty as I’ve been for so long.

“Do it.”

Tears race down my face as I raise the weapon in a hand trembling so hard, I almost drop it twice. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath to steady myself. My hand stops shaking, and my racing heart begins to slow. I’m ready.

“Do it.”

The music issuing from my phone dims and the sharp chime of an incoming text startles me so bad, I nearly drop the gun again. It’s been so long since I received a text, I almost didn’t recognize the sound.

“Ignore that. Do it. Now. You’re ready.”

“Shut up. I have time,” I murmur.

Curious, I lay the gun in my lap and pick up my phone and when I open my texts, my heart stops when I see the message from the girl I’ve loved my entire life. The girl I lost so long ago.

Hey, I know it’s been a long time, but I just had a strange feeling and wanted to check in on you. Can we talk?

“You have a choice to make.”

I look at the man standing beside the road and frown. He’s familiar to me and yet, he’s not. Studying the man is like trying to grasp a wet fish—every time I think I have a handle on who he is, it squirts out of my hands and wriggles away. I suppose it doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m here.

“You must choose,” he says.

“I don’t understand,” I admit.

“There are two paths you may travel,” he replies. “You must choose one.”

The landscape around me is lush and green. Birds flit from the branches overhead, their song filling my ears as sunlight filters down through the canopy above us. My head is muzzy and I feel as if I’m walking through a dreamscape. And before me lay two paths, one branching to the left and the other to the right.

I lean forward, looking closely, but can’t see very far down either path. From the one on the left though, I get a strong sense of the familiar. A sense of comfort from that familiarity envelops me. I turn to the right. The path forward is cold and unknown. I don’t know why, but it fills me with a sense of dread.

“What’s down that path?” I ask, pointing to the left.

“That is the path you know,” he answers.

“And that?” I ask, pointing to the right.

“That is the path you don’t know.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“You must choose,” he says. “One path or the other.”

The warm familiarity of the path on the left draws me forward. It beckons me. I take a step toward it then pause and look to the other path. The fear of what’s down that road sweeps over me, making me shudder. That feeling of dread churns like a hurricane in my belly.

Turning away from it, I step to the left. And as I walk, I comfort myself with the knowledge that familiar is better than the cold and terrifying uncertainty of the unknown.

* * * * *

“You have a choice to make.”

Battered and bruised, I shuffle along until I find myself at the crossroads once more. The forest around me is dim and shrouded in gloom. The song of the birds is faint. The familiar-yet-unfamiliar-man stands at the side of the road, motioning to the two paths before me again. As it was before, the path to the left promises the familiar. The comfortable. The known. The path to the right remains cold and opaque. It’s just as unknown and frightening as the last time.

I turn to him. “I don’t want to choose.”

“You must.”

“Why?”

“Because you cannot stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Everybody must make a choice,” he replies.

With a sigh, I step to the left, toward the known and the familiar. As I do, the man stares at me with what looks like an expression of disapproval on his face.

“What?” I ask. “Is this the wrong way?”

“Is it?” he asks. “That’s for you to decide.”

I look at the path I know, and the memories come rushing back. The abuse. The hurt. The betrayals by both friends and lovers. I remember the lies. The deceptions. I feel the stinging mortification of every failed relationship. The sharp rebukes that followed every time I disappointed my loved ones.

I remember being made to feel unsafe, unvalued, and unloved by those who should have loved me best. I remember it all with crystal clarity and am still gripped by the bitter and unrelenting pain. Even worse, I feel the shame and humiliation I know is not mine to carry, but am burdened by it all the same. The vast, cold emptiness in my heart has become my constant companion.

As the memories and the feelings that come with them collide in my brain, I take a step to the right and pause. Life on the known path wasn’t without its moments of joy though, right? There were moments of tenderness and care. And even moments of pure, unfettered happiness. Brief and sparse as those moments were, I can’t discount them. Right? They matter, don’t they? Those moments should count for something, shouldn’t they?

“Choose,” he demands.

I stare as far down the path on the right that I can, gazing into the unknown. I hesitate, my body racked by the pain of ten thousand wounds. It’s familiar. In a way, the hurt is comfortable. At least the pain I feel is known to me. I turn away, trudging along the well-worn ruts I know so well instead, consoling myself with the knowledge that at least I know what to expect.

* * * * *

Bloodied and broken, I fall to my knees in the middle of the road, wrapped in a cloak of sheer agony. The forest around me is darker than a moonless night and utterly silent. My body is a patchwork of cuts and bruises, a thousand wounds spilling my blood into the dirt beneath me. The familiar-yet-unfamiliar-man stares at me, his eyes cold.

“I don’t want to choose,” I say, tears blurring my vision.

“You must.”

“Please.”

“Choose.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Everybody must choose,” he says. “Nobody is permitted to remain here. Everybody must continue moving forward.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Choose.”

Tears stream down my face and every movement is an exercise in torture. As I get to my feet, my heart is caught in the razor wire of betrayal, my soul cut to pieces by the blades of deception and lies held by family, friends, and lovers. Blood runs down my body like rainwater, pooling beneath my feet.

The two paths lie before me once more, and I’m faced with the same choice I’ve had to make so many times already. The path on the left is known to me. It beckons me with its warm sense of familiarity. But I’ve gotten used to it. In some strange way, the pain is comfortable. It’s become part of me. The other path, the unknown and what it might hold, terrifies me.

“A thousand times, you have been here before,” he says with a heavy sigh. “And a thousand times, you have chosen the same path.”

“It’s what I know.”

“Do you ever wonder if there is something more?” he asks. “Don’t you ever feel as if you deserve something better?”

“Are you saying the path I don’t know is better?”

He shrugs. “I did not say that.”

“What should I do?”

“You should make a choice.”

Do I deserve better? Should I want more? Those thoughts are as foreign and terrifying to me as what lay down the road to the right. My role in life has always been defined by the wants of others. I’ve never given thought to what I want, always putting the needs of others over my own, regardless of the consequences. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how I’ve assumed it will always be. That’s always been the path I’ve walked.

“It is time to make your choice,” he says.

The path to the left is known to me. I have become so accustomed to the deception and disappointment, to the lies and betrayals, and to the pain they bring, they’ve become like a second skin to me. The unknown offers no safety, no protection, and no guarantees that anything will be better. In fact, it could all be worse. Far worse. And the pain could cut even deeper.

It could destroy me entirely.

The man’s questions continue to ring in my ears though. Questions I’ve never had the courage to ask myself… don’t I deserve more? Don’t I want better? Or is it better to simply embrace the familiar? To walk the familiar path. Is it better to lean into the pain you already know is coming because it’s expected and there are no surprises. Because it’s comfortable.

My heart racing, I take a step forward…

* * * * *

I approach the crossroads once more. I’ve got a few new scars and bruises, but the pain that’s been my constant companion for so long has ebbed. The scars that once crisscrossed my body have faded, leaving nothing but the faint traces of memory.

The forest around me is bright and filled with the sunlight piercing the canopy overhead and echoes with the song of a thousand birds. The familiar-yet-unfamiliar-man stands beside the road watching as I approach, the suggestion of a smile curling his lips. And as I draw closer, I’m startled to find I recognize him. He is me. I am him.

“You have a choice to make,” he says.

Before me lay three paths. The left is well-worn with deep ruts as far as I can see. It echoes with a sense of familiarity. It’s a path I know all too well, and it continues to beckon me with its false promises of comfort and safety. It beckons me with false warmth. It beckons me with the honey-sweet lies of a false lover.

A single line of footprints is softly imprinted in the dirt of the path in front of me, leading away into the distance. It fills me with memories of my last passing and a sense of fond familiarity as well as a few darker recollections. It, too, beckons me forth with its suggestions of the familiar. With the comfort of the known.

And to my right is a new path. An unknown path. It holds no memories. It offers no promises or certainty. It offers me no safety. It beckons me forth with nothing but the possibility of something new. Something different. Something better.

“You have a choice to make,” he says.

A twinge of uncertainty ripples through my heart, but a smile touches my lips as I turn to the right…

My grandfather—Papa—looks down and sighs heavily then grunts as he sits down on the log beside me, a reminder that Papa is getting older. I don’t like to think about that. He knows whenever I’m having some trouble, I like to come out to this spot in the woods. I like the peace and quiet out here as well as the scent of the forest around me. This is where I come when I need to get my head together.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply.

He hands me the caramel Frappuccino he’d picked up—something he always does when he knows I’m having a tough time—and together, we sit side by side in silence for a little while. I take comfort in his presence. Always have. After my parents died, he took me in and raised me. He’s been a father, friend, and confidant. Papa understands me in ways nobody else does. In ways nobody else ever could. Papa is a great man.

“So, do you want to talk about it?” Papa asks.

I shrug. “He beat me again and rubbed it in my face. It made me mad.”

“The science fair?”

I nod. “Yeah. He took first place. I got second. Again.”

For years, I’ve been trying my best in everything, only to come in second to Cole Vaughn. Everything I do—grades, athletics, everything—he does better. Every. Single. Time. Worse, as we’ve gotten older and that gap between us has become more pronounced, Cole has started making fun of me for it. He’s started calling me “Number Two,” a not so subtle reference to the bodily function. Papa thought I was being too sensitive about it, but for a week straight, he and his friends left piles of shit in my locker at school just to make sure I understood the dig.

“You can’t let people get under your skin like that, you know,” Papa says. “They’re not worth it. Letting them push you into acting out rather than remaining in control is only going to lead to you getting into trouble. Use your head, not your heart, kid.”

“I know that. Up here,” I say, tapping my head. “But when he was in my face, laughing at me for losing to him again, I just… it made me really mad.”

“Believe me, I get that. There have been plenty of times I’ve been pushed to the edge like that. But you have to learn to control your emotions.”

“How did you learn to do that?”

“My father taught me. My father taught me everything I know,” he says. “And now, I’m trying to pass on all of that knowledge to you.”

“I’m trying. I really am,” I tell him.

“I know you are. It’s a process. I know you’ll get there though. You’re smart. Driven. And you’re incredibly talented. You’ve got more talent than I had at your age,” he says.

Papa spends a lot of time teaching me the ways of his world. He shows me different ways of seeing things and is helping me learn to focus. To use my head and not my heart. The lessons obviously don’t always take, but he’s never deterred and continues trying to help me learn the ways he was taught when he was a kid.

“You know, when I was about your age, I had a problem with a kid just like this Cole idiot. Peter was his name,” Papa says. “He always thought he was better than me at most everything. Wasn’t shy about telling me either. He and his buddies made a sport out of bullying me.”

“What did you do?”

“Swallowed down all that anger and focused on myself,” he replies. “I made something of myself. I became a success in life. Made so much money that it freed me up to live my life the way I wanted and to do the things I wanted to do. I made sure Peter knew it and ended up having the last laugh. But it all started with learning how to control myself.”

“Do you want to know what my father told me when I was in a position almost exactly like you’re in right now?” Papa asks. “Honestly, it’s the thing I think that helped me the most.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That comparing yourself to anybody is only letting them win. In my case, Peter was bigger and at the time. Smarter. For whatever reason, he blossomed before I did. But in time, I got bigger. Stronger. Smarter. I came into my own later, in my own time. We all do. You need to remember that no two people are going to blossom at the same time, kid,” Papa says. “Yeah, maybe Cole is getting the better of you right now, but in time, you’re going to come into your own and you’ll be getting the better of him and those like him. I promise you that. We all bloom differently. Look at JK Rowling… she didn’t bloom until her fifties.”

“Yeah, but she’s a bigoted asshole, so…”

Papa laughs. “Just stop comparing yourself to this guy. Or anybody, for that matter. It’s only going to stunt your own growth. It’s only going to pull your focus away from where it needs to be. Focus on yourself and yourself alone.”

We both fall silent again as I absorb his words. I look up through the branches of the trees and see the fiery orange and red hues of the sky overhead left behind by the retreating sun. This time of day when the day is giving way to night, it’s like we’re caught between two different worlds. It’s a feeling I understand.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Papa asks.

I nod. “I do. I understand. And I’m sorry I lost control today. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Good. That’s good,” he says. “You’re destined to do some great things in this world, kid. You just need to learn to use your head and control your emotions because you’ll never get there if you lose control like this. That’s all. I know you can do it.”

“Thanks, Papa.”

“Are you good?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

I give him a smile. “I’m sure.”

Papa pats my leg and gets to his feet. “Go ahead and finish cleaning this up,” he says. “I’m grilling some steaks tonight and we can talk about this some more if you want.”

“Sounds good,” I reply. “I’ll be there in a bit.”

I take a sip of my drink and watch as Papa heads back down the trail that leads to the house. He doesn’t move as well as he used to. He’s a little stiffer. I don’t like thinking about his mortality or living in a world without him. But there’s a small piece of me that’s excited, knowing that one day, I’ll step into his shoes and build on the family legacy. A legacy started by his father and one that Papa furthered. One day, I’ll make my own mark and build on that legacy too.

After finishing up my drink, I throw it into the hole beside me. It bounces off Cole’s face and rolls to the side. Picking up the shovel and before filling in the rest of the hole, I pause and look down at his wide, lifeless eyes and smile. Yeah, I lost control this time. But I have to admit, watching the life draining from his eyes as I killed him felt good.

Really, really good.

“Have you always been unhappy?”

She shifts in her seat and looks at me with irritation on her face. “I’m not unhappy.”

“I think if you weren’t unhappy, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

“We’re here because this is where you people wanted me.”

“You people? What people are those?”

“Don’t pretend you’re not one of them. I know,” she says. “I can tell. I can always tell.”

I sit back and tap the end of my pen against the open notebook in my lap, studying her for a moment. She folds her arms over her chest and draws her knees up to her chest, sinking back into the chair. Lowering her gaze, she seems to retreat further into herself. Her affect is dull. Emotionless. When she speaks, her voice is monotone. Robotic.

“Why don’t you tell me about a time when you were happy,” I say.

She shrugs and chews on the corner of her thumbnail, the bed ragged and bloody. “I was always happy. I was a happy kid growing up.”
“And when you met your husband?”

Her face lights up and a wide smile crosses her face. It’s the first hint of emotion I’ve seen from her since we sat down. The sudden change in her demeanor encourages me to keep going, thinking I may have found a way through the wall she’s built around herself.

“Oh, we were always so happy. We met in college—he was a mechanical engineer, and I was working on my law degree,” she says. “We were inseparable from the start. I don’t think I ever really believed in soulmates until I met him.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“It was. Everything was perfect,” she says, her face still glowing.

“I remember being a little girl and all I wanted was to get married. I had my dream wedding all planned out in my head and everything.”

“And did it turn out like you’d imagined?”

Her gaze was far away, her mind drifting back through time. “It was even better than I ever imagined it could be. It was better than any fairy tale. Our whole marriage has been. It truly seemed like it was only getting better over the years. Except…”

Her voice trailed off and she looked away, her face tightening and something akin to sadness flooding her eyes. The smile fades from her lips and that look of cold detachment returns.
“Except what?” I say gently.

“I always wanted to be a mother,” she replies, her voice softer than a whisper. “I used to dream about it all the time.”
“What happened?”

“We tried. For a lot of years, we tried. But it never happened. We could never get pregnant,” she says, her voice as listless as her expression. “We just thought it wasn’t meant to be so we both threw ourselves into our careers. And we started to drift apart.”

“But you did get pregnant.”

A wan smile flickered across her lips, and her expression grew darker. “It was a miracle. It was our miracle child. It brought us back together and for a while, everything was as magical as it had been in the beginning. We were so happy.”

I can see the cracks starting to form in her emotional dam. I just need to open them up a little more. I need to get her to talk. To let it all out. But I know I have to be careful in how I go about it because she’s so good at reining it in and repairing the breaches. We’ve been at this for weeks, and this is the closest I’ve come to getting her to open up to me. I just need to push her a little bit more.

“And when your son was born, how were things for you as a family? Were you happy? Did you feel that sense of fulfilment you’d hoped for?” I ask.

She goes back to gnawing on her thumb, her face falling and her eyes shimmering with tears. She looks like a broken woman. A woman who’s been completely shattered and has no clue how to put herself back together. But I can see she wants to speak. Wants to get everything burdening her heart and soul off her chest. She’s terrified though. I can’t say in all the years I’ve been doing this that I’ve ever seen somebody as afraid as she is right now.

“At first,” she says. “At first, things were amazing. It was everything I’d always hoped it would be. A good husband, a family… I was living my dream. I didn’t even know I could be that happy. Part of me didn’t feel like I deserved it. Maybe I didn’t. But I was determined to hang onto that happiness as long as I could.”

“When did things begin to change?”

“When our son turned six,” she tells me.

“What changed?”

The tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and raced down her pale cheeks as her lips quivered. She angrily wiped them away, quietly muttering to herself. She takes a couple of moments, seeming to be gathering herself and when she looks up again, her face is a mask of dark anger. Resentment. And mixed in with it all is a glimmer of righteousness.

“What changed was that I realized he was not my son,” she growls.

“But he was your son.”

“He wasn’t. He was… replaced.”

“You’ve mentioned that before. Can you tell me what you mean?”
Her entire body shaking, she chokes back a sob as the tears roll down her face unchecked.

“He looked like my son. Sounded like my son. He even smelled like my son…”

Her words taper off again and I give her a minute to pick the thread back up, but her gaze remains fixed on the floor as the tears continue to cascade down her face. I lean forward, trying to draw her attention, but she won’t meet my eyes.

“That’s all because he was your son,” I say.

She shakes her head. “He wasn’t.”

“How can you say that?”

“He was just different,” she says. “He looked too much like my son. He sounded too much like him. Haven’t you ever seen something that looks so real, you know it has to be artificial? Like those AI pictures. Deepfakes or whatever they call them? They look real, but you know they’re not. That was it. That was my son… some AI creation or something. He wasn’t real.”

“He was, though,” I say gently. “He was and—”

“NO!” she roars. “He wasn’t my son. I don’t know what that thing was, but it wasn’t my son! You people replaced my son with… something.”

“I can promise you nobody replaced—”

“You monsters did. And nobody will tell me what you did with my son. With my real son!”

As the last syllable slips from her mouth, she starts to beat the sides of her head with her closed fists, screaming so loud, it hurts my ears. She continues to bellow with rage as she pulls her hair so hard, I’m afraid she’s going to rip chunks of it right out of her head.

Then without warning, she launches herself at me. I flinch backward, the notebook in my hand falling to the floor with a hard thump, scattering the pictures of the young boy floating face down in the filled bathtub all over the place. As the guards who’d been standing behind her grab the woman by the shoulders, she screams and thrashes wildly, howling like she’s in agony.

But then her eyes fall on one of the pictures, and she seems to deflate. The fight goes out of her, and she begins to sob wildly once more as they drag her from the room. I listen to the sound of her cries receding as they carry her down the hallway, taking the woman back to her cell.

When she’s gone, I drop to a knee and pick up the scattered photos, pausing to look at the one in my hand. In it, the boy has been pulled from the tub and is lying on the bathroom floor. His blue eyes are wide open and staring into nothing. His mouth hangs open, and his skin is an unnatural shade of blue. He’d been in the tub for hours after the woman had drowned him before he’d been found. His face is round, chubby, and perfect.

Too perfect.

The woman is right. It sounds strange to admit, but he does look too human. Somewhere, deep in our lizard brains, we can tell between something real and something artificial. That probably goes double when it comes to something we’ve given birth to. The woman felt something was wrong. Felt that something was off. She felt it down in her bones.

Something in her instinctive mind told her that the “boy” wasn’t truly her son. And she was right. That’s something we’ll have to consider and find a way to correct before our next series of tests.

One day, no parent will ever have to feel the bitter grief of losing a child again. We'd gotten a lot right, but our effort wasn't perfect. But creation is an act of sheer will, and perfection takes time. I’m confident we’ll get there, though.

Eventually.

Life has bitten me in the backside and unfortunately, I have to take my second bye.

This is, I guess, a bit of fictionalized biography. I hope you enjoy it.

* * * * *

“I used to be confident. Strong. I used to have a lot of friends and I really believed in myself. Do you remember that?”

As usual, he says nothing, his casual indifference—his cruelty—the defining characteristic of our entire relationship. I stare at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing my own face. Reaching up with the tips of my fingers, I trace the delicate lines that had formed at the corners of my eyes—eyes that had long ago lost their luster and that mischievous sparkle people always used to notice.

“When did I get so old?”

My voice is low and scratchy, little more than a whisper, and even I can hear the sadness that colors my words. It shames me. My voice used to carry excitement and a vibrant sound of life. Now, it makes me sound like a person just marking time. A person merely going through the motions and checking off the days until my inevitable demise.

“I used to be happy—we used to be happy. Do you remember that?”

I wait for a response but unsurprisingly, don’t receive one. Having the hard conversations isn’t something he’s ever liked to do. In the beginning, we talked about everything. For hours. We would talk literally until the sun came up. I was so caught up in all those hearts-and-flowers feelings that mark the early part of a relationship. That lighter than air feeling that comes when you’re getting to know somebody new, somebody you connect with on some deep level. Those butterflies in my tummy blinded me to so many things. So many things.

It’s only now, as I reflect on these last handful of years, that I can see while we talked about everything, we actually talked about nothing. We certainly never talked about the important things when they mattered most. And we absolutely never talked when we had problems because in his eyes, we never had problems. The problem was always me.

It’s only in hindsight that I can see he always managed to pass off the blame to me. Worse, I accepted it. I didn’t see it at the time, but I carried all the weight of our problems. And I guess that’s because somewhere deep inside me, when he said everything was my fault, I believed him. I believed if I could just be better somehow, or be a little bit different, the problems we had would simply disappear. That we would be happy again.

“When did everything change? When did it all go wrong?”

I wait, hoping he’ll say something. Hoping that he’ll give me some acknowledgement that not everything was my fault. I keep hoping, as I’d been hoping for years, that he would take his share of the blame for everything going so wrong. I hear a faint mutter from the other room, but it’s too low for me to make out what he’s saying. I sigh and finish with my hair.

People have asked me why I don’t just leave, but it’s not that easy. He won’t let me go. I’ve tried. But every time, he pulls me back in. I haven’t had the strength to stand my ground and have the courage of my convictions. He’s made me believe that I’m nothing. Less than nothing. He’s made me believe that I’m lucky anybody loves me at all.

“This isn’t love though,” I say softly. “It never has been.”

I used to be strong and confident. But years of being gaslit and being forced to carry weight that wasn’t mine to bear have taken a toll. It’s broken me down and now, when I look at myself in the mirror, I only see a shell of the person I used to be. All I see is a hollowed out carcass. I’m empty and numb. I’m not capable of feeling anything anymore.

I don’t want to be this way. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. And I’m exceptionally tired of carrying weight that’s not mine to carry. I want to be free. I want to live. I want to feel strong and confident again. I want to be surrounded by friends. But more than anything, I just want to get back to that person I used to be.

So, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I finish putting on my makeup and give myself a smile in the mirror. It’s a smile that feels real and puts a sparkle in my eye I haven’t seen in a very long time. Grabbing my bag, I walk into the bedroom and look down at him. He’s splayed out on the bed, murmuring between loud, rattling snores as he sleeps. I watch the shadows flickering across his face from the pair of pillar candles burning on the nightstand.

I look at the mostly empty bottle of vodka that he’d dropped to the floor and wonder how much of the phenobarbital I mixed into it he ingested. Probably enough that he’ll be asleep for a while yet. Taking one last sweep of our small house, I make sure all the windows and doors are buttoned up tight and laugh. He always chastised me whenever I left windows open at night, which right now, I’m finding a little ironic.

That done, I walk into the kitchen and disconnect the line that leads into the stove and listen to the hiss of gas escaping for a moment. Smiling to myself, I grab my bag and walk out the door, making sure to lock it behind me, then walk into the night, eager to begin my new life… by getting back to the old me.

Life is a journey and so I set sail. For the good or the ill, I hereby declare my intention to participate in the current season of LiveJournal Idol...

Current Mood: curious

Profile

inkstainedfingertips

December 2025

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
	1	2	3	4	5	6
7	8	9	10	11	12	13
14	15	16	17	18	19	20
21	22	23	24	25	26	27
28	29	30	31

Syndicate

Page Summary

Style Credit

Style: Dark Purple for Funky Circles by ninetydegrees
Resources: Smoke Curl

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags

Page generated Dec. 26th, 2025 08:12 pm

1 Step Forward, 12 Steps Back

Life Interrupted

Recent Entries

Declaration of Intent

Idol Finale

Idol Prompt 18: Only Those Who Do Nothing Never Fail

Idol Prompt 17: Wabisabi

Idol Prompt #16: Fool’s Errand

Idol Prompt 15: The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

Idol Prompt 14: “A genius is the one most like himself”

Idol Prompt 13: Omakase

Idol Prompt 12: From the Wreckage

Idol Prompt 11: Haver

Idol Prompt 10: Synesthesia

Idol Prompt 9: It’s Not Bragging If It’s True

Prompt #8: Bycatch

Prompt #7: Hikikomori

Prompt #6: The Path Is Made By Walking

Prompt #5: Oubaitori

Prompt #4: Uncanny Valley

Prompt #3: Without You

Prompt #2: Sankofa

LiveJournal Idol