The heaviness of the situation permeates even through her drunken thoughts. When did I lose control? She thinks. When did I become the villain in this story?
The air in the bedroom is stale with a metallic smell and the ruby red curtains drown out every inch of light the rising sun is casting through the windows. They rented the cabin for Thanksgiving break because it looked astonishingly beautiful on the advertising pictures. The living room with the mahogany furniture, the built-in fireplace, and the dark wooden beams make the heart of the house. Just minutes before, the four friends had played a very intense Monopoly game in front of a cackling fire there, while finishing bottle after bottle of overpriced wine – courtesy of Ben’s father, of course. But the living room lays deserted now, the game still set up and stained glasses waiting to be filled again. They will not continue, cannot continue, because she just killed her best friend and the silence in the dark bedroom feels like time is frozen.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I didn’t…” She trails off. But I did, didn’t I? She cannot finish the sentence. It is a lie, she knows it and they know it too. She looks up and her eyes lock with his. Drops of unshed tears pool in his ocean blue eyes and she averts her gaze.
“Why did you?” he asks, his voice wavering. Was it because he was just as intoxicated as she was? Or was that genuine regret that she heard?
She swirls her glass and the red wine inside moves in calming circles. She wonders how he can’t see it the way she sees it. Sacrifice for their secret. Sacrifice and save them all. She simply shrugs her shoulders. If he doesn’t get it by now, what is the point of explaining?
“Why don’t you say something?” The first tear breaks free and his hands start trembling. “For fucks sake. Say something, don’t just sit there!”
She turns to Leo standing a few feet behind Ben. He looks significantly calmer than Ben does. “You do it.” She says and tips her chin at the gun in Ben’s trembling hands.
His brown eyes like liquid caramel stay fixed on her as he takes a stop forward and gently wraps his hands around Ben’s before taking the gun from him. A wave of relief floods through her. At least, Ben won’t be the one pulling the trigger. “Thank you,” she whispers. Leo curtly nods once in acknowledgement and she sees his eyes softening.
Leo casually holds the gun in one hand at his side. The barrel is no longer pointed at her and she wonders if she could run before he can react but shoves the thought quickly aside. As if he can sense where her thoughts have gone, he visibly strengthens his grip on the trigger.
She looks down at her hands. The fresh blood is smeared all over them and sticks to the glass of wine she is still holding, the crimson of the blood and the red wine almost indistinguishable. Her free hand leaves red smudges on her tights where she has restlessly fisted and opened her hand over and over again. “Now what?” she asks no one in particular. It seems they have reached an impasse. She is very well aware that she won’t leave this room alive but neither Leo nor Ben seem eager to end it.
“Explain yourself. Why did you do it?” Ben presses again. His demeanor has changed, he appears calm now, even the tears have stopped flowing, only his nervous hand running through his blond hair giving away his distress.
She swallows visibly. “I’m not vicious, you know that, right?” she asks them. She turns to her left where strands of long, blond hair stained crimson are fanned out across the bedsheet. She is grateful she cannot see Lauren’s face right now. She picks up a few strands of Lauren’s hair and plays with them. Neither of them react.
“She knew.” She says now. “She knew and she wouldn’t have kept quiet much longer.”
“What did she know? What could she have possibly known that justifies murder, Nell?” Ben spits out. Red creeping up his face shaking with anger.
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend otherwise. No need to tiptoe around anymore” She can’t look at him, not when his vexation is almost palpable. Why doesn’t he see that I just saved us all?
“How did she find out?” Leo intervenes and takes a step toward Lauren’s lifeless body. She wants to be grateful for his level-headedness but something about his actions unsettle her.
“She overheard us talking about Eric’s -” her eyes wander to Ben again “…accident the other day.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Nell!” Benn yells now and grips the edge of the dresser until his knuckles turn white.
“Get it together, Ben. I can’t have to people going crazy now.” Leo commands and plays with the trigger of the gun. “We invited Eric to join the three of us for a little party fun. He drank too much. He died. It was alcohol poisoning.” He recites like they had done so many times before since it happened. She repeated it over and over again until her memory became so distorted that even she cannot tell where the truth starts and the lie ends. Something is not right. Something feels off.
“That is not what happened and you fucking know it!” Ben’s emotions are out of control now. Like a glass of water finally spilling over after the break of surface tension. “You forced Vodka down that poor kid’s throat until he choked on it, Leo. You made us your accomplices. All that bullshit about secrets bringing us closer together. Now look what you made Nell do! Look at her!”
Leo shakes his head. “I didn’t make her do anything. And I didn’t force you to keep our secret either.” His eyes land on her face and he looks wild now. He won’t let me go now. I’m the unpredictable link. All I wanted was to protect…
“You killed your best friend to keep that goddamn secret. Was it really worth it?” Ben asks and at this moment, she realizes that he will never understand her. In his eyes, she is the villain now, it doesn’t matter what she thinks. All her attempts to keep them all close and safe were in vain.
“Yes.” She meets his gaze. “I would do anything to protect…” She hesitates, “us.” That’s when she hears the gunshot and all she wishes for is to play Monopoly and drink wine one last time with her three best friends in the cabin in the woods that they rented for Thanksgiving break.
The day had been unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the usual hum of activity in the camp. Sam, a seasoned soldier with a keen sense of danger, couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease that settled over him like a dark cloud. The birds had stopped their cheerful chirping, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath, as if nature itself sensed the impending storm.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain, Sam stood watch with a sense of foreboding gnawing at his insides. He couldn’t pinpoint the source of his apprehension, but years of combat had honed his instincts, and they were screaming a warning that he dared not ignore.
The enemy’s movements had been elusive, their tactics shrouded in mystery. But whispers among the ranks hinted at a large-scale offensive, a coordinated attack that would test the limits of their defenses. Sam’s gut told him that tonight would be the night, the night when the enemy would strike with deadly precision.
His mind raced with scenarios, each one more dire than the last. He pictured the chaos of battle, the deafening roar of gunfire, the cries of wounded comrades. And in the midst of this imagined chaos, a cold realization settled over him – the very real possibility that this could be his last stand.
But amidst the turmoil of his thoughts, a familiar image emerged, like a beacon of light in the darkness. Sarah’s face, etched with worry and love, appeared before him, her eyes filled with unspoken words of encouragement. It was as if she were there, by his side, lending him strength when he needed it most.
Sam’s thoughts drifted to their life together, the simple joys they had shared amidst the hardships of war. He remembered the day they had first met, her laughter tinkling like music in his ears. He remembered their wedding day, a moment of pure happiness amid the chaos of the world around them.
And then, as if on cue, memories of their unborn child flooded his mind – the tiny kicks he felt when he placed his hand on Sarah’s belly, the whispered conversations they had about their hopes and dreams for the future. It was this future, this fragile yet precious future, that fueled his resolve to keep fighting, to keep hoping, no matter the odds.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a fiery glow across the battlefield, Sam took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was to come. The enemy may be near, death may be looming on the horizon, but in that moment, surrounded by memories of love and longing, Sam found a courage that transcended fear.
The night wore on, the tension in the air palpable as the hours stretched into eternity. Sam stood vigilant, his senses on high alert, every nerve tingling with anticipation. And then, as if on cue, the first shots rang out, breaking the silence with a thunderous roar.
The enemy descended upon them like a swarm of locusts, their numbers overwhelming, their determination unmatched. Sam fought with a ferocity born of desperation, each blow fueled by the love he held for his family, for the life he had hoped to build with them.
But in the chaos of battle, amid the screams of the wounded and the dying, Sam felt a sudden stillness settle over him. A searing pain tore through his chest, and as he looked down, he saw the crimson stain spreading across his uniform.
However, just when it seemed all hope was lost, a squadron of reinforcements arrived, turning the tide of the battle in their favor. Sam’s injuries were severe, but he was alive. As Sam was carried away from the battlefield, his mind a whirlwind of pain and exhaustion, he clung to the image of Sarah and their unborn child, knowing that his fight was far from over. For his life was not defined by this moment of chaos and carnage; it was a tapestry woven with threads of courage, love, and an unwavering determination to see a future beyond the battlefield.
Why did he choose to be a hermit?
Could you call him a hermit? It’s unclear, but he obviously looks and walks like one. Dressed in a black sweatshirt and sunglasses, and standing as tall as a palm tree. When he walks, you can sense his presence in your surroundings. Who is this guy, you may ask? The story begins in a small boutique bookstore, where philosophers and those seeking to understand the meaning of human suffering gather. On one of these dusty shelves, a book named The Way of the Warrior stares at you, almost desiring to be collected, the black letters scream that there is something deep and dark happening in our human external and internal environment.
Who is the author of this book? That is when the actual storytelling begins. The Wayshower is an elderly giant who grew up in the small hamlet of Naples, Florida, United States. He was born through an unplanned pregnancy because his father was disloyal to his wife and had an affair with his mother. He grew up and attended an all-boys Catholic school. His father adored him, but his mother always disapproved of him because he asked too many questions. Religion did not answer any of his inquiries, as a small child, he became aware of the hypocrisy of some of the priests. He watched several priests in his church contradicting what they preached, such as compassion and caring for one another, while secretly doing awful things to young children. He observed as his close friends turned to drugs and drinking to cope with the trauma caused by their abuse. He was heartbroken to witness how the church clergy ignored the victims’ pain and suffering in order to protect the abusers.
The Wayshower quickly realized that something was horribly wrong with his environment. He would communicate with them, naming and addressing them directly. People disliked him because he was a wild, outspoken child. If he spotted someone being picked on, he would take action by defending the victim. He had no limitations; regardless of the person’s age, he had the courage to confront the perpetrator. As a result, he developed many enemies because people disliked being faced with their wrong doing; instead, they prefer to deny it, so he became very lonely. He gradually began to shut down and became silent, spending days at a time in the library or studying martial arts to cope with his loneliness.
He had more and more questions, such as why humans were so afraid of confronting themselves or being confronted about their wrongdoings by others. Why did people act in such dysfunctional ways when the truth was so obvious? What did they gain from perpetuating evil? What were their daily lives lacking that caused them to turn to these horrific acts? Why were people terrified of living in reality? Why would they rather entertain themselves with addictions like alcohol, pornography, and workweeks that weren’t even manageable for humans? Why didn’t people ask questions about their existence in reality?
These questions caused him to reflect internally. He wondered why he felt so empty? He found his companions among the books in the library. Many great authors like Sartre, Kirkegaard, Neitzsche, Rand and Almass wrote about much of the ailments he was experiencing. He became an expert in selecting books that explored these topics. Volumes began flying off the shelf, encouraging him to dive further into his own questions. They were giving him some answers and taught him to listen to his intuition. However, the Wayshower felt increasingly lonely as he read, because he couldn’t find people that would want to discuss these matters with him.
The Wayshower decided to take matters into his own hands and embarked on a journey, hoping that travel would provide him with answers. He traveled extensively around Europe, Asia, Africa, and Australia. Inorder to see if diverse cultures could provide answers to his questions, he began to build relationships with people who did not come from his genealogy or place of birth. Ironically, many of these relationships caused him hardship in the end, as he discovered they were unaware of how their wrongdoings impacted others.
Furthermore, he was guided by the spirit that all of us are born with but is suppressed by the pain that we accumulate from the world, leading us to deny this cosmic component of ourselves. This led him to places where he could improve himself. In addition, his travels and meetings with different people exposed him to the deception and denial that he and individuals endured for survival. One of the sad lessons of human manipulation he acquired was from his romantic engagement with a Taiwanese woman. Their relationship had its ups and downs. She became pregnant, but unbeknownst to him, she had a grand plan to exploit him and take his child away. The wayshower didn’t believe that she was capable of heinous acts, and when signs appeared, he ignored them, blinded by his feelings for her. Realizing he was oblivious, she took his child away through legal proceedings, which not only showed him her true colors, but also made the evil injustices in the court evident. As a result, he suffered from significant depression, and eventually learned that much of his despair stemmed from his dissociation from the darker parts of himself and others.
Later he returned from Asia, and arrived in the United States increasingly bitter and resentful. He realized that he preferred to be alone rather than with others. This loneliness caused him to intrapsychically begin studying more about his dark side and what humans were capable of. As time went on, he chose to be with people who were honest and conscious of their ability to do evil things, but chose otherwise. The Wayshower became bored since few others around him were willing to confront their own psychology of human capability. So, he decided to write a book about sitting with oneself and exploring how we relate to others and ourselves. He wrote about how to process dark emotions, such as anger, bitterness, and the evil that we are capable of. His book also shed light on the knowledge he gained through being alone with boredom and emptiness, and explained how to avoid succumbing to the unhealthy patterns many humans in the world had fallen victim to. Lastly, he decided to live in solitude with nature. During this time, he found a lover and continued to write about human suffering, to encourage individuals who were seeking to learn more about who they were. Moreover, being a hermit taught him the pain of loneliness, but ultimately, proved that facing reality and continuing to ask questions was what allowed him to survive the world’s madness.
I’m tired of laying in my bed thinking of you. It’s been 28 days since we’ve talked. My stomach is grumbling and I have lost all sense of time. My phone reads 9:05 pm. I’ve been laying here for two hours and I forgot to eat dinner. I want to go to our spot. Before I know it, I’m driving my dad’s old pickup truck to the drive-in.
The rain is coming down hard on my windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up. I’m going 85 on a darkened road, and I haven’t seen a single car. I almost missed it. I take the sharp left turn, almost running into the purple neon sign that is Amy’s Drive-In. I recognize the B sharp pitch of the sign creaking in the wind. We used to joke about the fact that only a coyote could make a sound like that. The first time we ever came here, you looked scared but I felt confident.
I pull into the drive-in and park in the front. I just planned on driving through for old time’s sake. I really don’t have a plan, but I might as well watch a movie if I’m here. I remember the first time we ever watched a movie here. It was the 40th anniversary of Halloween. It’s playing again tonight, only now it is the 41st anniversary. You were so scared you dropped your popcorn everywhere and I grabbed your hand to make you feel safe. I can’t stop thinking about you.
I can hear my stomach grumbling, and I remember why I am here. I get up to get food, but I can’t help but think about your order. I remember it by heart. A chocolate milkshake with a shot of coffee syrup, with whipped cream and popcorn. You never got tired of it. You always wanted it.
As I am walking to the stand, I see a large black car parked a few rows behind me. Yours. I feel a pounding beat in my chest. You’re with the largest group of people I have ever seen. You’re laughing the hardest I’ve ever seen you laugh, your brown jacket crinkling as your whole body moves. I assumed you’d be at home in your navy colored room struggling with the math homework that I always helped you with. But instead, you’re here.
“Are you going to order?” asks a low voice at the counter.
Confused, I turn around to see an old man with a blue short-sleeve shirt on. I’ve never seen him before. I wonder where the middle-aged woman that knows our order by heart is. I guess this old man must have been looking at me for a while.
“Oh, yeah.” I order with a shaky voice. The old man looks at me with an unreadable, questioning stare. My hand is shaking as I hand him some crumpled bills that I dig out of my pocket.
After what feels like an eternity, he asks, “Who’s that?”
“What?” I ask, with more hostility in my voice than I had intended.
He nods in the direction of the black car.
I roll my eyes back toward the black car.
“Who’s who?”
“The group of people you’re staring at.”
I look back at him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“Just go talk to her,” he says.
I will not be doing that. I haven’t talked to you in 28 days. Yet I haven’t forgotten a single moment we have shared. Still, I can’t let this old man win.
“Can I just have my food?” I say.
“Sure,” he says, casually sliding the food across the countertop.
Just as I am about to grab it, he says, “I hope you figure everything out.”
Who does this old man think he is inserting himself into my life? He’s like 90 and doesn’t even know me.
“We’re not in a relationship,” I snap back.
“Okay. Why’s that?” he asks casually.
“Because we broke up,” I say. Even though it’s been almost a month, it still hurts to say. “Why do you care anyways?”
“Because you look like you have something to say.” He pauses. “And I know what it is like to have something left unsaid.”
“Okay,” I say, still pretending not to care. I want to leave, but there’s something in the old man’s face that is confusing. He’s prying for details, but there’s a warmth in his eyes, maybe with a little bit of pain. I don’t want to feel that pain.
“Well, did you ever say what you needed to?” I say a bit rushed.
“No,” he shrugs. “And now I can’t.”
How must it feel to never get to feel someone again or speak to someone again? To have all of the things you needed to tell them bottled up inside forever.
“Why not?” I ask, unsure how to respond.
“I just can’t.” He pauses. “And I will regret that forever. But you still can.”
I nod in response.
“Thank you,” I say, unsure if I mean it. I pick up the food and walk back to my car.
There is a warmth in my smile, matching his. As I walk back to my car, I feel a sense of excitement to enjoy watching the movie, not the big black car.
“Thank you!” she yelled to the barista and cashier as she left and opened the door. The door quickly slammed shut after. Right in front of her was a small table with a glass top and wooden mahogany legs. A tree right next to the table hovered over the table, creating a nice shade and covering from the burning sun on a hot summer day. This seems like a good spot, she thought. I can do my work here. She typed and typed one click after another. Her hands ached and her eyes were stinging from staring at the screen. Pools of sweat dripped down from her forehead from the hot blazing sun. But with how uncomfortable she was, she knew she had to keep typing. Suddenly, she heard a thud and looked past her computer screen. A thin bony veiny hand was placed on the table. Her gaze followed the hand and the arm which led to a figure. This figure was tall and slender, towering over her. He was wearing a black cloak, ironic considering how hot it was outside. Chills were running down her spine as she noticed his pale face with his sunken cheekbones and his blue eyes. These eyes weren’t blue like the calm ocean. They were the intense light blue eyes that felt like sirens screaming in her head as he stared into her soul. She squirmed in her chair as the figure continued to hover over and stare at her.
“ Do you really think you belong here?” the figure said in a cold sharp tone.
“Uh-I’m sorry?” she stuttered. “D-Do I know you?”
“Oh my apologies,” the figure said and leaned back. “I never introduced myself, did I?”
He pulled his hand away from the table. “I’m Echo,” he said as he extended it towards her.
“Jade,” she said as she reluctantly shook Echo’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Well,” Echo said glancing over her screen. “What do you have going on there?”
Jade turned back to her computer. “I’m just doing some work.”
“Interesting,” Echo said as he pulled out a chair.
Jade knew how dangerous it would be to let Echo sit here. Her parents had lectured for hours on not interfering with strangers. Her teachers warned her to always go with her gut if she always felt uncomfortable around someone. But with all the warnings and the lectures, there was something in her that couldn’t say no.
“I’m curious,” Echo said as he sat down. “What are you writing your essay on?”
“I-it’s complicated,” Jade said with her eyes fixated on her computer.
“ I have time,” Echo said adjusting his seating. “Tell me.”
Jade could feel the aches in her body now. Her head was now throbbing maybe from the screen or the alarms in her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she closed her computer and placed it in her bag. “I’m not feeling too well, I think I’m going to head back home.”
Echo suddenly got up and walked towards her. “Let me help. I don’t want you to get hurt since you’re not feeling too we-.”
“No, it’s ok. I can walk home by myself.”
Jade quickly got up and placed her computer bag over her shoulder. She picked up the pastry and the half-full iced coffee and tossed it in the trashcan across the table. Echo was still sitting at the table looking ahead. Jade walked quickly but quietly for Echo not to notice. Her heart was racing. Her mind was spinning. Her legs eventually started hurting. She knew she had to keep walking but she was too tired to walk any further. Jade checked her phone. Her house was still 20 minutes away. A bench was right next to her. I could sit down for a couple minutes she thought. Jade looked around and sat down on the bench letting out a relieved sigh. She rummaged through her belongings checking if she was missing anything.
Suddenly, Jade heard a voice say “Hello”. She jumped and turned around. It was Echo. She quickly grabbed her bag and stood up. As Jade walked she could hear Echo’s footsteps behind her. Part of her wanted to run, but her legs were too weak. That’s it, she thought. I can’t keep trying to walk away. I need to say something.
“I’m sorry,” Jade said as she turned around to face Echo. “But why are you following me? What do you want from me?”
“Well,” Echo said and paused.
“You don’t even know me,” Jade said. “ I don’t even know you. Why are you trying to talk to me? Why did you even approach me in the first place?”
Echo stepped in closer to Jade. “You may not know me, but I know you.”
“W-what do you mean?” Jade stepped back.
“I know all about you, Jade. Where you go, your dream of becoming a journalist, and what you want to fulfill in life-”
“I’m sorry what? How do you know this?”
Echo reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. It was a syringe filled with a clear solution. He quickly grabbed Jade’s arm and stabbed it with the syringe.
“I know all about you, Jade,” he said.
Jade grimaced as her arm spurted bright red blood from the puncture of the syringe. She tried pulling her arm away, but she felt too weak. Echo grasped her arm even more tightly.
“I know how much you struggled in your classes,” he said, staring straight into her eyes and hovering over her. “I know your teachers said that you wouldn’t be able to make it. I know how your dad told you that you don’t do enough to become a journalist.”
Echo injected the solution into her arm. “ And the truth is, they’re right. You’re not smart enough. You don’t belong here. I know it. I know it because I see everything about you. I see how you’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough.”
Echo kept jabbing the syringe into Jade’s bright red bloody arm. “You don’t belong here. You never will.”
“Someone call 911!” someone yelled across the street. Echo quickly pulled the syringe out and let go of Jade’s arm. He left and disappeared onto the sidewalk.
Jade tried to stand, tracing Echo’s path as he left her. She wobbled and fell straight to the ground. I don’t understand she thought. I shouldn’t feel this limp with just my arm being wounded. She crawled with all her might. One arm reaching out followed by a leg pushing behind her to give her enough strength. She saw a man running towards her. Her vision blurred before she got a good look at him. Can’t give up she thought. I need to…. Her mind blanked before she got to finish that thought.
Jade opened her eyes and looked up at the bright overhead lights. Her arm felt sore but she could finally see. She checked to see her arm was fully bandaged, and she was wearing a green hospital gown and lying in bed. She felt two pads stuck to her forehead connected to wires. She tried taking them off but they stuck like a leech sucking onto her body. She sighed, dropped her arm, and looked up back at the ceiling. A thought popped up in her head. Do you really think you belong here? She felt chills running down her spine. You’re not smart enough. You don’t belong here. You will never make it. Jade cowered and tried covering her ears. You’re not good enough. She closed her eyes shut and saw Echo, hovering over and staring at her. You will never make it, she could hear him say. You’ll never be good enough. He never stopped echoing in her head.
“Stop it!” Jade screamed with tears streaming down her face. “Stop it, I want it to stop! I want this all to stop!”
Jade felt a touch on her arm. She could still see Echo grabbing her in her head.
“Just let me go! Please, I want this to stop!” she screamed again.
“Honey,” said a voice Jade heard outside her head. She opened her eyes and saw a hand placed gently on her bandaged arm. She looked up. It was her mother struck with fear and surrounded by nurses scribbling on their notepads. “Are you okay?”
Day 2- 12/20/2034
For months now, Dad has been saying the world is going to shit. I have been watching the Doomsday Clock. Yesterday, the clock struck midnight, and the world went to shit. The major cities have all been hit, at least that’s what the news has been saying. Washington, NYC, London, Moscow, Tokyo. But not St. Louis. Who would want to bomb St. Louis. Our closest blast was Chicago, and the sun didn’t come out today. It was hidden behind a thick cloud of grey smoke, or smog, or fog. I don’t know the technical name. Dad’s relieved I was home from college when it happened; he’s heard the major roadways are being blocked off and people are going crazy. Warren keeps asking me if Christmas will still happen. He’s 15 and doesn’t care about the millions dead and dying, he just wants his new console. Mom and dad went to the store today to stockpile cat food and dry goods like we’re preppers. I think it’s dumb. Society isn’t going to collapse because of a few atomic bombs, the government probably has contingency plans.
Day 3 12/21
Olive won’t go outside today. Normally, she loves running in the barn after the field mice, but she won’t even step over the threshold. Her olive-green eyes seem dimmer today, and her white fur appears to be more patchy than usual. Mom said there were no mice today anyway. She spent all day in her barn painting. I began working on my homework, since Dad says we will be going back to school in January, and he doesn’t want me falling behind. The news station ran an alert recommending people to stay inside if possible, since apparently the air can burn your skin if you were too close to the blast. Radiation poisoning, I think. But dad says we don’t have to worry–we’re too far out in the country. No sun again today.
Day 7 12/25
It’s Christmas and Dad made his Christmas ham. We were supposed to visit his sister in Kansas, but our flights were cancelled days ago, and Dad says he doesn’t want to drive. It’s better to stay here, where it’s safe. Mom and Dad got Warren his new console and I got some new records and clothes. I also got some giftcards but everything is closed. Olive got a new cat tree, but she’s disinterested in everything. I got Mom a new paint set and Dad a fancy screwdriver, but I forgot to get the batteries that go with it. Dad went to the corner store to get them, but they were closed. He said they were just closed for Christmas, but I don’t believe him. I slept with Warren last night. It’s our Christmas tradition. We used to try and stay up to wait for Santa, but last night was different. His room was so quiet and we couldn’t hear any animals outside even when we opened the window.
Day 8 12/26
Warren and I went for a drive today. The town was so quiet and empty. Mr. Connors dog wasn’t in the front yard anymore, and we could see people staring at us through their windows. I guess they were taking the news more seriously than us. There was a line at the grocery store. We were going to stop, but Warren didn’t want to wait. Next to the grocery store was my old math teacher, Mr. Simmons. He held up a big sign with the word “REPENT” on it in red lettering. I slowed down to wave at him, but he looked right through me. Dad was right, people are going crazy.
Day 9 12/27
I found myself working on homework today, even though I don’t think we are going back to school. I wonder if we will have to fight with the school to get a refund of this semesters tuition. I’m not sure what to do anymore. I don’t want to listen to the radio, and none of the tv channels are working. At least we have electricity. Even without the sun, the solar panels have saved up years of power from bright summer days. I started to read a book, “Tender is the Flesh,” but I had to put it down. The book is about a future society where humans are bred for food because all the animals are infected. It was disgusting. Who even comes up with an idea like that? Who would ever eat another person?
01/01/2035
Every year Mom says, “this year will be a good year,” but I don’t think this year will be good at all. The news says supply chains are down, and we should try to conserve food. There is still no sign of the sun, and temperatures at night get so cold. I’ve always hated this drafty house, but it’s even worse now. I plied up one of the floorboards in my bedroom last night and stashed away some chocolate and my last pack of smokes. Mom hates the habit, but dad can’t get mad since he does it too.
01/05/2035
I finished off the last of the Kraft mac and cheese today. We are on our last gallon of milk so I only used a little bit and replaced the rest with water. Dad went to the store today, and the clerk told him they haven’t been getting anymore shipments in. The shelves were barren, just like at the beginning of the COVID pandemic years ago. I don’t really remember it; I was just a baby then. I split the mac and cheese with Warren. I used to make it for the two of us when dad was working late, and mum was away. She used to travel all the time to different art galleries and exhibits until dad told her that she was missing our childhood so she settled down.
01/30/2035
We haven’t been to the grocery store in weeks. There’s nothing left there anyway. I also haven’t spoken to Warren in a few days. He said we should stop feeding Olive and save the cat food for ourselves. I hate him, even if he was joking. Olive is my cat. I rescued her, and we will stop feeding her over my cold, dead body. I don’t think we’re going back to school anytime soon. Still no sign of the sun; I wonder if it’s even up there anymore.
02/05/2035
A snowstorm hit us yesterday. Dad made Mom move her art supplies so we could put the cars in the barn. She was pissed, especially when Dad ran over one of her paintings. I don’t think it was an accident. The painting showed one of the drop sites, all yellow and red and burning. It made all of us uncomfortable. Besides, we don’t really know how it looks. One a month later and cities can’t still be burning, right? Communications went down sometime last week, but I can’t remember the exact day. All the days have been blending together. We still have electricity. Thank god for government mandated solar panels. Though, global warming isn’t our biggest concern now.
02/23/2035
Mom is dying. She went to the elementary school yesterday to pick up some more art supplies. On her way inside, Mr. Simmons shot her. He and some other nut jobs have been holed up in there. He thought she was trying to rob them. He still had enough sense in him to drive her home, but they stole the car before dropping Mom on the front porch. She’s been drifting in and out all day, and Dad says we need to go to the pharmacy or hospital for supplies. Fuck radiation, it’s people we should be worried about.
02/24/2035
Dad and I went to the pharmacy today. The front windows were smashed in, and there was barely anything left. There was a lingering smell of smoke and gunpowder in the air, but we managed to find some chips, pain medicine, and bandages. On the way out, we were almost stopped by a group of boys who I went to high school with. They were a few years older than me and talked about all the things they wanted to do to me. Dad was carrying so they left us alone. He has begun deadbolting the door.
02/27/2035
I wish I were like Warren. He’s not afraid. Maybe he’s too stupid to be afraid. I shouldn’t say that about my own brother, it’s terrible. I feel bad for even writing that. Sometimes, I just feel like he’s in his own world. I wish I had the privilege of being so ignorant. I’m so scared mom is going to die and then it’ll just be the three of us. I don’t know what I’d do. What if dad leaves too? And it’s just me and Warren? Could I even take care of him? I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore.
03/01/2035
The weather has begun to change, but not in the direction I want. It has gotten even colder out, and Mom is still sick. Her wound has stopped bleeding, but it’s an angry red and hot to the touch. Changing the bandages makes me gag. I have begun praying for her to get better, but I’m not sure who or what I’m even praying to. She had another seizure today. Her mouth hung open and her eyes rolled back in her head. Dad held her steady while she convulsed, and Warren played his video games.
03/02/2035
Mom died today.
03/21/2035
Dad said he regrets ruining Mom’s last painting, but that he did it on purpose. Warren once again suggested eating the cat food, but I stood my ground and said no. We won’t get to that point, right?
03/23/2035
Olive has been missing for a few days, and I think Warren did something. He must have let her outside and she ran off, but why would she run? There’s nowhere to run to, and no food for her out there. I’m worried she will freeze to death. Dad doesn’t talk much anymore, and our food rations have become smaller. He says we need to conserve what we can, but he wants to go out tomorrow and see if there are any more supplies to be found.
04/02/2035
Dad hasn’t come back, and I don’t think he will come back. I don’t know what happened to him out there. He was strong and armed, but people are crazy. I’m trying to keep up a facade of hope for Warren, but every day my clothes slip off me a little more and my eyes become more adjusted to the darkness. We lost electricity, and I don’t want to write anymore.
End of April
I’m not sure the exact date anymore. Warren ripped the calendar up because he was upset and said it didn’t matter anyway. We’ve almost run out of food, and neither of us have much energy to do anything anymore. I sometimes wish we had perished in the blast. At least we would have been together.
May
Yesterday, I shot Warren in the back of the head with one of dad’s rifles He was asleep on the couch. My hands are shaking as I write this, and I can’t seem to wash off the blood no matter how much I scrub. I think I’m down to bone. He was starving. We were starving. He was so thin, and he killed my cat. He slept all the time, and….It was the right thing to do. It was mercy. As an older sister I had to protect him. He shouldnt be in this world, its too harsh for him. It was mercy. I did the right thing, but fuck there was so much blood. I picked his pieces of brain matter out of my hair and felt like a murderer. But it wasn’t murder. It was mercy. it was mercy. I promise you it was mercy. I couldn’t just watch my brother starve to death. We had begun digging in the garden for bugs. A little boy shouldn’t be eating bugs in a war torn world. It was mercy. I had to remind myself when I lined the gun up with his skull. His soft, baby skull. I aimed for the soft spot. He still has that, right? He’ll always be my baby brother with a soft spot who I out of mercy. This world wasn’t fit for him. The next one will be better and i cant wait to join him
The box Rosie puts me in is made of mirrors. I surround myself on all sides, swinging forward, and backward, and then forward again. I time my breaths with the swing of my legs, so when I tilt forward my lungs constrict with the string of the corset, and when I tilt back I can breathe again. It’s peaceful work—not at all like what I have to do over the weekends—and the other girls are jealous. Everybody knows the box is where Rosie puts her favorite, and that’s been me ever since she found me shivering on the street.
It’s a zoo, for lack of a better word, but I don’t feel like an animal as long as I don’t think about the men watching me. Instead I meet my own brown eyes, bat my eyelashes, smile a little. Allow myself to enjoy the sight of my own reflection. Well—Angel’s reflection. Not mine.
Angel’s pretty like a rose, dark hair dripping over her shoulders, white wings protruding crudely from her back. A rosary binds her wrists. Sometimes I think it’s these things, not the lack of clothing, that make what I’m doing so unthinkable. If my father ever saw me, he might go into cardiac arrest. But Rosie likes sexualizing the sacred; enjoys watching the looks on men’s faces as they decide whether to believe in God, or in me.
The men who come here often hate the fact that they like me. Though I can’t see them from my box, sometimes the mirror will ripple and convex, like someone’s tried to put their fist through it, and I can hear their outrage almost as well as I can smell their desperation. The first few weeks I was here, doing what the girls like to call “field work,” too many men tried to hurt me. I was coming home every other night with a freshened black eye. That’s another reason why I’m in the box. The other girls get banged up a little, but most of the time nobody tries to kill ‘em. I’m a liability outside of the box.
Anyways, the point is that I’ve got it good. I get enough money, mostly enough to eat, Rosie spoils me rotten, and I share a dealer with three of the other girls, which means I usually don’t have to go pick anything up myself. And I work nights, so I get to sleep in. Since coming to New York, I haven’t been a morning person. It’s all those six a.m. wakeups for Mass catching up to me.
I know my life would’ve been easier if I had stayed at home—believe me, I know—but what was I supposed to do? I was fucking dying there. You might think that the suffocation of a tightly-roped corset is bad—but it’s nothing in comparison to the feeling of God’s fingers wrapped around your throat. Boys like me weren’t made for small-town living.
Behind the mirror, another man is screaming at me. Fists pound at the wall. I lean back, take a breath, and smile. In my head, I sing hymns.
————————————————————————————————
part two: the glass
To get to my son, I’m told to go up the staircase in the back. A girl who couldn’t be older than 18 tells me this before she tries to kiss me, and I push her away, disgusted, with wrinkled hands. She scowls at the rejection, slinking back into the shadows from which she came. It’s all shadows here. There are no overhead lights; just tea lamps that cast a sickly orange glow over everything. I wonder if the darkness is for the girl’s benefit, or the customers. The givers versus the takers. It doesn’t matter in the end, I think. They’re all going to the same place.
I feel the girls’ eyes on me as I walk down the hall. They watch me like dogs after a bone, and I wonder how my son could stand to be in a place like this. How this—with its musty parlor and stained surfaces, lust and filth permeating the air—was better than home. Our home, me and him, with our blue walls and big windows, a breakfast nook where we used to eat together. Just next to our church, mine and his, the one I deluded myself into believing he would take over one day. I thought everything was perfect. Not the house, or the church—us. We were perfect.
It’s insulting that he should’ve ended up here; like this life is better than the one I gave him. Everyone and everything seems to laugh at me.
At the top of the stairs there is a glass box with a woman on a swing. White wings protrude crudely from her back and I feel like I am ten and at the zoo, watching a fantastical creature through the bars of its cage. As I get closer, her eyes glaze over me as if I’m not even there. I let myself enjoy a moment of forceful ignorance, watching the serenity on her face as she rocks back and forth. Then I breathe; feel the ignorance slip away as I allow myself to see my son.
It is him. I’m not an idiot—the wigs and the makeup don’t deceive me. I can see his eyes, big and brown just like they were the day he left. I would know him just by the line of his cheek, still maintaining some of its childlike curvature. I would know him blind and deaf.
I love my son, but I have never hated him more than I do now. A rosary wrapped around his hands, an empty look on his face. He’s doing this just to spite me. Me, who gave him everything I had. I wasn’t a bad father. I’ve been many things in my life, but I wasn’t a bad father. I wasn’t. My teeth grind so hard that I can taste flecks of bone in my mouth, and I’m shaking as I raise my fist to the glass to get his attention. He isn’t looking at me. Why isn’t he looking at me?
“Cain,” I choke out, rapping my hand against the window in quick succession, harder for each second he spends ignoring me. I shout his name over and over again, aware that I’ve gathered an audience of girls who watch me from the doorway. He doesn’t see me. My entire body vibrates with resentment. There was a part of me that thought, even though he left me, I would still get to see my son in heaven. Now I know I was wrong. My clenched fist hits the glass so hard it starts to purple, and my throat becomes sore from screaming. I rest my forehead against the window and start to sob.
A large woman with a fur coat approaches me from behind, and eases a hand over my shoulder. I don’t have the energy to flinch away.
What is your earliest memory?
My earliest memory is my father dying. I was three years old. My mother told me he went to heaven.
What did that mean to you, Heaven?
From my Mother’s description of heaven, I imagined my father’s body floating up into the clouds that were pierced with many-colored sun beams while angels sang the most beautiful music ever heard, and he would be reunited with his childhood dog, a German Shepherd named Reef, on a rainbow, and he and Reef would be there waiting for me and mommy to join them someday.
Are you close to your mother today?
No.
Was your family religious?
We weren’t particularly religious people. My mother’s parents were Catholic and went to church on Sundays. My grandfather passed away when I was a teenager, but I can still picture him with ashes smeared on his forehead. My father’s parents were Mormon, but I don’t know much else about that. My parents didn’t go to church, but there are pictures of my baptism; my god-parents holding me in a long, lacy white dress and bonnet with my maternal grandparents standing next to them, beaming with pride. What I understood “god-parent” to mean was that I would go live with them if my parents both died. They gave me a special gift every Christmas. We also celebrated Easter, but other than that, we led a fairly religious-free lifestyle.
Are you religious?
I consider myself spiritual, but not religious. I am fascinated by the pagan roots of Christian religions, but I wouldn’t consider myself anything more than a dabbler. My focus is my career as an arts reporter/photographer. I love my job. My father was a photographer. All I really have left of him is his collection of photos. The inspiration and connection I feel towards him when I take photos is all the religion I need. My church is a cup of tea.
Tell me about your mental health condition.
It’s a rare form of a delusional disorder. I think I see dead bodies, but they never really are dead bodies. Out of the corner of my eye, I’ll see a dark shape, and think “dead body,” but it’s always just a log or a trash bag. While driving, I used to pull over and check to make sure, never finding anything. It happened so often, I eventually stopped checking, well, that and therapy.
What did you see on December 20th?
On my drive home from work, I thought I saw a body wrapped in plastic laying off the side of the road. I told myself it was just a sheet of plastic playing a trick on me, and I remember thinking that I was finally getting a grip on this thing and that my therapist would be proud.
What happened next?
When I got home, I left my purse and laptop by the front door, and I put my lunchbox, water bottle, and travel mug in the sink. I remember looking out of the kitchen window over the sink at freshly fallen snow on the branches of the tree outside and the neighbors’ twinkly holiday lights. It was nice, I felt happy.
What next?
I put two slices of sourdough bread into my toaster, and I put my leftovers, French onion butter beans, in the microwave. I had been looking forward to a relaxing evening home alone with my yummy leftovers, a hot cup of tea, a rom-com, maybe some ice cream, and a hot bath. It was quiet, so I turned on the TV, and I went back to the kitchen to change. I undressed, tossed my dirty clothes into the washer, pulled my pajama pants out of the dryer and slipped into them. I pulled my shirt out of the dryer, and heard, “Dead body found on Route 7.” I froze.
Keep going.
I just stood there with my shirt over my head, half naked. I couldn’t remember any of the tools I learned in therapy for moments like this. I found myself scanning the apartment for dead bodies, which only moments before I would have known was an unreasonable thing to do. But, I saw something in the bedroom. It was dark, but I could make out a figure lying on the bed. Then, I remembered something – I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to five, but when I opened my eyes, the figure was still there.
And that’s when you left?
Yes, I pulled down my shirt, grabbed my keys, and ran barefoot out of my apartment. I ran down the stairs and outside to the driveway, got into my car and just started to drive. It was snowing and I was in my pajamas with no coat, no bra, no underwear, and no shoes. The only thing I could think to do was drive to the police department.
What did you do when you went to the police department?
At first, I just sat in my car in a bit of a trance. That’s when Officer Matthew’s knocked on my window. He gestured to me to roll down the window, and he asked if I was okay.
What did you say?
I told him that I thought someone was in my apartment. He asked if I knew my name and address, which I told him. Then, he brought me inside the station.
What happened next?
He left me with the woman at the desk who took me to a room, wrapped me in a blanket, and gave me a cup of tea. She even found me a pair of slipper socks, the kind you get at the hospital. That’s when the officers said they were going to check out the apartment. I didn’t say much, but I asked them to bring back my anxiety pills. I remember scanning the room for a dead body, but there wasn’t one. The room was bright with nothing but a table, four wooden chairs, and a large mirror hung on the wall.
What happened next?
I just sat there. Finally, Officer Matthews came back and told me they didn’t find anything. He slid the bottle of medication over to me. I took a pill and washed it down with the now cold tea. I asked him about the dead body found on Route 7, then wrapped in plastic. He and the desk lady looked at each other with a knowing look. The exact location of the body, and the fact that it had been wrapped in plastic, were pieces of information that had not been released to the public. He asked me how I knew that it was wrapped in plastic. I told him that I had seen it. He asked why I hadn’t called 911. And, I told him about my condition, that I didn’t think it was real, and that was what my pills were for.
And then?
Then, he suggested that I was just seeing things. I told him that I don’t hallucinate. I see things that are there, but that I think they are things that they aren’t… like dead bodies, that my mind plays tricks on me, that I saw something on my bed that night, I know I did. He looked at me like I was crazy and then insisted that I check myself in for an overnight at the mental health crisis care facility. I agreed, mostly because I was too scared to go back to my apartment, and also I was beginning to wonder if I really was losing it. I was dropped off with a promise to return to the station the next day to answer more questions.
What happened after that?
When I got to the facility, it was late, and I hadn’t eaten since noon. I was offered a sandwich. I was served a scoop of tuna in a plastic cup, two slices of bread, a leaf of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and a jello cup that just said “red” on the foil lid. There was a salt and pepper packet, and the only utensil was a plastic spoon, which was fine with me. I assembled the sandwich and took a bite. I remember thinking that it was either pretty good, or I was just really hungry. They gave me a sedative and slept through the night. In the morning, I was served breakfast, scrambled eggs, buttered wheat toast with jam, corn flakes with milk, and a hot tea. I ate every bite, and then, I was released, just like that.
How did you get home?
I called my mother to pick me up.
Is that unusual for you?
Yes, but I needed to say something to her. I needed her to tell me the truth about my father. It was me who found him. I saw his dead body laying on the living room floor, but my mother convinced me that it never happened, that it was just a pile of his clothes, and all these years, I let her think that I believed her. I told her it was time, that I wasn’t a child anymore, and she finally admitted the truth.
Where did you go after she picked you up?
We went back to my apartment, and nothing seemed out of place. My laptop and cell phone were sitting next to her purse on the table near the front door, untouched. The toast was in the toaster and the beans were still in the microwave. I threw them away, washed the dishes along with my water bottle and lunch box which were still sitting in the sink. My mom made me a cup of tea. I took a hot shower and got dressed. I looked at the bed and there was nothing on it. There wasn’t a pile of clothes or a backpack, or anything that I could have mistaken for a body.
What happened next?
My mom drove me to the police station, this time fully dressed. We both went in and sat down near a desk where a young man had taken over from the lady from the night before. He told me that Officer Matthews was out on a call and that we’d have to wait. It must have been twenty minutes before he returned. He brought me to the same room I was in the night before. He offered coffee, and I asked for tea. He left for a moment, returning with a paper cup of steaming hot water, a tea bag, a single creamer, a sugar packet, and a plastic stirrer. As I was preparing the cup of tea, he told me that the dead body had been identified as Lacey Cahill, a 25 year old woman. He asked me if I had heard of her, which I hadn’t.
Then?
That’s when a woman’s voice called out from the hall asking to speak with the officer. I could overhear their conversation. She said that Lacey Cahill called 911 two nights prior to report seeing a man laying on her bed. She said that officers arrived to find the apartment empty and cleared the scene. She said that the officers suggested that Lacey find another place to stay for the night, but that she had declined.
8 responses to “STORY (Weds)”
Shades of sacrifice
The heaviness of the situation permeates even through her drunken thoughts. When did I lose control? She thinks. When did I become the villain in this story?
The air in the bedroom is stale with a metallic smell and the ruby red curtains drown out every inch of light the rising sun is casting through the windows. They rented the cabin for Thanksgiving break because it looked astonishingly beautiful on the advertising pictures. The living room with the mahogany furniture, the built-in fireplace, and the dark wooden beams make the heart of the house. Just minutes before, the four friends had played a very intense Monopoly game in front of a cackling fire there, while finishing bottle after bottle of overpriced wine – courtesy of Ben’s father, of course. But the living room lays deserted now, the game still set up and stained glasses waiting to be filled again. They will not continue, cannot continue, because she just killed her best friend and the silence in the dark bedroom feels like time is frozen.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I didn’t…” She trails off. But I did, didn’t I? She cannot finish the sentence. It is a lie, she knows it and they know it too. She looks up and her eyes lock with his. Drops of unshed tears pool in his ocean blue eyes and she averts her gaze.
“Why did you?” he asks, his voice wavering. Was it because he was just as intoxicated as she was? Or was that genuine regret that she heard?
She swirls her glass and the red wine inside moves in calming circles. She wonders how he can’t see it the way she sees it. Sacrifice for their secret. Sacrifice and save them all. She simply shrugs her shoulders. If he doesn’t get it by now, what is the point of explaining?
“Why don’t you say something?” The first tear breaks free and his hands start trembling. “For fucks sake. Say something, don’t just sit there!”
She turns to Leo standing a few feet behind Ben. He looks significantly calmer than Ben does. “You do it.” She says and tips her chin at the gun in Ben’s trembling hands.
His brown eyes like liquid caramel stay fixed on her as he takes a stop forward and gently wraps his hands around Ben’s before taking the gun from him. A wave of relief floods through her. At least, Ben won’t be the one pulling the trigger. “Thank you,” she whispers. Leo curtly nods once in acknowledgement and she sees his eyes softening.
Leo casually holds the gun in one hand at his side. The barrel is no longer pointed at her and she wonders if she could run before he can react but shoves the thought quickly aside. As if he can sense where her thoughts have gone, he visibly strengthens his grip on the trigger.
She looks down at her hands. The fresh blood is smeared all over them and sticks to the glass of wine she is still holding, the crimson of the blood and the red wine almost indistinguishable. Her free hand leaves red smudges on her tights where she has restlessly fisted and opened her hand over and over again. “Now what?” she asks no one in particular. It seems they have reached an impasse. She is very well aware that she won’t leave this room alive but neither Leo nor Ben seem eager to end it.
“Explain yourself. Why did you do it?” Ben presses again. His demeanor has changed, he appears calm now, even the tears have stopped flowing, only his nervous hand running through his blond hair giving away his distress.
She swallows visibly. “I’m not vicious, you know that, right?” she asks them. She turns to her left where strands of long, blond hair stained crimson are fanned out across the bedsheet. She is grateful she cannot see Lauren’s face right now. She picks up a few strands of Lauren’s hair and plays with them. Neither of them react.
“She knew.” She says now. “She knew and she wouldn’t have kept quiet much longer.”
“What did she know? What could she have possibly known that justifies murder, Nell?” Ben spits out. Red creeping up his face shaking with anger.
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend otherwise. No need to tiptoe around anymore” She can’t look at him, not when his vexation is almost palpable. Why doesn’t he see that I just saved us all?
“How did she find out?” Leo intervenes and takes a step toward Lauren’s lifeless body. She wants to be grateful for his level-headedness but something about his actions unsettle her.
“She overheard us talking about Eric’s -” her eyes wander to Ben again “…accident the other day.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Nell!” Benn yells now and grips the edge of the dresser until his knuckles turn white.
“Get it together, Ben. I can’t have to people going crazy now.” Leo commands and plays with the trigger of the gun. “We invited Eric to join the three of us for a little party fun. He drank too much. He died. It was alcohol poisoning.” He recites like they had done so many times before since it happened. She repeated it over and over again until her memory became so distorted that even she cannot tell where the truth starts and the lie ends. Something is not right. Something feels off.
“That is not what happened and you fucking know it!” Ben’s emotions are out of control now. Like a glass of water finally spilling over after the break of surface tension. “You forced Vodka down that poor kid’s throat until he choked on it, Leo. You made us your accomplices. All that bullshit about secrets bringing us closer together. Now look what you made Nell do! Look at her!”
Leo shakes his head. “I didn’t make her do anything. And I didn’t force you to keep our secret either.” His eyes land on her face and he looks wild now. He won’t let me go now. I’m the unpredictable link. All I wanted was to protect…
“You killed your best friend to keep that goddamn secret. Was it really worth it?” Ben asks and at this moment, she realizes that he will never understand her. In his eyes, she is the villain now, it doesn’t matter what she thinks. All her attempts to keep them all close and safe were in vain.
“Yes.” She meets his gaze. “I would do anything to protect…” She hesitates, “us.” That’s when she hears the gunshot and all she wishes for is to play Monopoly and drink wine one last time with her three best friends in the cabin in the woods that they rented for Thanksgiving break.
Resurgence
The day had been unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the usual hum of activity in the camp. Sam, a seasoned soldier with a keen sense of danger, couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease that settled over him like a dark cloud. The birds had stopped their cheerful chirping, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath, as if nature itself sensed the impending storm.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain, Sam stood watch with a sense of foreboding gnawing at his insides. He couldn’t pinpoint the source of his apprehension, but years of combat had honed his instincts, and they were screaming a warning that he dared not ignore.
The enemy’s movements had been elusive, their tactics shrouded in mystery. But whispers among the ranks hinted at a large-scale offensive, a coordinated attack that would test the limits of their defenses. Sam’s gut told him that tonight would be the night, the night when the enemy would strike with deadly precision.
His mind raced with scenarios, each one more dire than the last. He pictured the chaos of battle, the deafening roar of gunfire, the cries of wounded comrades. And in the midst of this imagined chaos, a cold realization settled over him – the very real possibility that this could be his last stand.
But amidst the turmoil of his thoughts, a familiar image emerged, like a beacon of light in the darkness. Sarah’s face, etched with worry and love, appeared before him, her eyes filled with unspoken words of encouragement. It was as if she were there, by his side, lending him strength when he needed it most.
Sam’s thoughts drifted to their life together, the simple joys they had shared amidst the hardships of war. He remembered the day they had first met, her laughter tinkling like music in his ears. He remembered their wedding day, a moment of pure happiness amid the chaos of the world around them.
And then, as if on cue, memories of their unborn child flooded his mind – the tiny kicks he felt when he placed his hand on Sarah’s belly, the whispered conversations they had about their hopes and dreams for the future. It was this future, this fragile yet precious future, that fueled his resolve to keep fighting, to keep hoping, no matter the odds.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a fiery glow across the battlefield, Sam took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was to come. The enemy may be near, death may be looming on the horizon, but in that moment, surrounded by memories of love and longing, Sam found a courage that transcended fear.
The night wore on, the tension in the air palpable as the hours stretched into eternity. Sam stood vigilant, his senses on high alert, every nerve tingling with anticipation. And then, as if on cue, the first shots rang out, breaking the silence with a thunderous roar.
The enemy descended upon them like a swarm of locusts, their numbers overwhelming, their determination unmatched. Sam fought with a ferocity born of desperation, each blow fueled by the love he held for his family, for the life he had hoped to build with them.
But in the chaos of battle, amid the screams of the wounded and the dying, Sam felt a sudden stillness settle over him. A searing pain tore through his chest, and as he looked down, he saw the crimson stain spreading across his uniform.
However, just when it seemed all hope was lost, a squadron of reinforcements arrived, turning the tide of the battle in their favor. Sam’s injuries were severe, but he was alive. As Sam was carried away from the battlefield, his mind a whirlwind of pain and exhaustion, he clung to the image of Sarah and their unborn child, knowing that his fight was far from over. For his life was not defined by this moment of chaos and carnage; it was a tapestry woven with threads of courage, love, and an unwavering determination to see a future beyond the battlefield.
Aya
Creative Writing
Professor Cassarino
4/4/2024
Why did he choose to be a hermit?
Could you call him a hermit? It’s unclear, but he obviously looks and walks like one. Dressed in a black sweatshirt and sunglasses, and standing as tall as a palm tree. When he walks, you can sense his presence in your surroundings. Who is this guy, you may ask? The story begins in a small boutique bookstore, where philosophers and those seeking to understand the meaning of human suffering gather. On one of these dusty shelves, a book named The Way of the Warrior stares at you, almost desiring to be collected, the black letters scream that there is something deep and dark happening in our human external and internal environment.
Who is the author of this book? That is when the actual storytelling begins. The Wayshower is an elderly giant who grew up in the small hamlet of Naples, Florida, United States. He was born through an unplanned pregnancy because his father was disloyal to his wife and had an affair with his mother. He grew up and attended an all-boys Catholic school. His father adored him, but his mother always disapproved of him because he asked too many questions. Religion did not answer any of his inquiries, as a small child, he became aware of the hypocrisy of some of the priests. He watched several priests in his church contradicting what they preached, such as compassion and caring for one another, while secretly doing awful things to young children. He observed as his close friends turned to drugs and drinking to cope with the trauma caused by their abuse. He was heartbroken to witness how the church clergy ignored the victims’ pain and suffering in order to protect the abusers.
The Wayshower quickly realized that something was horribly wrong with his environment. He would communicate with them, naming and addressing them directly. People disliked him because he was a wild, outspoken child. If he spotted someone being picked on, he would take action by defending the victim. He had no limitations; regardless of the person’s age, he had the courage to confront the perpetrator. As a result, he developed many enemies because people disliked being faced with their wrong doing; instead, they prefer to deny it, so he became very lonely. He gradually began to shut down and became silent, spending days at a time in the library or studying martial arts to cope with his loneliness.
He had more and more questions, such as why humans were so afraid of confronting themselves or being confronted about their wrongdoings by others. Why did people act in such dysfunctional ways when the truth was so obvious? What did they gain from perpetuating evil? What were their daily lives lacking that caused them to turn to these horrific acts? Why were people terrified of living in reality? Why would they rather entertain themselves with addictions like alcohol, pornography, and workweeks that weren’t even manageable for humans? Why didn’t people ask questions about their existence in reality?
These questions caused him to reflect internally. He wondered why he felt so empty? He found his companions among the books in the library. Many great authors like Sartre, Kirkegaard, Neitzsche, Rand and Almass wrote about much of the ailments he was experiencing. He became an expert in selecting books that explored these topics. Volumes began flying off the shelf, encouraging him to dive further into his own questions. They were giving him some answers and taught him to listen to his intuition. However, the Wayshower felt increasingly lonely as he read, because he couldn’t find people that would want to discuss these matters with him.
The Wayshower decided to take matters into his own hands and embarked on a journey, hoping that travel would provide him with answers. He traveled extensively around Europe, Asia, Africa, and Australia. Inorder to see if diverse cultures could provide answers to his questions, he began to build relationships with people who did not come from his genealogy or place of birth. Ironically, many of these relationships caused him hardship in the end, as he discovered they were unaware of how their wrongdoings impacted others.
Furthermore, he was guided by the spirit that all of us are born with but is suppressed by the pain that we accumulate from the world, leading us to deny this cosmic component of ourselves. This led him to places where he could improve himself. In addition, his travels and meetings with different people exposed him to the deception and denial that he and individuals endured for survival. One of the sad lessons of human manipulation he acquired was from his romantic engagement with a Taiwanese woman. Their relationship had its ups and downs. She became pregnant, but unbeknownst to him, she had a grand plan to exploit him and take his child away. The wayshower didn’t believe that she was capable of heinous acts, and when signs appeared, he ignored them, blinded by his feelings for her. Realizing he was oblivious, she took his child away through legal proceedings, which not only showed him her true colors, but also made the evil injustices in the court evident. As a result, he suffered from significant depression, and eventually learned that much of his despair stemmed from his dissociation from the darker parts of himself and others.
Later he returned from Asia, and arrived in the United States increasingly bitter and resentful. He realized that he preferred to be alone rather than with others. This loneliness caused him to intrapsychically begin studying more about his dark side and what humans were capable of. As time went on, he chose to be with people who were honest and conscious of their ability to do evil things, but chose otherwise. The Wayshower became bored since few others around him were willing to confront their own psychology of human capability. So, he decided to write a book about sitting with oneself and exploring how we relate to others and ourselves. He wrote about how to process dark emotions, such as anger, bitterness, and the evil that we are capable of. His book also shed light on the knowledge he gained through being alone with boredom and emptiness, and explained how to avoid succumbing to the unhealthy patterns many humans in the world had fallen victim to. Lastly, he decided to live in solitude with nature. During this time, he found a lover and continued to write about human suffering, to encourage individuals who were seeking to learn more about who they were. Moreover, being a hermit taught him the pain of loneliness, but ultimately, proved that facing reality and continuing to ask questions was what allowed him to survive the world’s madness.
Amy’s Drive-In
By Tess Marini-Rapoport
I’m tired of laying in my bed thinking of you. It’s been 28 days since we’ve talked. My stomach is grumbling and I have lost all sense of time. My phone reads 9:05 pm. I’ve been laying here for two hours and I forgot to eat dinner. I want to go to our spot. Before I know it, I’m driving my dad’s old pickup truck to the drive-in.
The rain is coming down hard on my windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up. I’m going 85 on a darkened road, and I haven’t seen a single car. I almost missed it. I take the sharp left turn, almost running into the purple neon sign that is Amy’s Drive-In. I recognize the B sharp pitch of the sign creaking in the wind. We used to joke about the fact that only a coyote could make a sound like that. The first time we ever came here, you looked scared but I felt confident.
I pull into the drive-in and park in the front. I just planned on driving through for old time’s sake. I really don’t have a plan, but I might as well watch a movie if I’m here. I remember the first time we ever watched a movie here. It was the 40th anniversary of Halloween. It’s playing again tonight, only now it is the 41st anniversary. You were so scared you dropped your popcorn everywhere and I grabbed your hand to make you feel safe. I can’t stop thinking about you.
I can hear my stomach grumbling, and I remember why I am here. I get up to get food, but I can’t help but think about your order. I remember it by heart. A chocolate milkshake with a shot of coffee syrup, with whipped cream and popcorn. You never got tired of it. You always wanted it.
As I am walking to the stand, I see a large black car parked a few rows behind me. Yours. I feel a pounding beat in my chest. You’re with the largest group of people I have ever seen. You’re laughing the hardest I’ve ever seen you laugh, your brown jacket crinkling as your whole body moves. I assumed you’d be at home in your navy colored room struggling with the math homework that I always helped you with. But instead, you’re here.
“Are you going to order?” asks a low voice at the counter.
Confused, I turn around to see an old man with a blue short-sleeve shirt on. I’ve never seen him before. I wonder where the middle-aged woman that knows our order by heart is. I guess this old man must have been looking at me for a while.
“Oh, yeah.” I order with a shaky voice. The old man looks at me with an unreadable, questioning stare. My hand is shaking as I hand him some crumpled bills that I dig out of my pocket.
After what feels like an eternity, he asks, “Who’s that?”
“What?” I ask, with more hostility in my voice than I had intended.
He nods in the direction of the black car.
I roll my eyes back toward the black car.
“Who’s who?”
“The group of people you’re staring at.”
I look back at him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“Just go talk to her,” he says.
I will not be doing that. I haven’t talked to you in 28 days. Yet I haven’t forgotten a single moment we have shared. Still, I can’t let this old man win.
“Can I just have my food?” I say.
“Sure,” he says, casually sliding the food across the countertop.
Just as I am about to grab it, he says, “I hope you figure everything out.”
Who does this old man think he is inserting himself into my life? He’s like 90 and doesn’t even know me.
“We’re not in a relationship,” I snap back.
“Okay. Why’s that?” he asks casually.
“Because we broke up,” I say. Even though it’s been almost a month, it still hurts to say. “Why do you care anyways?”
“Because you look like you have something to say.” He pauses. “And I know what it is like to have something left unsaid.”
“Okay,” I say, still pretending not to care. I want to leave, but there’s something in the old man’s face that is confusing. He’s prying for details, but there’s a warmth in his eyes, maybe with a little bit of pain. I don’t want to feel that pain.
“Well, did you ever say what you needed to?” I say a bit rushed.
“No,” he shrugs. “And now I can’t.”
How must it feel to never get to feel someone again or speak to someone again? To have all of the things you needed to tell them bottled up inside forever.
“Why not?” I ask, unsure how to respond.
“I just can’t.” He pauses. “And I will regret that forever. But you still can.”
I nod in response.
“Thank you,” I say, unsure if I mean it. I pick up the food and walk back to my car.
There is a warmth in my smile, matching his. As I walk back to my car, I feel a sense of excitement to enjoy watching the movie, not the big black car.
The Echo
“Thank you!” she yelled to the barista and cashier as she left and opened the door. The door quickly slammed shut after. Right in front of her was a small table with a glass top and wooden mahogany legs. A tree right next to the table hovered over the table, creating a nice shade and covering from the burning sun on a hot summer day. This seems like a good spot, she thought. I can do my work here. She typed and typed one click after another. Her hands ached and her eyes were stinging from staring at the screen. Pools of sweat dripped down from her forehead from the hot blazing sun. But with how uncomfortable she was, she knew she had to keep typing. Suddenly, she heard a thud and looked past her computer screen. A thin bony veiny hand was placed on the table. Her gaze followed the hand and the arm which led to a figure. This figure was tall and slender, towering over her. He was wearing a black cloak, ironic considering how hot it was outside. Chills were running down her spine as she noticed his pale face with his sunken cheekbones and his blue eyes. These eyes weren’t blue like the calm ocean. They were the intense light blue eyes that felt like sirens screaming in her head as he stared into her soul. She squirmed in her chair as the figure continued to hover over and stare at her.
“ Do you really think you belong here?” the figure said in a cold sharp tone.
“Uh-I’m sorry?” she stuttered. “D-Do I know you?”
“Oh my apologies,” the figure said and leaned back. “I never introduced myself, did I?”
He pulled his hand away from the table. “I’m Echo,” he said as he extended it towards her.
“Jade,” she said as she reluctantly shook Echo’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Well,” Echo said glancing over her screen. “What do you have going on there?”
Jade turned back to her computer. “I’m just doing some work.”
“Interesting,” Echo said as he pulled out a chair.
Jade knew how dangerous it would be to let Echo sit here. Her parents had lectured for hours on not interfering with strangers. Her teachers warned her to always go with her gut if she always felt uncomfortable around someone. But with all the warnings and the lectures, there was something in her that couldn’t say no.
“I’m curious,” Echo said as he sat down. “What are you writing your essay on?”
“I-it’s complicated,” Jade said with her eyes fixated on her computer.
“ I have time,” Echo said adjusting his seating. “Tell me.”
Jade could feel the aches in her body now. Her head was now throbbing maybe from the screen or the alarms in her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she closed her computer and placed it in her bag. “I’m not feeling too well, I think I’m going to head back home.”
Echo suddenly got up and walked towards her. “Let me help. I don’t want you to get hurt since you’re not feeling too we-.”
“No, it’s ok. I can walk home by myself.”
Jade quickly got up and placed her computer bag over her shoulder. She picked up the pastry and the half-full iced coffee and tossed it in the trashcan across the table. Echo was still sitting at the table looking ahead. Jade walked quickly but quietly for Echo not to notice. Her heart was racing. Her mind was spinning. Her legs eventually started hurting. She knew she had to keep walking but she was too tired to walk any further. Jade checked her phone. Her house was still 20 minutes away. A bench was right next to her. I could sit down for a couple minutes she thought. Jade looked around and sat down on the bench letting out a relieved sigh. She rummaged through her belongings checking if she was missing anything.
Suddenly, Jade heard a voice say “Hello”. She jumped and turned around. It was Echo. She quickly grabbed her bag and stood up. As Jade walked she could hear Echo’s footsteps behind her. Part of her wanted to run, but her legs were too weak. That’s it, she thought. I can’t keep trying to walk away. I need to say something.
“I’m sorry,” Jade said as she turned around to face Echo. “But why are you following me? What do you want from me?”
“Well,” Echo said and paused.
“You don’t even know me,” Jade said. “ I don’t even know you. Why are you trying to talk to me? Why did you even approach me in the first place?”
Echo stepped in closer to Jade. “You may not know me, but I know you.”
“W-what do you mean?” Jade stepped back.
“I know all about you, Jade. Where you go, your dream of becoming a journalist, and what you want to fulfill in life-”
“I’m sorry what? How do you know this?”
Echo reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. It was a syringe filled with a clear solution. He quickly grabbed Jade’s arm and stabbed it with the syringe.
“I know all about you, Jade,” he said.
Jade grimaced as her arm spurted bright red blood from the puncture of the syringe. She tried pulling her arm away, but she felt too weak. Echo grasped her arm even more tightly.
“I know how much you struggled in your classes,” he said, staring straight into her eyes and hovering over her. “I know your teachers said that you wouldn’t be able to make it. I know how your dad told you that you don’t do enough to become a journalist.”
Echo injected the solution into her arm. “ And the truth is, they’re right. You’re not smart enough. You don’t belong here. I know it. I know it because I see everything about you. I see how you’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough.”
Echo kept jabbing the syringe into Jade’s bright red bloody arm. “You don’t belong here. You never will.”
“Someone call 911!” someone yelled across the street. Echo quickly pulled the syringe out and let go of Jade’s arm. He left and disappeared onto the sidewalk.
Jade tried to stand, tracing Echo’s path as he left her. She wobbled and fell straight to the ground. I don’t understand she thought. I shouldn’t feel this limp with just my arm being wounded. She crawled with all her might. One arm reaching out followed by a leg pushing behind her to give her enough strength. She saw a man running towards her. Her vision blurred before she got a good look at him. Can’t give up she thought. I need to…. Her mind blanked before she got to finish that thought.
Jade opened her eyes and looked up at the bright overhead lights. Her arm felt sore but she could finally see. She checked to see her arm was fully bandaged, and she was wearing a green hospital gown and lying in bed. She felt two pads stuck to her forehead connected to wires. She tried taking them off but they stuck like a leech sucking onto her body. She sighed, dropped her arm, and looked up back at the ceiling. A thought popped up in her head. Do you really think you belong here? She felt chills running down her spine. You’re not smart enough. You don’t belong here. You will never make it. Jade cowered and tried covering her ears. You’re not good enough. She closed her eyes shut and saw Echo, hovering over and staring at her. You will never make it, she could hear him say. You’ll never be good enough. He never stopped echoing in her head.
“Stop it!” Jade screamed with tears streaming down her face. “Stop it, I want it to stop! I want this all to stop!”
Jade felt a touch on her arm. She could still see Echo grabbing her in her head.
“Just let me go! Please, I want this to stop!” she screamed again.
“Honey,” said a voice Jade heard outside her head. She opened her eyes and saw a hand placed gently on her bandaged arm. She looked up. It was her mother struck with fear and surrounded by nurses scribbling on their notepads. “Are you okay?”
Day 2- 12/20/2034
For months now, Dad has been saying the world is going to shit. I have been watching the Doomsday Clock. Yesterday, the clock struck midnight, and the world went to shit. The major cities have all been hit, at least that’s what the news has been saying. Washington, NYC, London, Moscow, Tokyo. But not St. Louis. Who would want to bomb St. Louis. Our closest blast was Chicago, and the sun didn’t come out today. It was hidden behind a thick cloud of grey smoke, or smog, or fog. I don’t know the technical name. Dad’s relieved I was home from college when it happened; he’s heard the major roadways are being blocked off and people are going crazy. Warren keeps asking me if Christmas will still happen. He’s 15 and doesn’t care about the millions dead and dying, he just wants his new console. Mom and dad went to the store today to stockpile cat food and dry goods like we’re preppers. I think it’s dumb. Society isn’t going to collapse because of a few atomic bombs, the government probably has contingency plans.
Day 3 12/21
Olive won’t go outside today. Normally, she loves running in the barn after the field mice, but she won’t even step over the threshold. Her olive-green eyes seem dimmer today, and her white fur appears to be more patchy than usual. Mom said there were no mice today anyway. She spent all day in her barn painting. I began working on my homework, since Dad says we will be going back to school in January, and he doesn’t want me falling behind. The news station ran an alert recommending people to stay inside if possible, since apparently the air can burn your skin if you were too close to the blast. Radiation poisoning, I think. But dad says we don’t have to worry–we’re too far out in the country. No sun again today.
Day 7 12/25
It’s Christmas and Dad made his Christmas ham. We were supposed to visit his sister in Kansas, but our flights were cancelled days ago, and Dad says he doesn’t want to drive. It’s better to stay here, where it’s safe. Mom and Dad got Warren his new console and I got some new records and clothes. I also got some giftcards but everything is closed. Olive got a new cat tree, but she’s disinterested in everything. I got Mom a new paint set and Dad a fancy screwdriver, but I forgot to get the batteries that go with it. Dad went to the corner store to get them, but they were closed. He said they were just closed for Christmas, but I don’t believe him. I slept with Warren last night. It’s our Christmas tradition. We used to try and stay up to wait for Santa, but last night was different. His room was so quiet and we couldn’t hear any animals outside even when we opened the window.
Day 8 12/26
Warren and I went for a drive today. The town was so quiet and empty. Mr. Connors dog wasn’t in the front yard anymore, and we could see people staring at us through their windows. I guess they were taking the news more seriously than us. There was a line at the grocery store. We were going to stop, but Warren didn’t want to wait. Next to the grocery store was my old math teacher, Mr. Simmons. He held up a big sign with the word “REPENT” on it in red lettering. I slowed down to wave at him, but he looked right through me. Dad was right, people are going crazy.
Day 9 12/27
I found myself working on homework today, even though I don’t think we are going back to school. I wonder if we will have to fight with the school to get a refund of this semesters tuition. I’m not sure what to do anymore. I don’t want to listen to the radio, and none of the tv channels are working. At least we have electricity. Even without the sun, the solar panels have saved up years of power from bright summer days. I started to read a book, “Tender is the Flesh,” but I had to put it down. The book is about a future society where humans are bred for food because all the animals are infected. It was disgusting. Who even comes up with an idea like that? Who would ever eat another person?
01/01/2035
Every year Mom says, “this year will be a good year,” but I don’t think this year will be good at all. The news says supply chains are down, and we should try to conserve food. There is still no sign of the sun, and temperatures at night get so cold. I’ve always hated this drafty house, but it’s even worse now. I plied up one of the floorboards in my bedroom last night and stashed away some chocolate and my last pack of smokes. Mom hates the habit, but dad can’t get mad since he does it too.
01/05/2035
I finished off the last of the Kraft mac and cheese today. We are on our last gallon of milk so I only used a little bit and replaced the rest with water. Dad went to the store today, and the clerk told him they haven’t been getting anymore shipments in. The shelves were barren, just like at the beginning of the COVID pandemic years ago. I don’t really remember it; I was just a baby then. I split the mac and cheese with Warren. I used to make it for the two of us when dad was working late, and mum was away. She used to travel all the time to different art galleries and exhibits until dad told her that she was missing our childhood so she settled down.
01/30/2035
We haven’t been to the grocery store in weeks. There’s nothing left there anyway. I also haven’t spoken to Warren in a few days. He said we should stop feeding Olive and save the cat food for ourselves. I hate him, even if he was joking. Olive is my cat. I rescued her, and we will stop feeding her over my cold, dead body. I don’t think we’re going back to school anytime soon. Still no sign of the sun; I wonder if it’s even up there anymore.
02/05/2035
A snowstorm hit us yesterday. Dad made Mom move her art supplies so we could put the cars in the barn. She was pissed, especially when Dad ran over one of her paintings. I don’t think it was an accident. The painting showed one of the drop sites, all yellow and red and burning. It made all of us uncomfortable. Besides, we don’t really know how it looks. One a month later and cities can’t still be burning, right? Communications went down sometime last week, but I can’t remember the exact day. All the days have been blending together. We still have electricity. Thank god for government mandated solar panels. Though, global warming isn’t our biggest concern now.
02/23/2035
Mom is dying. She went to the elementary school yesterday to pick up some more art supplies. On her way inside, Mr. Simmons shot her. He and some other nut jobs have been holed up in there. He thought she was trying to rob them. He still had enough sense in him to drive her home, but they stole the car before dropping Mom on the front porch. She’s been drifting in and out all day, and Dad says we need to go to the pharmacy or hospital for supplies. Fuck radiation, it’s people we should be worried about.
02/24/2035
Dad and I went to the pharmacy today. The front windows were smashed in, and there was barely anything left. There was a lingering smell of smoke and gunpowder in the air, but we managed to find some chips, pain medicine, and bandages. On the way out, we were almost stopped by a group of boys who I went to high school with. They were a few years older than me and talked about all the things they wanted to do to me. Dad was carrying so they left us alone. He has begun deadbolting the door.
02/27/2035
I wish I were like Warren. He’s not afraid. Maybe he’s too stupid to be afraid. I shouldn’t say that about my own brother, it’s terrible. I feel bad for even writing that. Sometimes, I just feel like he’s in his own world. I wish I had the privilege of being so ignorant. I’m so scared mom is going to die and then it’ll just be the three of us. I don’t know what I’d do. What if dad leaves too? And it’s just me and Warren? Could I even take care of him? I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore.
03/01/2035
The weather has begun to change, but not in the direction I want. It has gotten even colder out, and Mom is still sick. Her wound has stopped bleeding, but it’s an angry red and hot to the touch. Changing the bandages makes me gag. I have begun praying for her to get better, but I’m not sure who or what I’m even praying to. She had another seizure today. Her mouth hung open and her eyes rolled back in her head. Dad held her steady while she convulsed, and Warren played his video games.
03/02/2035
Mom died today.
03/21/2035
Dad said he regrets ruining Mom’s last painting, but that he did it on purpose. Warren once again suggested eating the cat food, but I stood my ground and said no. We won’t get to that point, right?
03/23/2035
Olive has been missing for a few days, and I think Warren did something. He must have let her outside and she ran off, but why would she run? There’s nowhere to run to, and no food for her out there. I’m worried she will freeze to death. Dad doesn’t talk much anymore, and our food rations have become smaller. He says we need to conserve what we can, but he wants to go out tomorrow and see if there are any more supplies to be found.
04/02/2035
Dad hasn’t come back, and I don’t think he will come back. I don’t know what happened to him out there. He was strong and armed, but people are crazy. I’m trying to keep up a facade of hope for Warren, but every day my clothes slip off me a little more and my eyes become more adjusted to the darkness. We lost electricity, and I don’t want to write anymore.
End of April
I’m not sure the exact date anymore. Warren ripped the calendar up because he was upset and said it didn’t matter anyway. We’ve almost run out of food, and neither of us have much energy to do anything anymore. I sometimes wish we had perished in the blast. At least we would have been together.
May
Yesterday, I shot Warren in the back of the head with one of dad’s rifles He was asleep on the couch. My hands are shaking as I write this, and I can’t seem to wash off the blood no matter how much I scrub. I think I’m down to bone. He was starving. We were starving. He was so thin, and he killed my cat. He slept all the time, and….It was the right thing to do. It was mercy. As an older sister I had to protect him. He shouldnt be in this world, its too harsh for him. It was mercy. I did the right thing, but fuck there was so much blood. I picked his pieces of brain matter out of my hair and felt like a murderer. But it wasn’t murder. It was mercy. it was mercy. I promise you it was mercy. I couldn’t just watch my brother starve to death. We had begun digging in the garden for bugs. A little boy shouldn’t be eating bugs in a war torn world. It was mercy. I had to remind myself when I lined the gun up with his skull. His soft, baby skull. I aimed for the soft spot. He still has that, right? He’ll always be my baby brother with a soft spot who I out of mercy. This world wasn’t fit for him. The next one will be better and i cant wait to join him
part one: the mirror
The box Rosie puts me in is made of mirrors. I surround myself on all sides, swinging forward, and backward, and then forward again. I time my breaths with the swing of my legs, so when I tilt forward my lungs constrict with the string of the corset, and when I tilt back I can breathe again. It’s peaceful work—not at all like what I have to do over the weekends—and the other girls are jealous. Everybody knows the box is where Rosie puts her favorite, and that’s been me ever since she found me shivering on the street.
It’s a zoo, for lack of a better word, but I don’t feel like an animal as long as I don’t think about the men watching me. Instead I meet my own brown eyes, bat my eyelashes, smile a little. Allow myself to enjoy the sight of my own reflection. Well—Angel’s reflection. Not mine.
Angel’s pretty like a rose, dark hair dripping over her shoulders, white wings protruding crudely from her back. A rosary binds her wrists. Sometimes I think it’s these things, not the lack of clothing, that make what I’m doing so unthinkable. If my father ever saw me, he might go into cardiac arrest. But Rosie likes sexualizing the sacred; enjoys watching the looks on men’s faces as they decide whether to believe in God, or in me.
The men who come here often hate the fact that they like me. Though I can’t see them from my box, sometimes the mirror will ripple and convex, like someone’s tried to put their fist through it, and I can hear their outrage almost as well as I can smell their desperation. The first few weeks I was here, doing what the girls like to call “field work,” too many men tried to hurt me. I was coming home every other night with a freshened black eye. That’s another reason why I’m in the box. The other girls get banged up a little, but most of the time nobody tries to kill ‘em. I’m a liability outside of the box.
Anyways, the point is that I’ve got it good. I get enough money, mostly enough to eat, Rosie spoils me rotten, and I share a dealer with three of the other girls, which means I usually don’t have to go pick anything up myself. And I work nights, so I get to sleep in. Since coming to New York, I haven’t been a morning person. It’s all those six a.m. wakeups for Mass catching up to me.
I know my life would’ve been easier if I had stayed at home—believe me, I know—but what was I supposed to do? I was fucking dying there. You might think that the suffocation of a tightly-roped corset is bad—but it’s nothing in comparison to the feeling of God’s fingers wrapped around your throat. Boys like me weren’t made for small-town living.
Behind the mirror, another man is screaming at me. Fists pound at the wall. I lean back, take a breath, and smile. In my head, I sing hymns.
————————————————————————————————
part two: the glass
To get to my son, I’m told to go up the staircase in the back. A girl who couldn’t be older than 18 tells me this before she tries to kiss me, and I push her away, disgusted, with wrinkled hands. She scowls at the rejection, slinking back into the shadows from which she came. It’s all shadows here. There are no overhead lights; just tea lamps that cast a sickly orange glow over everything. I wonder if the darkness is for the girl’s benefit, or the customers. The givers versus the takers. It doesn’t matter in the end, I think. They’re all going to the same place.
I feel the girls’ eyes on me as I walk down the hall. They watch me like dogs after a bone, and I wonder how my son could stand to be in a place like this. How this—with its musty parlor and stained surfaces, lust and filth permeating the air—was better than home. Our home, me and him, with our blue walls and big windows, a breakfast nook where we used to eat together. Just next to our church, mine and his, the one I deluded myself into believing he would take over one day. I thought everything was perfect. Not the house, or the church—us. We were perfect.
It’s insulting that he should’ve ended up here; like this life is better than the one I gave him. Everyone and everything seems to laugh at me.
At the top of the stairs there is a glass box with a woman on a swing. White wings protrude crudely from her back and I feel like I am ten and at the zoo, watching a fantastical creature through the bars of its cage. As I get closer, her eyes glaze over me as if I’m not even there. I let myself enjoy a moment of forceful ignorance, watching the serenity on her face as she rocks back and forth. Then I breathe; feel the ignorance slip away as I allow myself to see my son.
It is him. I’m not an idiot—the wigs and the makeup don’t deceive me. I can see his eyes, big and brown just like they were the day he left. I would know him just by the line of his cheek, still maintaining some of its childlike curvature. I would know him blind and deaf.
I love my son, but I have never hated him more than I do now. A rosary wrapped around his hands, an empty look on his face. He’s doing this just to spite me. Me, who gave him everything I had. I wasn’t a bad father. I’ve been many things in my life, but I wasn’t a bad father. I wasn’t. My teeth grind so hard that I can taste flecks of bone in my mouth, and I’m shaking as I raise my fist to the glass to get his attention. He isn’t looking at me. Why isn’t he looking at me?
“Cain,” I choke out, rapping my hand against the window in quick succession, harder for each second he spends ignoring me. I shout his name over and over again, aware that I’ve gathered an audience of girls who watch me from the doorway. He doesn’t see me. My entire body vibrates with resentment. There was a part of me that thought, even though he left me, I would still get to see my son in heaven. Now I know I was wrong. My clenched fist hits the glass so hard it starts to purple, and my throat becomes sore from screaming. I rest my forehead against the window and start to sob.
A large woman with a fur coat approaches me from behind, and eases a hand over my shoulder. I don’t have the energy to flinch away.
“He can’t see you,” she whispers. “He can’t see.”
He offered coffee, I asked for tea
What is your earliest memory?
My earliest memory is my father dying. I was three years old. My mother told me he went to heaven.
What did that mean to you, Heaven?
From my Mother’s description of heaven, I imagined my father’s body floating up into the clouds that were pierced with many-colored sun beams while angels sang the most beautiful music ever heard, and he would be reunited with his childhood dog, a German Shepherd named Reef, on a rainbow, and he and Reef would be there waiting for me and mommy to join them someday.
Are you close to your mother today?
No.
Was your family religious?
We weren’t particularly religious people. My mother’s parents were Catholic and went to church on Sundays. My grandfather passed away when I was a teenager, but I can still picture him with ashes smeared on his forehead. My father’s parents were Mormon, but I don’t know much else about that. My parents didn’t go to church, but there are pictures of my baptism; my god-parents holding me in a long, lacy white dress and bonnet with my maternal grandparents standing next to them, beaming with pride. What I understood “god-parent” to mean was that I would go live with them if my parents both died. They gave me a special gift every Christmas. We also celebrated Easter, but other than that, we led a fairly religious-free lifestyle.
Are you religious?
I consider myself spiritual, but not religious. I am fascinated by the pagan roots of Christian religions, but I wouldn’t consider myself anything more than a dabbler. My focus is my career as an arts reporter/photographer. I love my job. My father was a photographer. All I really have left of him is his collection of photos. The inspiration and connection I feel towards him when I take photos is all the religion I need. My church is a cup of tea.
Tell me about your mental health condition.
It’s a rare form of a delusional disorder. I think I see dead bodies, but they never really are dead bodies. Out of the corner of my eye, I’ll see a dark shape, and think “dead body,” but it’s always just a log or a trash bag. While driving, I used to pull over and check to make sure, never finding anything. It happened so often, I eventually stopped checking, well, that and therapy.
What did you see on December 20th?
On my drive home from work, I thought I saw a body wrapped in plastic laying off the side of the road. I told myself it was just a sheet of plastic playing a trick on me, and I remember thinking that I was finally getting a grip on this thing and that my therapist would be proud.
What happened next?
When I got home, I left my purse and laptop by the front door, and I put my lunchbox, water bottle, and travel mug in the sink. I remember looking out of the kitchen window over the sink at freshly fallen snow on the branches of the tree outside and the neighbors’ twinkly holiday lights. It was nice, I felt happy.
What next?
I put two slices of sourdough bread into my toaster, and I put my leftovers, French onion butter beans, in the microwave. I had been looking forward to a relaxing evening home alone with my yummy leftovers, a hot cup of tea, a rom-com, maybe some ice cream, and a hot bath. It was quiet, so I turned on the TV, and I went back to the kitchen to change. I undressed, tossed my dirty clothes into the washer, pulled my pajama pants out of the dryer and slipped into them. I pulled my shirt out of the dryer, and heard, “Dead body found on Route 7.” I froze.
Keep going.
I just stood there with my shirt over my head, half naked. I couldn’t remember any of the tools I learned in therapy for moments like this. I found myself scanning the apartment for dead bodies, which only moments before I would have known was an unreasonable thing to do. But, I saw something in the bedroom. It was dark, but I could make out a figure lying on the bed. Then, I remembered something – I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to five, but when I opened my eyes, the figure was still there.
And that’s when you left?
Yes, I pulled down my shirt, grabbed my keys, and ran barefoot out of my apartment. I ran down the stairs and outside to the driveway, got into my car and just started to drive. It was snowing and I was in my pajamas with no coat, no bra, no underwear, and no shoes. The only thing I could think to do was drive to the police department.
What did you do when you went to the police department?
At first, I just sat in my car in a bit of a trance. That’s when Officer Matthew’s knocked on my window. He gestured to me to roll down the window, and he asked if I was okay.
What did you say?
I told him that I thought someone was in my apartment. He asked if I knew my name and address, which I told him. Then, he brought me inside the station.
What happened next?
He left me with the woman at the desk who took me to a room, wrapped me in a blanket, and gave me a cup of tea. She even found me a pair of slipper socks, the kind you get at the hospital. That’s when the officers said they were going to check out the apartment. I didn’t say much, but I asked them to bring back my anxiety pills. I remember scanning the room for a dead body, but there wasn’t one. The room was bright with nothing but a table, four wooden chairs, and a large mirror hung on the wall.
What happened next?
I just sat there. Finally, Officer Matthews came back and told me they didn’t find anything. He slid the bottle of medication over to me. I took a pill and washed it down with the now cold tea. I asked him about the dead body found on Route 7, then wrapped in plastic. He and the desk lady looked at each other with a knowing look. The exact location of the body, and the fact that it had been wrapped in plastic, were pieces of information that had not been released to the public. He asked me how I knew that it was wrapped in plastic. I told him that I had seen it. He asked why I hadn’t called 911. And, I told him about my condition, that I didn’t think it was real, and that was what my pills were for.
And then?
Then, he suggested that I was just seeing things. I told him that I don’t hallucinate. I see things that are there, but that I think they are things that they aren’t… like dead bodies, that my mind plays tricks on me, that I saw something on my bed that night, I know I did. He looked at me like I was crazy and then insisted that I check myself in for an overnight at the mental health crisis care facility. I agreed, mostly because I was too scared to go back to my apartment, and also I was beginning to wonder if I really was losing it. I was dropped off with a promise to return to the station the next day to answer more questions.
What happened after that?
When I got to the facility, it was late, and I hadn’t eaten since noon. I was offered a sandwich. I was served a scoop of tuna in a plastic cup, two slices of bread, a leaf of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and a jello cup that just said “red” on the foil lid. There was a salt and pepper packet, and the only utensil was a plastic spoon, which was fine with me. I assembled the sandwich and took a bite. I remember thinking that it was either pretty good, or I was just really hungry. They gave me a sedative and slept through the night. In the morning, I was served breakfast, scrambled eggs, buttered wheat toast with jam, corn flakes with milk, and a hot tea. I ate every bite, and then, I was released, just like that.
How did you get home?
I called my mother to pick me up.
Is that unusual for you?
Yes, but I needed to say something to her. I needed her to tell me the truth about my father. It was me who found him. I saw his dead body laying on the living room floor, but my mother convinced me that it never happened, that it was just a pile of his clothes, and all these years, I let her think that I believed her. I told her it was time, that I wasn’t a child anymore, and she finally admitted the truth.
Where did you go after she picked you up?
We went back to my apartment, and nothing seemed out of place. My laptop and cell phone were sitting next to her purse on the table near the front door, untouched. The toast was in the toaster and the beans were still in the microwave. I threw them away, washed the dishes along with my water bottle and lunch box which were still sitting in the sink. My mom made me a cup of tea. I took a hot shower and got dressed. I looked at the bed and there was nothing on it. There wasn’t a pile of clothes or a backpack, or anything that I could have mistaken for a body.
What happened next?
My mom drove me to the police station, this time fully dressed. We both went in and sat down near a desk where a young man had taken over from the lady from the night before. He told me that Officer Matthews was out on a call and that we’d have to wait. It must have been twenty minutes before he returned. He brought me to the same room I was in the night before. He offered coffee, and I asked for tea. He left for a moment, returning with a paper cup of steaming hot water, a tea bag, a single creamer, a sugar packet, and a plastic stirrer. As I was preparing the cup of tea, he told me that the dead body had been identified as Lacey Cahill, a 25 year old woman. He asked me if I had heard of her, which I hadn’t.
Then?
That’s when a woman’s voice called out from the hall asking to speak with the officer. I could overhear their conversation. She said that Lacey Cahill called 911 two nights prior to report seeing a man laying on her bed. She said that officers arrived to find the apartment empty and cleared the scene. She said that the officers suggested that Lacey find another place to stay for the night, but that she had declined.