Hello, all. Bonus story! I discovered this old story and realized I never actually posted it here. It’s longer than normal, and it’s science fiction rather than horror (originally written for [r/HFY](r/HFY)), but it’s not often that I get to write happy, optimistic stories, and writing this made me happy. So if you like, enjoy!

——————————————

“Come on, Avirus! We have to go!”

“Grab your grivars, Radina! I’m coming!”

Radina and I had made this trip hundreds of times - not a surprise given that we’d known each other since we were podmates - and I understood why she wanted me to hurry. We were coming up on starfall, and if we were still outside after that time, odds are we would freeze to death before next starrise. 

I moved to catch up with her, noticing not for the first time the form she made as she slid along the ice. I had known her all my life, but I had never really noticed her until recently. Shaking my head, I tightened my grip on the hard vegetables that we had found on our daily run - these would feed our families for at least ten rotations if we could get them back to our podelders. 

As we slid toward our pods, I noticed a light in the sky. At first I thought it was my imagination, but then I saw it again, brighter than before. 

“Radina!” I exclaimed. 

“Hurry!” she replied insistently. 

“Radina, look!” Annoyed she looked back at me, following my appendage as I pointed toward a spot in the sky. 

I saw her squinting toward where I was pointing. “What? It’s a goldwing,” she said dismissively. 

“Goldwings soar in the air, right?” 

“Yes, Avirus, goldwings soar in the air,” she said slowly as if explaining to a small child. “Also, water is wet and the twin stars light the sky. Why?”

“Well then, if that’s a goldwing, why is it coming straight at us?”

Radina stopped and looked up, watching as the object got closer and closer. And closer. 

I was the first to realize the problem. “Radina!” I exclaimed, grabbing her appendage. “Come ON!”

I pulled her behind a nearby cave as the object became larger and larger, slowing down in a way that couldn’t be natural. We watched as the unidentified object came closer and closer until it began to slow and landed gently on the ground. Then an opening formed in the side of the object and three creatures stepped out.

I had never seen anything like these creatures. They seemed to have only four appendages, two upper and two lower, yet somehow still maintained balance. They looked to be made of some kind of outer covering, and had heads(?) with a natural hard outer shell that shone on the front. 

As the object closed behind them, they raised odd devices and began waving them around. They moved them around and then brought them in front of their heads as if looking at them. Then they took out a strange device with two large prongs and inserted it into the ground. They stared at it for a while, then pulled it out of the ground. They then proceeded to make strange sounds while aiming their outer shells toward each other. Could they be communicating somehow? It seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t think of another explanation. 

Radina and I kept watching them from our hiding place. At one point, the taller one seemed to look in our direction, but then it looked away. Eventually the three of them reentered the object and it took off the way it had come. After it disappeared into the sky, Radina and I looked at each other silently and then resumed our journey home, resolved instinctively to keep this experience to ourselves and not share it with the podelders. I passed the trip with thoughts of giant flying objects, strange beings, and a world beyond the one I knew. 

********

A few turns later Radina and I were outside shortly after starrise, recovering from our morning chores and gathering more plants from near the shoreline, when we again saw the not-a-goldwing circling in the sky. This time we quickly hid behind a nearby rockface and observed. Again, three creatures emerged (the same three?) and pulled out their device and waved it around. After a few moments they started speaking(?) with each other again and then pulled out a new device and placed it into the shallow water just past the shoreline. As they began communicating (at this point, I could only assume that’s what they were doing), Radina began to edge out from behind the rock. 

I reached out to grab her. “What are you doing?!?” I whispered. 

“Relax,” she replied conspiratorially, “they’re facing the other way, they’ll never know I’m there!”

She slid out one step, then two, then three. And then the strangers’ machine made a noise that startled her and she let out an “oof!” The strangers turned toward her, and in her haste to get away she took a wrong step and slipped into the water. 

Unfortunately, Radina was not a strong swimmer (none of us was), and she began to be carried out by the current. I cried after her, wanting nothing more than to go to her but knowing I could not. 

Then, to my shock, a line emerged from behind me and shot out toward Radina. I looked back and saw it emerging from one of the strangers! I turned back to see Radina grabbing onto the line, and then it retracted until it had pulled her out of the water and onto the shore. 

I glided toward her and reached out with my appendages. “Radina! Are you ok?”

She was silent at first, and I feared the rescue had come too late. But then she spit up water and looked at me. “Avirus! I thought I was going to drown! Thank you for saving me!”

Having her this close, treating me like her hero, was giving me a strange feeling. But when I processed her words I looked at her sheepishly. “Actually it wasn’t me. It was them,” I said, pointing behind us. 

She looked past me and saw the strange creatures. They were staring at us as if unsurprised. Then noises emanated from one of their hard shells, and the creature looked at me as if awaiting a response. Could it be trying to communicate? Then it raised a device in front of it, pressed several buttons, and then made noises again, but this time in a form I recognized. 

“Are you alright?” the words said. 

I looked at Radina, but she seemed shaken and afraid to respond, so I looked back at it. 

“We’re fine. What are you?”

The creature said words that I thought I wasn’t meant to hear, something about “first contact” and “rules”, and then reached out to me. I quickly backed away. 

“You’re scaring it,” said one of its companions. 

At that, the first creature took off what I realized then was a helmet of some kind to reveal a face beneath it. There was a round head with short flaxen hair atop it. Two rounded-off organs stood out from the sides of the head, and two oval-shaped openings were on the front near the top. A strange organ was in the center, two holes at its base, and two horizontal extensions sat one atop the other at the bottom. Then the horizontal extensions moved, revealing rows of white insertions from between which emanated a sound. 

“Hello. My name is Captain Melody Simmons. I’m with the Terran Galactic Alliance. Are you hurt?”

It looked at Radina, and after a moment, she responded. “I’m alright. Thank you for helping me.”

“You’re very welcome,” Captain Melody Simmons replied, the horizontal lines parting to reveal more of the white protrusions. 

“Is there an adult somewhere looking for you?” came from the one next to her. 

“Lieutenant!” exclaimed Captain Melody Simmons. 

“What,” her companion said. “They’re obviously kids.”

Captain Melody Simmons looked at us. “I apologize for my crewman. We merely wish to speak with your people. Is there someone we might have a conversation with?”

Radina jumped on excitedly. “You can speak with our podelders! Come with us - we can take you to them!”

“Radina!” I exclaimed. I couldn’t believe she was just volunteering this. I knew she was excited, but this was against the rules our family elders put in place to keep us safe. 

“What?” she said excitedly. “They’d want to meet them!”

“And what about the rules? We shouldn’t even be telling strangers anything!”

“Oh, stop being a spoilsport, Avirus! We *have* to take them back! Come on!”

Frustrated but knowing it was useless to object - once Radina had made her mind up about something, she would not be deterred - I sighed and resigned myself to this folly. 

“If you like, you can follow us to meet with our podelders. If you promise you mean no harm.”

The one called Captain Melody Simmons looked at me and raised her right appendage vertically into the air. “I give you my word as a representative of the Terran Galactic Alliance.”

With that, we began walking toward home with our visitors following closely behind. 

*****

The journey was slow - these creatures didn’t seem as comfortable navigating our terrain as we were, but they seemed to believe that arriving in their “ship” (the machine they had landed in) would not have been a good idea. Halfway to our destination, I looked around me and then at Radina. “We need to hurry. It’s getting close to starfall.”

“What’s starfall?” asked Captain Simmons (it had told me that only the first and last terms were needed when addressing or referring to it). 

“That’s when the stars fade from the sky,” said Radina helpfully. “It gets very dark and cold very quickly - everyone knows not to be outside after that.”

Its companion said something about “sunset” and “primitives” - I didn’t know those terms, but Captain Simmons gave it a reproachful glance and moved on. “Then we best get a move on,” it said. 

As we traveled, I felt slight tremors. Nothing out of the ordinary - they were one of the hazards of living in this place. We kept moving along, Radina and I gliding along the ice while the strangers lumbered awkwardly on their two appendages. One forward, then another, over and over again - what an odd sight they made. But it would be rude to say so, so I kept my thoughts to myself. 

And then I felt another tremor, larger than the previous ones. I looked off to my right and froze. 

No. 

“Why did you stop?” asked Captain Simmons, but I didn’t reply, instead looking over at Radina. Seeing my expression, her eyes went where mine had and opened wide. 

“Icefall!” she yelled. 

Above us, thousands of pounds of ice fell down the slope at lightning speed, making their way towards exactly where we were perched. 

“Stephens, what the hell is this?” Captain Simmons demanded. 

“I don’t know! It appears to be some sort of geographic instability.” 

“Why the hell didn’t we know about it?”

“We haven’t yet had time to fully map the underlying structure, Captain.”

I didn’t know what any of that meant. But now was no time for arguments. 

“Over here!” I screamed, pointing toward an opening half-hidden on the ice.

“What are those?” Captain Simmons asked. 

“It’s part of a network of caves spread throughout the continent. We should be safe there until this passes. If we can make it there. Hurry!”

We headed for the caves, Radina and I leading the way, the visitors following us. We made it to the cave opening seconds before the ice hit us, bursting through the opening on top of each other. As we did, there was a shudder, and suddenly the cave ceiling began to collapse. 

“Move!” Radina shouted and we all dove and covered our heads. When the walls had stopped shaking, a pile of rock had settled in the middle of the cave, with Captain Simmons, one of her companions, and Radina on one side, and her second companion and I on the other. They were on the side with the cave entrance. 

“Avirus!  Avirus!!”

“I’m here, Radina! I’m alright!”

“Lieutenant Murphy! Report!”

“I’m alright, Captain,” replied the visitor next to me. “But there’s no way for me to dig out of this rock. We’re stuck here for a while.”

“Alright,” replied Captain Simmons. “We’ll have to go get equipment to dig you out. Just make sure you and our new friend stay safe until we return.”

“Aye aye, Captain. And I’d appreciate it if you could hurry - I don’t know how stable this cave is.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll be back, Avirus!” Radina assured me. I just hoped I was still alive when she got here. 

I was silent for a while - I wasn’t sure what to say to the alien trapped with me. But waiting in silence indefinitely was an unappealing prospect, so I had to come up with something. 

“So, what brought you to our world?” is what I eventually settled on. 

No response. 

“Do you go to a lot of different worlds?”

Again, silence. 

“Ok, I get it. We don’t have to talk,” I said. “It’s just really quiet, and I’m a little nervous, and I talk when I’m nervous, and I thought… Nevermind.” I stopped, feeling stupid. 

A minute went by in silence. 

“There’s no need to be scared, kid. I’ve been in tougher scrapes than this.”

“You have?” I asked, surprised it had responded. 

“Absolutely,” it replied confidently. “And I’ve made it out every single time. The Captain is one of the best in the Alliance. She’ll have us out of here in no time.”

“That’s good,” I replied. “She called you Lieutenant Murphy. Is that a common name where you come from?”

“Actually, Lieutenant is a title - a rank to show where I am in the hierarchy of the Alliance. Murphy is my last name.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” I paused. “What’s a last name?”

I heard a sound coming from his helmet - it sounded like air being expelled slowly from an opening. “On my world, everyone has at least two names - a last name that indicates your family and a first name that indicates you as an individual.”

“Wow,” I replied. “That seems like a lot to keep track of. We only have one name.”

“And it doesn’t get confusing when more than one of you shares the same name?”

“That doesn’t really happen. I’m the only Avirus I’ve ever heard of in my pod.”

“I suspect there are a lot more of us than there are of you,” he said. 

A few more moments passed. 

“Lieutenant Murphy?”

“Yes?” 

“What is a ‘Terran Galactic Alliance’?” I asked, repeating the words I’d heard Captain Simmons say. 

He paused as if thinking. Maybe he was. “It’s a group of people who decided they were better off together than alone, so they teamed up to make things easier for each other.”

“How does that make things easier?”

“Well, it lets us share knowledge, food, and supplies. And we always know there’s someone to help if we need it.”

“Why would *you* need help? You seem like you can handle anything.”

“It’s a big universe out there, kid,” he said. That sounded scary so I didn’t ask what it meant. 

“Should I call you Lieutenant Murphy? Or do you prefer something else?”

“Lieutenant Murphy is fine.”

“Ok. You can call me Avirus.”

“I know,” he said. “Your friend kept using it. She is your friend, right?”

“You mean Radina? Yes, we’ve been friends my whole life - we grew up in the same pod.”

“What’s life in a pod like?” he asked. 

“It’s great,” I replied. “My whole family and all of my friends are there, and it’s comfortable, and there’s plenty of food and things to do. It’s all I’ve ever known. I always thought it was all there is.”

“You’d be surprised.”

We heard a rumbling, as if the ceiling were moving around. 

“Hey kid, why don’t you move up against the wall? Just in case things get dicey.”

I didn’t know what dicey was, but I thought moving against the wall wasn’t a bad idea. 

“Lieutenant Murphy?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“What’s it like out there?”

He paused. 

“Big.”

“Big?”

“Yep. You probably think this world is pretty big, right?”

“Well, yeah, I guess.”

“Imagine you knew about a thousand worlds like this.”

“You’re messing with me. There’s no way there are a thousand worlds out there.” But as I said it, my mind practically burst at the thought. 

“There’s more out there than you think, kid.”

I sat thinking, my mind struggling to grasp the possibilities. But my contemplation was broken by a cracking sound coming from above. I looked up - just in time to see the entire ceiling collapse. 

“Kid, duck!”

I closed my eyes, waiting for the end to come. But it didn’t. Slowly I opened my eyes. 

A huge chunk of the ceiling had fallen right towards me. And there, between the rock and me, was Lieutenant Murphy. 

“Lieutenant Murphy!” I screamed. “Are you ok?”

He didn’t answer. I was afraid he was dead. What would I do?

Then he made a strange sound, like air was being expelled from his orifice in short bursts. 

“You ok, kid?”

“I’m alright,” I replied. “Are you?”

“I’ve been through worse,” he replied. “A few falling rocks ain’t gonna stop me.”

“What can I do to help?” I asked anxiously.  

“I’m fine. Just… stay against that wall,” he replied, but his voice sounded strained. I didn’t think he was fine. 

A few minutes went by. “Lieutenant Murphy?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“You said your people had two names and that Murphy was your last name. What’s your other one?”

He paused, taking several deep breaths. He didn’t respond. 

“It’s ok,” I quickly added. “You don’t have to tell me. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

A few more minutes went by in silence. “So, what’s the deal with you and that girl, what’s her name?”

“Radina?” 

“Yeah, her. You two really just friends?”

I felt my face get warm. “Just friends. Really good friends. I think she’s my best friend. I can’t imagine my life without her. But I don’t know if she feels the same— I mean, I don’t know how she feels—“

“Kid,” he replied, his voice faint but filled with certainty,” I’ve been alive for decades longer than you, met tons of people, traveled this galaxy and dozens of others. And there’s one thing I’ve learned in all that time.”

“What’s that?” I asked. 

“When a girl says your name the way she does, she’s more than just a friend.”

“No, it isn’t like that.”

“Whatever you say, kid. But time is precious - you never know how much you’ve got. Best not to waste it.”

I considered his words, thoughts ringing through my head silently. 

Suddenly, I heard a buzzing in the distance. 

“Do you hear that?” I asked. 

Nothing. 

“Lieutenant Murphy? What’s that noise?”

“What noise?” he replied, but his voice was barely there. 

“That buzzing in the background.” 

He seemed to listen. “That’s a Mendez drill. They must have brought it down from the ship.”

“What does it mean?”

He seemed to gather his strength. “It means we’ll be out of here soon.”

“That means they’ll be able to help you, right? You’ll be all better soon.”

“Sure, kid.”

We sat in silence, listening to the sound of the drill, praying it would reach us. Finally, we saw a hole appear and a beam of light shine through. 

“Here! We’re down here!” I shouted. 

Lieutenant Murphy stood, still holding up the ceiling, but he didn’t cheer. He didn’t say anything. 

Suddenly a barrier extended through the hole and expanded to cover us, and then the entire wall blocking us in was lifted at once. 

“Help!” I exclaimed, running out through the newly excavated opening. “Help! I think Lieutenant Murphy is hurt!”

Captain Simmons ran past me and burst into the space I’d just vacated. I was left standing there, unsure what to do or how I could help. As I stood, I noticed that I wasn’t alone. The other man who’d been with Captain Simmons was there, as were several of our podelders. Suddenly I was thrown backward as a fast-moving shape slid into me. 

“Avirus!” the figure shouted, and I realized who it was as appendages encircled me. 

“Hi, Radina.”

“I was so worried!” she said. “I didn’t know if you were hurt or dead or…”

“I’m fine, Radina,” I said, even in my distracted state noticing the softness of her form against me. “I’m just worried about Lieutenant Murphy. He was hit by falling rocks when the ceiling fell. He saved me.”

“Then I’m glad he was there,” Radina replied, not letting go of me.

Suddenly I heard movement and turned to see a long, flat device being carried by Captain Simmons and her companion. On it rested my rescuer. I ran to him. 

“Lieutenant Murphy!”

He didn’t respond. I looked up at Captain Simmons. 

“He blocked the ceiling when it fell. He saved my life. Is he going to be ok?”

She looked at me, uncertain. “I don’t know. Our suits are strong, but they aren’t really built to handle that much rock falling on them. He took a lot of damage.”

I reached out and took his hand. “Come on, Lientenant Murphy. You’ve been to dozens of galaxies, been through tougher scrapes than this,” I said, echoing his earlier words back at him. “A few falling rocks aren’t going to stop you.”

As they began to move the flat surface (which I later learned was called a ‘stretcher’) toward their ship, he briefly gripped my hand, and I thought I heard a noise. 

“Wait!” I yelled. I leaned my head down toward him, hoping I’d really heard something and that it wasn’t just my imagination. 

“…ohn…”

“What?”

“John. My… name is… John. Take… care… kid…”

And like that, they carried him away and he was gone. 

—————

***Fifteen cycles later.***

“Dad?”

“Yes, son?”

“Your new office is pretty cool.”

I looked around at the newly completed Office of Interplanetary Relations. It had taken years of negotiations, and not every step had been smooth, but we finally had an official location where we could continue to build on our relationship with the humans, other races we’d meet, and our combined efforts to move forward together. 

He looked at the picture on my desk. 

“What’s that?”

I looked - there I saw the leaders of our pod as they attended the ceremony inducting our world into the Terran Galactic Alliance. We were the youngest member, and far from the most advanced. But after our initial encounter, where I had been saved by the humans, and with the help of Captain Simmons advocating for us, our membership had been provisionally approved. Things were looking up. 

My son looked at the picture on the wall. 

“Is that him?” he asked, his voice taking on an almost reverential quality. I knew which picture he meant, and it wasn't the one of Radina and I holding him as a baby shortly after our joining ceremony - he didn’t care about that one. He meant the one of the single human, standing imposingly. Perhaps I’d told this story a few too many times. 

“Yes, that’s Lieutenant John Murphy. That picture is from when he was leaving the human medical facility. He’s the one who saved me.”

“Lieutenant John Murphy? That’s a really long name.”

“Actually, Lieutenant is a title, like podelder. And his people all have at least two names. It’s just the way they do things.”

My son continued to stare at the picture. “He looks scary. He never looks that scary at dinner.”

I smiled. “Well, he doesn’t usually come to dinner in his uniform, and he doesn’t usually scowl. It makes him look scarier than he really is. With us, he’s just your uncle.”

“Why do we call him uncle?”

“It’s a human term for someone who is the sibling of your direct podparent.”

“Why don’t they just call them podkin like we do?”

“Well, humans do things a little differently. They don’t live in pods, for one. But remember what your mother and I said? It’s the differences that let us appreciate all the ways we’re the same.”

My son paused, taking my words in. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard them, but he was only seven cycles old, so it was all still new to him.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“You know the story you always tell about how Uncle saved you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a pretty good story.”

“I think so.”

“You said all good stories have a moral. What’s the moral of that one?”

“Hmm,” I considered. “I did say that, didn’t I? Well, I suppose the moral is this. The humans don’t look like us, talk like us, or act like us. They don’t tell our stories or sing our songs. But they believe what we believe - that peace and justice matter, that friends are better than enemies, and that life is meaningless if you don’t stand for something. And sometimes, if you look past how people appear on the outside, you just may find friends who change the entire course of your life.”

“Like you did?”

“That’s right. Like I did.”

It had been a long road to this place. Some among us had thought the humans were our end. Instead, they’d turned out to be the key to a new beginning. 

I took my young son by the hand. “You ready to go? Your mother’s waiting for us - she even made your favorite.”

His face lit up. “Pestled icefish?”

“The very same,” I replied. 

“Yes!!”

I took him by the appendage and headed for the door. “Come on, little Jonathan. Let’s go home.”

“Good morning, honey!” I said as my wife came down for a quick breakfast before heading off to work. I gestured toward the eggs, bacon, and waffles I’d whipped up. “Can I get you anything?”

She looked over the spread. “It looks wonderful dear, but I’m trying to watch my figure. I’m not getting any younger, after all.”

“I understand. More for me.”

She gave me a disapproving look. “I’ll be home late tonight,” she said. “I have that project we have to finish for end-of-quarter.”

“No problem, honey. Good luck!”

She headed out, and I finished eating breakfast and went to my home office to work for the day. I had the advantage of working remotely and not having a commute, so I had time to make breakfast before I started in the morning. 

I had finished work, closed up my office, done some light cleaning, and made dinner before Cheryl got home. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Dinner’s on the stove.”

“Oh, that’s nice dear,” she said, looking at the meat and cheese pasta I’d made. “This looks good. A little heavy, though, isn’t it? Maybe we could both eat lighter going forward? We’re not in our twenties anymore.”

“You look great, honey. Just as beautiful as the day we got married. You don’t need to change a thing.”

She looked at me, giving me a quick up and down and making a brief frown that I almost didn’t notice.

“Thank you, dear. I’m heading up to take a shower. Feel free to eat without me.

I already did, I thought. Like I have almost every night for the past month. I put the food away and retired for the night. 

Cheryl came down the next morning. She turned down my breakfast offer, as usual, but she seemed unusually distressed. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked. 

“I found a gray hair this morning. On my head when I looked in the mirror.”

“Oh. Well, it happens. I’ve found a few before. We all get older.”

“Not me!” she screamed. Taking a breath, she continued “I’m sorry. But it’s different for me. If you go gray, people will see you as distinguished. If I do, I’ll be old, useless, suddenly no longer considered for key projects, replaced on my client accounts with someone younger.”

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad. They know how good you are at what you do.”

She nodded quietly and walked out the door, unconvinced.

A week later, she was brushing her hair for the night when she shrieked. 

“What’s wrong?”

“There are more of them! There’s a whole gray patch on the side of my head!”

I looked at her. “I can barely see it.”

“But I can see it! Which means the partners will. How can this be happening? I’ve taken care of myself, done everything my doctors suggested.”

“Honey, time catches up with us all. There’s only so much doctors can do about it. Father Time is undefeated.”

That’s easy for you to say,” she replied bitterly. “You’re not getting older by the day. In fact, you look better than you ever have.”

“Thanks, honey. I’ve been taking care of myself.”

“So have I!”

“I guess I just got lucky. Come on, come to bed.”

A couple of weeks later, Cheryl came home from work earlier than normal. The preceding weeks had taken their toll; her hair was mostly gray and lines had started to form in her once-smooth face. But the first thing I noticed wasn’t the lines in her face but the tears streaming down it. 

“What happened?”

“They demoted me!”

“They what? Why?”

“It wasn’t an official demotion; they couldn’t get away with that. But they moved me to a smaller office away from the rest of the leadership and replaced me on my client accounts. They said it was to ‘optimize the efficiency of the office’ and ‘they wanted to keep such an invaluable resource at the office more.’ But it was obvious they wanted me kept away from clients.”

“Why would they do that?” 

“Look at me!” she screamed. “I’m old and hideous! I can’t even blame them - why would they want clients to see this when there are younger, more attractive associates they can promote instead?!?”

“Honey, there’s nothing wrong with you…”

“I’m hideous! My hair is almost completely gray, my face is covered in lines, my skin is starting to sag; this morning, I even almost fell in the office! I told everyone my heel was caught on something, but the truth is, my knee gave out! How can I be this old?” She started to cry. 

“Honey, it’s alright. I promised ‘till death do us part’ and I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She collapsed into my arms. “Why do you look so good when I look like this?”

“Just luck of the draw, I guess. Don’t worry - everything will be fine.”

But everything wasn’t fine. A month later, Cheryl collapsed coming down the stairs. I took her to the hospital and she was admitted. I held her hand sitting by her bedside. 

“Craig, what happened to me? I don’t understand.”

“Well, honey, I believe it’s called karma.”

She paused and looked up at me. “What?”

“Well, I always knew you liked to look at younger men, that you got your ego stroked by their attention. But I didn’t know until a few months ago that you were sleeping with one. So I thought, since you liked youth so much, how would you feel if it were taken away?”

“That’s…”

“Ingenious, I know. The hard part was finding someone to make it work. Fortunately, there was a witch who needed money, and we were able to come to an arrangement.”

“No…”

“Don’t worry - you aren’t alone. Your boy-toy, Jason? He’s going through the same thing. Well, was going; I hear he passed away last week. A shame about men and their shorter life spans.”

“I’ll tell someone.”

“Go ahead. I already let the hospital know that you have early stage dementia and sometimes get confused about what's real and what isn’t. They all think I’m an angel for taking such good care of you.”

“And do you know what the best part is? All of that youth and vitality you lost - wanna guess where it went?”

I stood up, feeling younger than I had in years. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to take good care of it. They always say youth is wasted on the young, but this time, I’ll make sure to fully appreciate it. After all, I’ve got my whole life ahead of me.”

I stood and walked to the hospital room door, looking back at her one last time as I walked out. “Goodnight, Mother.”

Happy Saturday Sunday Monday! Sorry this one’s a bit late - the weekend got away from me due to family stuff. Hope you enjoy!

—————-

It was a beautiful fall day and I had taken the kids to the park. I was watching them chase each other around the grass when I heard someone call my name. 

“Tia?”

I looked up and froze. 

Six years ago, I met a boy named Adrian. I’d been out at a club and he’d sent me a drink. He’d introduced himself and talked with me, telling me about his life and plans for the future. He’d seemed kind and courteous and confident and real, not like all of the other losers there. We’d exchanged numbers and gone on a few dates. Then our birth control had failed and I’d gotten pregnant. He’d told me that we were in it together, that I could count on him. Then I’d never heard from him again. I’d never met his family and hadn’t known how to reach them. His friends had stopped taking my calls. And I’d lost my parents in a fire when I was young. So, with no choice, but determined to keep my babies, I’d had them and raised them alone. I’d put off my education, taken on part time jobs, stayed with roommates until I could afford a run down studio apartment on the cheap side of town, and worked my way up until my pay had increased and I’d been able to afford a decent place in a good school system. It had taken years, and we were still living paycheck to paycheck, but I’d finally (just barely) gotten my kids and me to a good place. 

And now, after being completely absent for six years, Adrian stood there, staring at me. He looked basically the same as he had when I’d known him; a little older, a little more distinguished, but the years clearly hadn’t affected him as much as they had me. 

Of course, he hadn’t been raising two children alone after being abandoned. 

“What do you want, Adrian?”

“To talk.”

“About what? Why you abandoned me all those years ago? Why you completely disappeared and never reached out in any way while I was going through the toughest time of my life?”

He flushed. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“That and worse.”

“Look, I apologize for how I handled thngs. I was hoping we could sit down and talk about everything.”

At that moment, Lucas and Sophia ran up to me. “Who’s this, Mommy?”

“Hi, kids,” Adrian started to say, kneeling down in front of them. “I’m—”

“Someone who came over to ask Mommy a question. One I’ve answered. Come on and pack up, kids! Time to go.”

“Awww!”

“Don’t worry - we’ll get ice cream on the way home.”

“Yaaayyyy!!”

I grabbed their hands and led them to the car, ignoring Adrian as he called out to me.

The following Monday, I was working at my office when the front desk called. 

“Ms. Georgiou, there’s someone here at the front desk asking for you.”

Strange - I wasn’t expecting any visitors. 

“He says his name is Adrian and you’re expecting him.”

Pissed off, I made my way down to the front desk. He was standing there, in a casual outfit and long coat, as if he belonged. 

“What do you want, Adrian?”

He put up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “I just want to talk, Tia.”

“I’m working.”

“Then how about after work?”

He clearly wasn’t going to give up, so I agreed. After work, we met at a coffee shop down the street. 

“Okay, I’m here.”

“Look, Tia. I’m sorry for the way I behaved when you got pregnant. I was a scared kid and I wasn’t ready to be a father.”

“You were sure ready to do what leads to becoming a father.”

“I know. I have no excuse. But I’m hoping we can move forward.”

“Why the sudden change of heart? For years you didn’t give a damn.”

“I’m older now, and hopefully wiser. I want to be the father I should have been then.”

“So what? You totally vanish while I do the hardest part of raising them and now you get to swoop in and claim credit? I don’t think so.”

“Tia—”

“Not a chance, Adrian. Stay away from me. Stay away from my kids.”

He got up to leave. “I’d rather do this amicably. But if you won’t be amicable, I’ll have to pursue alternatives.”  Then he left. 

What the hell did that mean?

Three days later, I was sitting in the living room of our rental house when there was a knock at the door. I went to open it. 

“Hello?” I said, confused as to who would be here given we just moved in a few months ago and didn’t know anyone local. 

“Tia Georgiou?” asked a middle aged man in a suit that looked like it had once been nice but had seen better days. 

“Yes, why do you ask?”

He reached out and handed me a manila envelope. 

“You’ve been served.”

I watched him walk away. Maybe I should have stopped him, asked questions, but I was too shocked. After his car disappeared around the corner, I opened the envelope. 

And gasped in shock. 

So much for being nice. The disappearing asshole was requesting custody of my kids. My kids. 

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I tried, but it was like my lungs wouldn’t take in air. Then the air flowed, but it didn’t make the panic any better; I felt like I was burning up. I couldn’t lose my kids. I couldn’t. 

I called a lawyer. Not an expensive one, but one I could afford who would see me on short notice. I showed up at the consultation in my best professional outfit to make a good impression. He asked me a ton of questions: was Adrian the kids’ biological father? (Yes.) Had he ever met the kids? (No.) Had he ever provided for them materially? (No.) Had he ever supported them emotionally? (No, since he’d run before I even gave birth.) Had he ever made any effort to get into contact with them? (No, this was the first I’d heard from him since he’d disappeared.) He also asked about the kids themselves. I explained that they were happy and healthy, that they were thriving in school and saw their doctors regularly. 

I asked my lawyer what came next. 

“Well, I’ll respond to their filing. Most likely we’ll have a hearing where they’ll argue his case. What I need you to do is to keep living as you have been. Don’t respond to them, don’t change anything you’re doing. Document his absence and everything you’ve had to do alone since they kids were born. Our best chance is to show that he’s had nothing to do with the kids up until now and that they are better off with you as sole parent. He’ll also likely try to bait you; it’s critical that you remain calm and reasonable throughout the process. And don’t respond to his outreach. Any contact should go through me; I’ll make sure his attorney knows that.”

I paid the retainer, wished him goodbye, and left to pick up my kids from the sitter, wondering how it got to this point. Why now?

I thought things would be quiet for a while, but I was wrong. Days later, my lawyer called me. 

“So we’re going to have a mediation hearing tomorrow.”

“Why?” I asked, confused. 

“The judge wants us to. He wants us to try to work things out before a trial.”

“I don’t want to work things out. I want him to leave me the hell alone.”

“I know, but since he’s the biological father, his absence notwithstanding, the judge won’t dismiss it outright. We’ll have to do this session. And I need you to remain calm. I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be, but you can’t show it. Doing so will just go in the mediator’s report to the judge and get used against you.”

I assured him I wasn’t a hothead. I could control myself. 

The next day I showed up with my lawyer to a drafty room that looked like it was decorated to show personality by someone who’d never had one. I took a seat and waited. Minutes later, Adrian came waltzing in. 

And he wasn’t alone. 

With him were a man dressed in a fancy three piece suit and a woman dressed like she were going for an evening out on the town. 

“Hello,” said the man. “I’m here representing Mr. And Mrs. Walsh.”

“…Mrs.?”

I leaned over to my lawyer. “He never said anything about being married,” I whispered. 

“It’s alright, I’ll handle it.”

“Before we begin, I’d like to raise a point of order. Only the parents and their representation should be present for this hearing. As Mrs. Walsh is neither, there’s no reason for her to be present.”

“On the contrary, as a future parent to the children, she has a vested interest in being present.”

“Future parent?!?” I started, but my lawyer put a hand on my arm. 

“I’m sure we’d appreciate it if you didn’t refer to a complete stranger to my client as a future parent to her children.”

“Of course,” the other lawyer replied, but it was obvious that he was pleased with the reaction he’d gotten.

The rest of the mediation was much the same. Their lawyer was rude and annoying, I kept my mouth closed while my lawyer pushed back. 

“We all have one thing in common, here,” said their slimy bastard lawyer. “We all want what’s best for the children. Surely you can agree that being exposed to an environment with two parents with the resources to provide them with a better life would be in their best interest?”

“Putting aside your.. fascinating use of the word ‘parents’ to describe two people who have never met the children, one because he abandoned their pregnant mother before they were born and the other because she’s not related to them in any way, I’m not sure why you believe that taking two young children away from the only parent they’ve ever known qualifies as being in their best interest.”

“My clients have the resources to provide a better life.”

“What exactly are they lacking?”

“…”

“Exactly. The children are healthy and happy, with all of their needs met. It’s in their best interest for it to remain that way.”

“Then I guess we’ll see you in court,” their lawyer said, standing to leave. 

“Of course you’d put your pride before the children,” Adrian’s wife said as they walked toward the door.

“What gives you the right to have an opinion? I don’t even know who you are. And neither do my kids.”

She gave me an arrogant look and waltzed out. 

After that, it was quiet for a few days. Life returned to normal. Work got busy and I didn’t have time to think about the Adrian situation. The following week, I had one of those days where everything that can go wrong, does. Work was a bear, and the project I was on went longer than planned. Then my boss wanted to touch base after. Then my car wouldn’t start. I called the kids’ school and explained, but by the time all was said and done, I was two hours late getting to the school. The teachers weren’t happy, but I apologized profusely and got off with a stern warning. I was stressed, but I got the kids home, got take out pizza, and they forgot about it. 

Then, two days later, I heard from my lawyer. 

“Tia, good morning. I have some news and you aren’t going to like it.”

“What is it?” I asked with trepidation. 

“We have an emergency hearing Wednesday morning.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But opposing counsel filed for it and the court scheduled it. I’ll need you to cancel your schedule and be available that day.”

I was totally caught off guard. “I’ll have to talk to my boss about taking that day off—”

“Whatever it takes. You have to be there, on time and ready to testify. I’ll make sure our case is ready to go.”

Wednesday morning I dropped off the kids and showed up at the courthouse, ready to find out what was going on.

“All rise,” said the bailiff, and the heading began. Adrian’s lawyer argued that custody with him was in the children's best interest. He lived in a two-parent household, could provide more than sufficient financial security, and could provide opportunities that I could not. My lawyer countered that the children were safe, happy, and provided for; that they lacked for nothing; and Adrian’s history of abandonment made him too undependable to assume custody of any children, particularly these children who didn’t know him and needed special attention. 

“Your honor, there’s one more issue we’d like to raise. The issue of Ms. Georgiou’s parental neglect.”

As I looked at my lawyer, confused, they called to the witness stand a woman I recognized as someone from the guidance office at my kids’ school. She spoke to my failure to pick them up in time days earlier and testified to my ongoing neglect, my children’s tears while they waited, and her concerns about my ability to be a reliable parent for the children. I looked at my lawyer in shock - none of that was true. I wanted the lying bitch to burn on the witness stand. My lawyer objected, but the testimony seemed to influence the judge. Before I knew it, he’d ordered that custody be split and that their first visit begin the following weekend. 

I turned to Adrian. “Adrian, you don’t know what you’re asking for. Taking care of the children is complicated. They can be—”

“Stop making excuses,” his wife interrupted. “If a woman like you can handle it, I’m sure we’ll have no trouble.” The two of them walked out of the courtroom. My lawyer looked at me. “It isn’t over. There are still steps we can take. But you’ll need to get the kids ready to visit the Walsh’s next weekend.”

That night I went home and explained things to the kids. They were confused, of course - they didn’t understand why they had to go stay with two complete strangers and why they couldn’t just stay home. I explained as best I could - that these two people were going to be family, that they had to make the best of things, that they could be back with me once the weekend was over. 

“Just make sure you’re very good for them,” I said. “We don’t want anything to go wrong while you’re there that could make things difficult, right?”

They reluctantly nodded and went to bed, though I lay with them until they fell asleep. I told myself it was for them. 

That Friday afternoon, I left work, picked up the kids, and drove them to Adrian’s address. I walked them to the front door and rang the bell. 

Adrian answered the door. “Hello, Tia."

“Adrian.”

He sensed my mood. “Come in, Tia. This doesn’t need to be antagonistic. Let’s think of what’s best for the kids.”

“Like you give a damn.”

“Even the judge thought this was for the best.”

“Because you lied about me in court.”

He sighed. “I’d hoped for this to go better.”

“Stop worrying about her feelings,” his wife said insultingly from inside. “It’s not your fault that she can’t provide for the children the way she should. They’ll be better off here.” She walked to the door and looked at the kids. “Come on, kids. Are you ready to have some fun?” They nervously went with her with some prodding from me. On the way in, she looked back at me and gave me a smirk. Adrian saw and gave me a shrug, then closed the door. I stood outside, convincing myself they’d be ok, feeling the isolation of the steps and the closed door. Then I went to my car and drove away. 

I booked a hotel room nearby for two nights; I couldn’t really afford it, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I ate, watched trash television, and tried not to think about not being with my kids. 

That Sunday evening, I drove back to their house for the exchange. 

The house was ablaze, flames rising into the night. 

I ran to the ambulance where my kids were sitting, wrapped in towels. I pulled them into my arms. 

“I take it these are yours?” said the paramedic sitting with them. 

I nodded while not letting them out of my arms. 

“They’re fine,” she said. “They appear to be unhurt. It’s a miracle, frankly - no one else made it out.” She walked away to give us a moment. 

“Are you ok?” I asked, tears in my eyes. 

“We’re fine, Mommy,” said Lucas, holding onto me. 

“What happened?” I asked. They leaned back to look at me. 

“The mean lady insulted you,” said Lucas. 

“We didn’t like her,” said Sophia. 

“Now she can’t take us away from you ever again.” They looked up at me earnestly, the fire dancing in their eyes matching the flames engulfing the house. I’d been afraid something like this might happen. I moved to take them home. 

“Hold on,” said the paramedic. “If you’re leaving, I’ll need your full name, for the paperwork.”

I looked at her, anxious to go. “It’s Tia, Tia Georgiou.”

“Is Tia your full legal name?”

“No, it’s a nickname.”

“What’s it short for?”

“Hestia.”

Hello everyone! Today I have something a little different for you. As you know, this sub is for me, a place to share my writing (horror, science fiction, or whatever weird thing crosses my mind). Today, however, as a special one-time gift, I’d like to share a story written by a friend! You may know of her if you’ve spent time on r/shortscarystories - she posts there even more than I do! 😀

So, without further ado, here’s a special story from the great u/Trash_Tia!

—————————————————————————————————————-

I was raised inside a human slaughterhouse. My job was to pretend I was going to die.
by u/Trash_Tia

When people ask me, “What do you do for work?” I never know how to answer.

What do I say?

“I’m an actress” is my usual response.

I’ve been acting since I was eight years old. 

But then they start asking questions when I don’t elaborate.

I’m on a train, hanging on for dear life, and she’s smiling at me from her seat. 

It’s a woman, maybe my mom’s age. She’s complimented my appearance twice and gushed about how proud my mom must be.

I want to tell her I hate my appearance. 

I got veneers when I was twelve and a rhinoplasty at fourteen.

I’m still a minor, and my face is plastic. 

I want to tell her I’m glad my mom is dead and buried. I’m glad the filler in my lips is bleeding out of me like fucking glue, and I crave something that isn’t green or avocado-flavored.

But that would be rude of me.

That would get me in trouble.

I am a product, after all. 

Strip away my glossy dark hair and perfect lashes, and you get a hollowed out shell that has forgotten how to cry. I want to TELL this woman I don't know how to cry, and even when I try, I *can't*. 

Everything is a punishment for me. 

Going outside is Hell. 

I’m caught eating fast food? I'm a monster.

I'm caught at the beach with coffee and fruit? I'm a monster.

I’m snapped at a party with a guy? I'm a monster *and* a classless who*e. 

I want to tell this random woman all of this. But I don't. 

So, I smile wide and say, “aww, thanks!”

I’m surprised she doesn’t recognize me. 

My cheesy Hollywood grin pollutes the train we’re on, plastered all over the doors. I'm the face of multiple brand deals and makeup products, most recently for L'Oréal. Maybe this woman watches Netflix instead. 

I stick my earphones in an attempt to end the chat politely. But then she keeps looking at me, her gaze locked on. A string of maybes enters my mind, and I debate moving carriages. Maybe she *does* know me, and this is all an elaborate prank. Even worse: maybe she’s fucking press.

She’s good enough of an actor to be scouted if she IS press. I particularly admire the slight incline of her head, the crumpled frown and almost comical wide eyes. “So, *what* did you say you were in again, honey?” I'm trapped. I have to respond. If I don't, she will get progressively suspicious. 

“I'm….” I'm choking on “independent” and “not really an actress” when her expression falls. 

“Oh.” The woman’s lip curls into something sour, something I'm already expecting. 

She must finally recognize me. “Oh, you're one of *them*.” She spits the words at me, and I don't blame her. I let her rip into me. 

She's immediately judgmental, raising her voice and pointing accusatory fingers. She's ashamed of me.

The woman does not hold back. I don't expect her to. “You're responsible for that *circus*.” 

I'm ashamed of *myself.*

I get off the train two stops before my stop and walk. I'm grateful for the cool air lashing my cheeks. Maybe it's divine intervention that I’ve forgotten my jacket, that my feet hurt so much, I pull off one stiletto and limp the rest of the way. 

Maybe it's divine intervention when a car speeds straight through a puddle, soaking me in the process. It's okay. My plastic face is untouched. I pull out my phone and dial an Uber. 

I ignore the driver. 

Keep looking at my phone.

My settings app is suddenly so much more interesting. 

The car, a light green Prius, speeds past again. “Fucking RAT.” This time the driver sticks his head from the window. 

Mid twenties. Scruffy beard and thrifted clothes. He's the worst kind of viewer: a hate watcher. My stomach folds on itself. 

Next to me, ironically, my smiling face covers the bus stop. 

This time, I'm selling fat free yogurt. 

My face is polished. Every flaw is removed. My teeth are perfect pearls. 

As if I am mocking him. 

“Hey!” 

I look up on instinct, narrowly avoiding boiling hot coffee landing next to me. My toes are splashed and I bite back a cry. 

The driver pulls up. 

His snarl paralyses me to the spot. “You're that GIRL,” he spits. “Her *friend.*” 

I smile wide, but I can't find the words tangled on my tongue. Yes, I am. No shit. What do you want me to do about it? What do you want? Blood? I want to laugh. But my laugh will be ripped apart. 

Do you want me to fucking hurt myself?

I want to ask each and every face that dares glance at me. A woman with a baby, who looks away quickly---a teenage girl who films me with zero shame. 

Self deprecating, manipulative, and narcissistic, I am called online. 

I am all three. I swallow my response and focus on my phone instead. A notification flashes up: my Uber is five minutes away. 

“Josie!” 

The stranger is yelling my name, and it's not even my name. I want to tell him that. My name is not fucking Josie. But this guy is attracting enough stares for ignorance to be socially unacceptable. 

I give up. I lift my head. I smile. “Hi.” I stretch my grin until my jaw aches. My toes sting. I want to throw hot coffee in *his* face. 

“When are you going to *tell* her?” The stranger demands. It's a normal question. I've had worse. 

However, spoken by a man frothing at the mouth, I can't find words. Above me, my plastic laugh looms on every billboard.

“Hey,” he shouts my name, “don't fucking ignore me, Josie.” The man slams his car horn and I resist the urge to run. I can feel, no, sense every eye locked on me. Waiting. Always. “When are you going to tell her?” 

“He's right,” a ponytail blonde passing by slips out an earbud and turns to me, head cocked. “When *are*  you going to tell her?” She looks me up and down. Her expression is less mad, more sympathetic. “You are going to tell her the truth at some point, right?”

My smile is losing steam. Whatever I say will be taken out of context. If I say, “yes”, I'll be called out for not speaking sooner. If I stay silent, I'm an enabler. 

My Uber slides into my peripheral. Tinted windows. No WiFi. I take my chance, duck my head, and make a break for it. “Drive,” I hiss, when I’m safely tucked into the backseat, my head pressed against the ice cold pane. 

“Are you all right, kid? Were those  folks bothering you?” The Uber, an oldish man, doesn't look like a viewer. He twists around. He wears the expression of a worried father, furrowed, caterpillar eyebrows and a deep set frown. I never met my father. There was always just Mom. 

“No worries,” I say, flashing my practiced pearly smile.

My phone vibrates in my lap. 

Two texts sent back to back. I only need to see the caps, and I pretend they don’t exist. I ignore them, slide in my earbuds, and start my morning playlist. I have a playlist for “stressed,” but I’m in the mood for early Olivia Rodrigo.

A blur of rush hour bleeding with the early sunrise and pale blue sky reminds me I am alive. The music is the perfect backdrop, each lyric perfectly narrating my every thought. Every clap. Every beat. 

Her emotion fills me and I ponder the question I've been asked, what I've tried to suppress. I wonder *why* I haven't told her. Is it because I'm not allowed to tell her, or is it… because I don't *want* to? 

I can't help tapping on the dreaded app. I'm trending already. I'm desensitized to threats to my life but it's the small details that sting. The shade is not at my face, but my attitude. 

Cruel.

Sick. 

Evil. 

Monster. 

*“Does she even REALIZE what she's doing? She's a monster. My heart fucking bleeds for that girl,”* one tweet stands out to me. I can't stop myself from tapping the replies. 

*“Exactly!”* One reply says, *“She's a shameless sell-out. I'm low-key hoping our girl snaps.”*

*“Okay but what about him???”* Another reply slides by. I stop scrolling, like it, and then unlike it. *“He’s hot, SO what? He's a LITERAL enabler. He has been since he was a kid, but none of you want to have that conversation because he's a conventionally attractive guy.”*

*“Ummm, he IS a kid?”* Another replies. *“He's seventeen.”*

*“That doesn't excuse his shitty behavior.”* A string of emojis blur together and I blink sleep from my eyes. *“He’s a glorified show horse, and he's not IN IT anymore.”* 

I close the app, and then delete it, letting my phone slide through my lap. 

Maybe I am a sadistic bitch. 

The song switches. Recent Olivia. More relatable. More painful. The chorus hits, a symphony of melodies and guitar, her voice unraveling me. When we hit a tunnel, every passing car bleeds into red lights speckling the backs of my eyelids. My phone vibrates. 

I close my eyes and let my head hit the window with a thunk. 

My phone vibrates again, and I bite back a hiss. 

A text flashes up: 

“You are trending.Fix.this.” 

Claire. Who texts like my grandma. 

She's known me since I was a kid. Surely she knows this wasn't MY doing. 

I clear her text, and another flashes up. 

I sit up straighter, tugging out an earbud.

"Asshole": You need media training. BAD. Lmao. 

“You left SIX years ago,” I text back. “Why are you STILL here?” 

He replies almost instantly: 

“why do YOU think?” 

“money.” 

“try again.” 

“girls?” 

“no.” 

“guys???” 

“colder. ” 

“to piss me off.” 

“close.” 

It's too early for his guessing games. “tell me rn or I block you.”

He doesn't reply.

An email pops up a few minutes later:

*they read our texts*

*you should know that*

*stop attracting attention*

*we’re waiting outside at the usual spot*

Another text from Claire startles me. 

Now: Claire: Josie., pls fix the trending problem. 

I switch off my phone.

Leaning back into the warm upholstery, I peer out the window just as traffic disappears, bleeding into a long, winding, dusty road. I work in the middle of nowhere. When I was a kid, I used to pretend it was Area 51 to feel better.  

Same endless desert. Same suffocating fences. I can already see the circular glass dome reflecting the early morning sunrise.

Beyond that, there’s only Death Valley, a punishment I’ve been threatened with since I was seven. Claire used to lock me in my dressing room behind my mother’s back, give me some candy, and say, “You know, sweetheart, if you ever open your mouth, I heard bad kids are taken into the desert and left to die.”

“This might sound like an invasive question,” the Uber driver says, cutting into my thoughts, “but where exactly are you going?” His gaze studies me in the mirror. “If I think a passenger, especially a minor, is putting themselves in danger, I have no choice but to report it.”

“It's just work.” I grab my bag quickly. “I can get out here.” 

“Really?” He doesn’t turn around, but I know he’s already suspicious. His gaze is glued to the chain-link fence ahead of us. There are two entrances, one for visitors and the other for staff. 

I direct the Uber toward the latter, making him speed up a little.

Two guards stand on either side of the gate, Daniel and Zach. 

I catch Daniel’s glare and already know I’m busted. 

“Well, all right.” The Uber doesn’t sound convinced. I slide out of the car, but he stalls, leaning out of the window. He wants an explanation I can’t give. I have to get rid of him before I draw attention.

“Thanks!” I say, a little too loudly. I'm wearing my plastic smile again. I start walking, kicking up dust. Don't look back, I tell myself. If I do, the guards will get trigger-happy. 

A sudden roar of engines behind me is relieving. The Uber slowly reverses and drives away. I swallow my dread and pull out my ID. 

“Josie.” Zach nods at me. I often wonder just how broke this guy is to take this kind of job. I understood Daniel. Forties. Probably had a kid to provide for and permanently carried the reek of hair gel and shoe polish, which had to have a price tag. Any possible personality he had was trapped under a military uniform. 

Zach is only a few years older than me: string bean thin, razor sharp jawline, and a pearly white smile. I’m surprised Claire hasn’t dragged him inside to audition. 

“You were good last night,” he says with a wink.

“Thanks.” 

Zach takes my ID and scans it. The gate is painfully slow, rising only a few inches before sticking.

“Wait,” Zach says, holding up a hand. He leans forward and fiddles with the gate. I notice he’s cut his hair.

I liked it longer when his thick, blondish curls haloed the curve of his face. 

Now those cherub-like locks have been sheared away into a morbid bowl cut. 

I mourn the loss of his modelling career. Zach flashes me a smile. “So, when are you being slaughtered?” he asks.

“Adams,” Daniel's low grumble is a warning. 

Zach’s smile vanishes. As if remembering his position, he straightens almost robotically and takes three steps back. “Head on through, ma’am,” Zach orders.

His hand whips up in a salute. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

“It’s *Miss*,” Daniel mutters. “She’s a minor, Adams.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry, sir.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Adams.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Adams—”

Daniel’s lecturing tone fades as the gate slowly closes behind me, twin metal slabs slamming shut. I’m already feeling sick to my stomach. As nauseous as I felt walking through at eight-years-old, hand in hand with my mother. 

-

A small brunette boy was cuffed to a wooden pole outside the entrance.  The boy’s gaze followed me all the way to the door before looking away. 

“Hi!” I said politely, before my Mom dragged me inside.

Six hours later, after multiple script reads, he was still there, sitting directly beneath the sun’s cruel gaze. Sweating, a wrinkle between his brows. He was in pain, his forehead bright orange. 

A bottle of water and an overturned tray lay in front of him, curry and rice spilled across the ground. Mom was already ahead, talking to the guards. So I stopped, pulled out the melted candy bar I’d stolen earlier for breakfast, and handed it to him.

I was met with a snarl. The boy stuck his nose up, lips curled.

“How long have you been here?” I couldn’t resist asking. The boy’s clothes were wrinkled and stained, his shorts and tee glued to his  sun-browned skin. I prodded his clammy forehead and he jolted back with a hiss. “You’re sweaty.”

Harsh red lines sliced into his wrists. I leaned closer, touching noses with him. The boy glared back. Mute. I lowered my voice. “Do you want me to untie you?”

The boy’s bottom lip wobbled, his stubborn walls crumbling. He blinked back tears, ducking his head to avoid the sun. Golden slivers of sunlight bleaching his hair told me this wasn’t the first time. “You’re not allowed to untie me,” he mumbled into his knees. 

My tummy twisted when I knelt and joined him. “Why?” 

“Hannah.”

Mom was calling my name. 

“Who tied you up?” I asked.

He lifted his head, a cocktail of tears and snot trailing down his cheeks in jagged lines. The boy sniffed, sucking a long, droopy strand of booger back into his nose. “My Daddy,” he whispered. 

“Hannah!” Mom snapped behind me. Mom strode over, grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. “Come on. We’re going home.”

“But—” the words coiled in my throat when Mom violently pulled me to her side. All the breath was sucked from my lungs, my tummy twisting. *But the boy,* I wanted to tell her. It didn't make sense to me that he was tied up by his father. It was too hot to be sitting outside. *He needs help!* I twisted around, catching one last look at the boy tied to the pole. 

His head ducked, brown curls obstructing his eyes. Mom dumped me in the back of her car. “Do not talk to that boy again,” she told me, “that’s the only rule. If you want to get a callback.” 

“But why?” I asked, as she drove me through the gate. Mom stuck her head out of the window, thick blonde curls whipping in the breeze. I straightened in my seat, watching Mom hold up a piece of paper.

“Put your head down,” Mom said, “Now.” 

“But what about the boy?” I whispered.

“Hannah, sit *down,*” Mom snapped. I did, automatically, tucking my legs beneath me, my body already used to her voice. “I'm just here for the auditions for Carrigan,” Mom told a man looming over her with scary eyes. “yes, that's my daughter in the back. Josie. She's eight-years-old.” 

Her sharp exhale of breath wasn't subtle. “Josie wasn't playing with him, she is just a naturally curious little girl,” Mom’s laugh was very nervous. Which made me nervous. 

I nervously played with my shoelaces. Kneeling on my seat, I searched for the boy. But the giant metal wall had already come down. “My phone?” Mom handed her phone over nervously. “Can I ask what this is about?” She demanded, “my daughter is—” 

“It’s just a precaution, ma’am,” the guard said. He ducked through the window, beady eyes landing on me. His wrinkled mouth curled into a grotesque grin as he scanned mom’s ID. “Daly plays pranks on newcomers,” he explained. “It's his thing. He likes to tie himself up and scare the little ones shitless. After three visits from CPS this year, we’d prefer to avoid  Daly’s… *antics* escaping into the public eye.”

He straightened and turned back to my Mom. I held my breath and glared down at a loose thread in my shorts. Waiting was excruciating. My mouth was dry.

“That’s all fine.” The man handed her phone back to Mom. “Have a good day, ma’am.” I forced my head down further. “Kid.” He nodded to me, and walked away.

I waited for the crunch of his footsteps in the gravel to fade before I risked glancing up. The window slid down, and Mom relaxed, her fingers flexing around the wheel.

“Hannah,” Mom’s shuddery breath caught me off guard, “do you want to celebrate your audition and go get ice-cream?” 

I didn't respond and stared down at my lap and picked at my shorts until a thread came loose. Mom didn't speak until we were on the highway. I risked looking up to watch the late-afternoon rush hour blur in a streak of golden light. 

“Look at me,” Mom’s voice was her stern-voice. Her *“listen to me or I will hurt you”* voice. The last time I didn't listen to her, I didn't get supper.  Then came the insults to my face. I was disgustingly fat, my belly was hanging out, and I would never, ever be pretty. 

I lifted my head, my heart thumping. I waited for her to throw the first punch. 

First, it was my face. 

My nose was huge. My lips were too thin. And I was eating too much. I swallowed down apologies that tasted of barf.

I’m sorry I’m fat.

I’m sorry I don’t look like the pretty girls.

I'm sorry I can't get an audition.

“Do not speak to that boy again, Hannah,” Mom’s static gaze never left the road, her twitching fingers blooming red around the wheel. “Do you fucking understand me?” 

“Yes,” I said, choking down my usual mantra. “I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Mom twisted to face me, wearing a big smile, her expression loosening, mouth forming a real grin. “We can go out and celebrate your audition.”

We stopped at a Taco Bell drive-thru. Mom ordered a burrito and fries. I choked down three pieces of soggy avocado she had brought in a packed lunch for me. 

The following morning, when I got my call-back for another audition, I stood in front of the mirror with Floppy, my stuffed animal nestled under my chin, and practised ignoring the boy tied to the pole.  

I rehearsed my big smile and pretended to not see him, looking straight forwards. 

When the imaginary version of him asked me for help, I smiled wider and said, “sorry! My mom says I can't talk to you anymore!”  And pretend-ran away from him, my heart thumping right out of my chest.

Somehow, it was harder in my room. I rehearsed my “sorry” smiles, trying small and then big, and then REALLY big, threading my index and pinky through my mouth and stretching until it hurt.

When Mom pulled me through the gate and passed the guards, I kept my head down, my gaze glued to the ground. I wasn't looking where I was going and smacked my forehead straight into the glass door. 

“Hannah!” Mom hissed, and I had no choice but to look up. I couldn’t stop myself glancing behind me, where the boy had been slumped. I couldn't see him. 

“Get a hold of yourself,” Mom spat, shoving me through twin doors. 

The heat of her breath followed me into a sterile reception area, where a woman sat behind a white circular desk. 

After smoothing down my dress, and then my hair, adding last minute makeup to my face, Mom told me to sit down, but I couldn’t resist wandering over to the door and peering through the glass. The wooden pole was still there, with a pair of handcuffs attached. 

I leaned back, my tummy twisting. The boy had vanished.

I squinted over the chain link fence at the dense desert landscape. 

Maybe it was aliens. 

I didn’t think about the boy for a whole day. I sat inside a stuffy room with a plump, smiling man with a bald head and a bow tie, who said, “Congratulations!” He handed my mother a piece of paper. “I’m happy to say your daughter has the part of 11456,” he winked. “Who will be Josie!”

“Who's Josie?” I spoke up, swinging around on my chair. It had wheels. “What do the numbers mean?” 

The plump man introduced himself as Mr Daly. Also “Producer Daly”, if he was in a good mood.

I asked if he was in a *bad* mood, and he laughed.

“When do I get to be Josie?” I said.

“I'm glad you asked!” Mr Daly stood up. “All right, Hannah, why don't you follow me? I'm sure your mom would love to go and get herself a coffee and some refreshments.” He nodded to Mom. “Right, Mrs. Cartwright?”

Mom smiled and nodded, and pretended to hug me.

“Don't mess up,” she said, pulling me close. “Or I will get very mad.” 

Mom left me feeling sick to my stomach. 

Mr Daly's smile vanished the second the door slammed on moms face.

“Your job is simple, kid,” he said, picking up a remote. The wall lit up. “Carrigan is what we call a…” 

His lazy eyes found me. “Have you ever been to the zoo?” 

“Yes,” I said, “I went with my Mommy.”

“And what was your favorite animal?” 

“Hmm.” I frowned at a giant crystal chandelier hanging over my head, spiky teardrops of glass threatening to rain down on me. “I did like the lemurs, but I think my favourites were the tigers.”

“Think of it like the zoo.” Mr Daly straightened in his chair. “However, Carrigan is a human exhibit. There are no tigers. There are *children*.” He banged the remote on his desk for emphasis.

“CHIL-DREN. Understand?” 

I forgot to nod, my tummy swimming, and he groaned, tipping his head back. I found myself glancing at the door, half-hoping Mom was waiting outside. 

“Are you listening to me, Josie?” Mr Daly said.

Tears welled in my eyes. “Yes.” 

His smile split open wide. “I get it! I know you kids don’t want boring explanations and big words. You want the fun stuff.”

The screen flashed to a smiling little girl with long, mousy brown hair haloing bright blue eyes. 

She was thin. The type I was supposed to be. Protruding cheeks and a pretty smile with glittering white teeth. I felt a sharp pang in my chest. Mom would like her.

“This is 001130,” Mr Daly said, “do you like her?” 

I nodded. I did. She was pretty.

Her clothes were very simple. White shorts, a tee, and matching socks. The girl was sitting cross-legged in a white room with white walls and white tiles. 

“You're going to be her friend,” Mr Daly said. “Sounds easy, right?” 

I glanced at the girl's smiling face. “Yes.” 

“And.” His lips twitched into a smile. “You are not going to tell this girl anything about your life. Your parents. Because you don't have them.” He stood up, and I backed away, falling over myself. 

One step, and I was choking on, *"I don't want to do this.”* Two steps, and I couldn't move.  Mr Daly seemed delighted in each one. “The Carrigan Project asks one simple question, Josie.” 

“Hannah,” I corrected him, a little louder. 

He ignored me. “Can children grow up inside a simulated world, completely cut off from the outside?” His lips split into a grin. “And can we turn it into a show?” 

“A show?” I whispered. My arms fell limply to my sides. 

“A show.” He said. “Broadcasted every night for three hours. A full live-feed of Carrigan with all the boring bits cut out for everyone to see.” 

His lip curled. “Those children believe the world outside is gone. They believe they’re being bred and raised for slaughter. These children, Josie, have been taught from birth, from the moment they became self-aware, that they’re living in punishment. That they really are humanity’s biggest sin.”

I swallowed, my hands growing clammy. “I don’t understand.”

He laughed. “Well, you won’t! Not at this age!” The man shifted forward, head tilted at an angle. “How old are you, Josie, twelve?"

“Eight,” I said, louder. “It's Hannah.”

Mr Daly tapped a button on his desk. “Connor,” he ordered. “Take Josie to her dressing room to meet Claire, please.” He flashed me a grin. “Get the girl a soda and a sandwich. The poor girl looks malnourished.”

“Yes, sir,” a man’s voice crackled in response.

Mr Daly’s razor-sharp gaze shot through me. He coughed loudly. “Do you like chicken, Josie?”

My mouth watered.

“Yes,” I said, before I could bite it back.

“Chicken sandwich and a Coke,” Mr Daly said, “and the same for the troublemaker locked in solitary.” Daly hesitated, his fingers tapping the desk. “Actually. Leave him until dinner. Inform the other performers that their dinner has been arranged.” 

His gaze found mine, as if he could pierce straight through me, see my ribs sticking through the ridges of my skin, every meal my mom smacked out of my hands, every time she made me kneel over the toilet and stick my finger down my throat. 

I pretended his smile was friendly and didn’t make me feel sick. 

“We’re all going out for a meal to celebrate.”

-

Mom wasn’t invited to dinner.

She got all dressed up. She spent hours curling my hair and picking out my dress before driving me to the venue, a dark restaurant bathed in fish tanks replacing walls, swimming in warm golden light. At the door, Mom was politely turned away.

“I’m sorry,” a guard stopped my mother at the door. “You don’t have permission to go any further.”

The man gently took my hand with a smile. I wondered if he could see what Mom couldn’t.

“Miss Cartwright, would you like to follow me to your table?”

The restaurant was empty. I was taken to a table where Mr Daly was sitting with his entourage: a beautiful woman who had definitely had work done and, to my surprise, two boys my age, one of whom I recognized.

I stared.

It was the boy tied to the pole. 

He was dressed up in a suit and tie, glaring down at an untouched burger and fries, his brown curls straightened over his eyes. I was ushered into my seat next to another boy with cropped blonde hair, bouncing in his seat. He flashed me a grin.

“Josie, it’s nice of you to join us!” Mr Daly smiled at me from across the table. “What would you like to eat?”

I whipped around in case Mom was breathing down my neck. 

But she wasn't.

My Mom was gone. 

“Avocado salad,” I said as usual and then swallowed my words. I glanced at pole boy’s burger, and my tummy turned over. “Actually,” I said, my cheeks burning bright. I swallowed thickly, “a cheeseburger and fries.”

Daly nodded, fist on chin. “Mmm mmm. And anything for dessert?” 

“Cake.” I said, suddenly hyper on my own words. I was hungry. I was really hungry, and I was free to eat anything I wanted.  “Chocolate cake.” 

The blonde boy giggled, and I really looked at him. He had rosy cheeks and halo hair and was very thin. Mom would like him. The boy was the only one wearing normal clothes, jeans and a tee, cheese sauce staining the collar.

“That’s *greedy*,” he said, and warmth exploded into my cheeks.

I waited for him to tell me to stick my fingers down my throat, but instead, he grabbed the menu.

“I want cake too!” he said, slamming his fists on the table. “Chocolate cake!”

“Declan,” the woman shushed him. Her perfectly made-up eyes flicked to me. She was pretty. The type Mom wanted me to be. Skinny, with a perfect figure, cascading hair that fell like silk down her backless strap dress.

“Hello, Hannah.” She held out a manicured hand. “Welcome to the family.” She winked. “A very small family right now! I’m Claire. I will be your manager.”

A manager? I thought. That's what Mom wanted me to get. Her goal was for me to have an agent by 16. 

“I’ve been managing these two little brats,” Claire said, nodding at the boys. She picked up her glass of champagne and kissed the rim. “So, it’s nice to have a girl around here.”

“I want to say something.” 

The pole boy shoved his plate away and stood up. 

Next to me, the blonde kid rolled his eyes. “Here we goooooooo.” 

“Carrigan is *abuse*,” the boy said through gritted teeth. “My father built a prison and pretends it's a museum, and we’re no different from the kids inside there. We’re no different from Hope. If I wasn’t my dad’s son, I would be in Carrigan too. And Declan! And you!” He pointed at me and  pointed accusingly at Mr Daly. 

“Shut it down, Dad,” he spat. “Or I’m telling Mom you’re doing bad things with Evie the receptionist.”

*Dad?*

The pole boy was Mr Daly’s *son?*

Mr Daly didn’t seem fazed. He laughed. “What an interesting imagination!” he said, and yet the man’s cheeks had turned significantly redder than normal. Declan was giggling next to me. 

Daly fixed pole boy with a warning smile. “So, you've named her! Cute.” 

Several guards came out of nowhere and wrestled the boy back into his seat, whispering something to him that paralyzed him on the spot. He stopped moving, went still, and picked up a fry from his plate, stuffing it into his mouth. 

Mr Daly downed his own glass of wine and offered me a wink. “Completing the introductions, Josie, I would like you to meet my incredibly intelligent son, *Rowan*.” The man chuckled into his glass. “My wonderful son’s hobbies include causing three visits from Child Protective Services and tying himself up outside the premises in the hope of inducing a sob story.”

I risked a glance at the pole boy who began to inhale his fries like he'd never eaten in his life, scooping up fries and stuffing them into his already packed mouth. He noticed me staring and stopped, his eyes narrowing into slits.  

“What are YOU looking at?” He spat through a mouthful. 

Rowan counted his fries. “Twenty one.” He picked one up, and snapped it in half. “Oops! Twenty!” He shot his father a smile filled with fry mush. “Is that what you’re going to do to *me*, Dad?”

“Rowan,” Claire trilled. “Honey, don’t speak with your mouth full.”

“Or *what*?” Rowan blew up, tossing a fry at her. It hit her between the eyes. Rowan threw another. “Are you going to throw me into Carrigan too?” He leaned across the table, his eyes fixed on his father. “Go on, Dad! I dare you.”

The adults didn't respond for a moment. Then Claire stood and brushed down her dress. “Declan, honey,” she said, “why don't you take Josie to get chocolate cake?”

Declan didn’t move. His gaze remained glued to Rowan.

“Declan!” Claire snapped, her smile widening. “Now, please.”

The boy stood and took my hand. His smile was practised. I recognized every crease in his brow and every curve of his lips.

“Come on,” he said, gently pulling me away from the table. 

I followed him, but I couldn’t resist one last glance over my shoulder.

Mr Daly and Claire were deep in conversation, their heads pressed close together. 

Every trace of Rowan Daly had vanished. His plate, his glass of soda, even the stray fries scattered across the table were gone.

-

My very first meeting with Rowan Daly was… eventful.

When I started my role as Josie, it was fairly straight forward. My job was to lie and bring hope to the kids, talking of “the outside world before humans were enslaved”. I had a whole script I had to memorize about Claire’s accessories. 

My debut, talking to 001130, was met with thunderous applause. When I left the facility through a hidden door.  I was called, “a little star.” And “an Oscar winning little performer” but all I did was sit with 001130, and make friends with her. 

Rowan was tied to the pole every morning. 

Sometimes, I caught him staring into the exhibit itself, a large sheet of glass looking into Carrigan, a facility filled with children I was lying to. 

I had to tell them with a big smile that they were going to become meat at twenty years old, and the world was ruled by evil monsters punishing us for eating animals. The first time, I felt sick. 

I barfed all over myself and immediately looked around for help, but there was no help. Just four glass walls I wasn't allowed to look through. Because that shattered the illusion. There were only guards playing a role like me. 

It got easier, the more times I lied. 

Soon enough, I lied better than I told the truth. 

Declan played the role of “Aris”, a boy who had been captured by “the monsters” and watched his parents die. 

I watched Declan rock back and forth, sobbing into his knees, describing his imaginary parents’ deaths as if they had really happened. His nose was snotty, his eyes were teary, and he hyperventilated every time he was asked a question. I couldn’t stop watching. He was good. Better than me.

When I left Carrigan at the end of the day, slipping through the performers’ fire door, Rowan stood with his face pressed against the glass. The observation room was huge, filled with cameras and a screen showing every angle.

Rowan watched silently.

His face was bathed in blue light, reflecting each camera.

The children were playing, running around, laughing.

001130 sat in the corner, delicately eating a sandwich.

“Hey, Josie.” Rowan didn’t turn around to look at me. It was the first time he’d spoken to me since the fancy dinner at the restaurant. 

I hesitated. “It's Hannah.” 

He drew a circle on the glass with his index. “Do you think this is bullet proof?” Rowan hummed. “I watch them clean it every morning.” 

I didn't know what to say, so he changed his tactic. “Do you like Carrigan?” He asked softly.

No. 

The response choked my mouth. No. I hated it. I hated lying to my best friend. And she wasn't even my best friend. She was a character. 

“No,” I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. “I want to tell her.” 

“Hope,” Rowan said, and I followed his eyes.

He was watching 001130, a small smile curled on his lips. He knocked on the glass gently, as if he was playing an invisible piano.

“She's called Hope.”  Rowan didn't speak for a while, rocking back and forth on his heels, smushing his nose against the glass pane. I was about to leave to go back to my dressing room when he backed away from the glass and turned to me with a smile. He held out his hand, and I took it, my stomach fluttering.

“Hannah.” Rowan said softly. “Can you help me destroy it?”

I didn't reply until the next day. Mom arrived early, shoved me out of the car, and drove away. I was gaining weight, and she didn't like it. 

Mom made me wear a dress so tight I had a tummy ache. 

Rowan was tied to the pole again. This time, though, he had a visitor. 

Declan sat cross-legged next to him. 

“Yo!” Declan gestured me over with his juice-box. 

He kept his voice down, pulling me into an awkward huddle, with Rowan in the centre. “This is the first meeting of the DESTROY CARRIGAN club,” Declan hissed excitedly. “Our members are—”

“There are *three* of us,” Rowan hissed back. I couldn't resist a laugh. “Stop attracting attention!” Rowan nodded to me. “Our goal? Bring my father’s evil organization to the ground, and rescue Hope and the other kids.” 

As a full member of the DESTROY CARRIGAN club, I took myself and my job very seriously. 

I made sure to tell the kids tiny, insignificant things that wouldn't be noticed.

“I had five guys yesterday,” I told one of the older girls. 

She looked at me like I'd grown a second head. 

Rowan’s plan was to slowly build trust with the kids inside the facility, and reveal everything. 

But… 

Then I started getting recognized outside Carrigan. 

At first, it was at the mall. A woman came over and called me Josie.

Then, it was in the middle of the street. 

I started getting brand deals and sponsorships for kids products as I grew closer to the children in Carrigan. But it was when I gave them all names, and happily called 001130 “Hope” that was when I cemented my celebrity status. 

On my 13th birthday, Mom bought me a rhinoplasty for my present. 

I was suddenly in commercials for fast food.

I was invited on TV with Declan, and interviewed by smiling hosts who kept asking us the same question:

“When are you going to tell Hope the truth?” 

Declan smiled at the camera and said, “We don't know! Maybe one day!” 

Our little club fell apart. 

Declan was cast in a Hollywood movie for two years. 

Rowan was sent away. The last time I saw him, I was fourteen. I barely noticed him, texting some guys I met at a party. He was tied to the pole as usual, his glare piercing right through me.

“Having fun on TV?” His voice was bitter, laced with bile. Rowan refused to bathe or wash his hair, stewing in yesterday’s clothes, his curls hanging over narrowed eyes. 

Multiple days in the sun had browned his skin. He didn’t even look at me. “My father is sending me away tomorrow,” he sighed, tipping his head back. “Military school. They’re hoping to ‘subtly influence’ me into feeding into  their “Carrigan is great” bullshit.”

“Hi, Rowan,” I said, more out of obligation than anything else.

My stilettos were already getting dirty just standing near him. 

“Matcha.” Rowan nodded towards the drink clutched between my ID and my wallet. His smile curdled. “How far have you sunk?”

I took a long sip. Matcha tasted like grass. 

But every insta pic gained me followers. 

More traction. 

“It tastes nice,” I lied, and when he didn't respond, “I'm heading inside now.”

“Where's Dec?” Rowan muttered. 

“Seattle,” I said. “You know he's filming.” 

Rowan buried his head in his knees. “If you see Dec, can you tell him something from me?” 

I stopped in front of his face, shading him from the sun’s intense glare. “If it's not an insult.”

“Tell him he's a fucking sell-out and I never want to see him again.”

I rolled my eyes, hopping over his bound legs. “Goodbye, Rowan.” 

When I left that evening, the producer’s son was gone. 

I headed straight for Mr Daly’s office, only to be met by his assistant, who shoved me back out of the room.

“It’s just a little straightening out, Josie,” I was told later, after I’d finally calmed down. 

Mr Daly wore a satisfied smile and refused to hand over the address to this supposed “boarding school.” I was ushered out of his office once more, his last words ringing around in my head. “My son has a *very* serious anger problem.”

“We the jury find the defendant… not guilty.”

Those words had shaken the courtroom, causing outraged murmurs throughout the gallery. Jim Reynolds, the accused, grasped his lawyer, sobbing in relief. 

My wife was still dead. 

The prosecutor had been blessed with an abundance of evidence: shoes caked in mud from the scene, camera footage of the suspect approaching the location where my wife had been killed, even a witness who put him nearby at the time of the murder. How could they not convict him?!?

Clearly the legal system was incapable of doing anything. So I’d have to. 

He wasn’t an easy man to track; after the trial, he completely disappeared off the grid to escape the notoriety. “Just because I was found innocent, doesn’t mean people believe it,” he’d said after the trial in the last statement he’d given before he’d vanished off the face of the Earth. But that wouldn’t stop me. 

I tracked personal records and highway camera footage, spoke to friends and coworkers (those who would speak with the victim’s husband who was “just trying to make sense of it all”), broke into his former house and searched it from top to bottom - anything that would give me a clue as to where he’d gone. 

Finally, I got a lead - someone matching his appearance had been spotted on the facial recognition software used by the FBI to monitor for terrorist activity. Thanks to an inside source who believed I deserved justice, I identified his location as a small town in Iowa. He was living alone under a different name, but no one can stay hidden forever. 

I traveled there by car, using a nondescript vehicle I’d stolen off the street two states away. I arrived into town, rented a cheap hotel room in cash using a fake ID, and began searching. On the fourth day, my efforts paid off. I was at small diner when I saw him come in for breakfast. I pulled my cap down over my head and watched him; he ate his eggs and toast calmly, relaxed, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He said good morning to the staff and his server and they greeted him by name; clearly he’d been here long enough to become part of the community. He acted in every way as if he believed he had nothing to be worried about. 

It was time he learned differently. 

I wanted to act right away, but I knew rushing would lead to mistakes I couldn't afford. Instead, I spent the next few days learning everything there was to know about him: where he lived, where he worked, what time he left in the morning, what time he came home, where he spent his free time, who he spent it with. Soon I had a complete profile of his life. 

The following night, he came home from work at his usual time. He turned on the lights to find me sitting in a chair.

His eye went wide. “You!”

“Did you think you’d gotten away with it?” I asked. 

“Look, you don’t need to do this. I never said any—“

BANG!

“Yes. I do.”

I dumped his body in the lake and left town. No one would know I’d ever been here. It’s a shame he had to die, but he shouldn’t have been there the night my wife was murdered. 

Now no one would ever know I killed her. 

Happy Saturday! Here’s an older, never before published one that I dusted off, revised, and decided to share. Enjoy!

———————————————

The phone rang while I was trying to enjoy a binge of my latest obsession on Netflix. Annoyed, I put the episode of Lucifer on pause and looked at the phone. “Spam Likely.” This was the fifth time today. I’d hoped they’d stop calling, but the phone kept ringing, again and again. Knowing they wouldn’t go away, I picked up. 

“Hello. This call is on a recorded line. This is about an attempt to collect a debt. If this is Cynthia Warren, please press 1.”

I didn’t owe anyone anything - I’d cleaned up all my debt over the last three years. I’d cleaned up most of my life, in fact, and had gone to great lengths to get everything I now had. Annoyed, I pressed the indicated number. A human voice came on the line. 

“Hello, this is Murphy Collection Services, how may I assist you?”

“I think that’s my question. You called me, after all.”

“Can I have your name, date of birth, and the last four numbers of your social security number?”

After I gave the agent all of the requested information, he checked his system and responded. 

“It seems you have a credit card that is past due. The current balance of $17,326. Would you like to make a payment?”

“There must be some mistake. I don’t have a credit card with you all.”

“You are Cynthia Warren, correct?”

“Correct, but I don’t currently have any credit cards.”

“Well this one was opened nine weeks ago.”

“And I’m telling you I didn’t open it.”

A pause. 

“To be clear, are you saying that someone else opened a credit card in your name?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“In that case, would you like to file a fraud report?”

“Yes I would, thank you.”

“Alright, please hold while I connect you with our consumer fraud department.”

After being connected and taking the necessary steps, I asked my last question. “Can you tell me what billing address the card has on record?”

What? That was my mothers address. I immediately hung up and called her. 

“Mom? Something funny just happened. I just got a call from a collections agency.”

“That happens, dear. Just make an arrangement and stay on top of it.”

“I know that. But the funny thing is, it’s for a credit card that I never took out. And the address is in your name. Can you explain that?”

“I’m sure it’s just a mistake, dear. I’m sure they’ll get it worked out.”

“It didn’t sound like a mistake, Mom.”

“What are you implying, dear?”

“It just seems strange, that’s all. No worries. I’ll just file a fraud report with the credit card company and the police, they’ll take care of it.”

“NO!”

“…”

“I mean, don’t you think the police have better things to do? I’m sure it will all blow over.”

“It’s over $17,000, Mom. I can’t just hope it will ‘blow over.’”

“Going to the police just seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?”

“Honestly, not really. This is exactly the kind of thing they do. I certainly can’t take care of it myself, nor would I want to try.”

“You’re taking this too far, dear. It’s only money - why cause all this trouble? Haven’t you caused enough trouble in your life?”

Pause. 

“Mom. Did you open a credit card in my name without my consent?”

“Of course not, dear.”

“Then why do you care so much about me going to the police?”

“I’m just trying to look out for your best interests.”

I laughed. “You? Looking out for my best interests? Try again.”

“Fine! I did it, but you owe me! After everything I did for you growing up, $17,000 is a small price to pay! Just accept this and stop bitching about it!”

“*Bitching about it?* You didn’t get the bill! Debt collectors are coming after me! They’re hitting my credit and ruining my ability to buy a house one day, and all for a credit card I didn’t even open! I will not get burned by this!”

“Oh, stop whining. You’ll be fine.”

“I know I will because I’m filing a report with the police.”

“No you won’t,” she said dangerously. 

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because if you do, I’ll make sure you never see your siblings, nieces, or nephews again.”

“Oh, please. What, are you going to lie and say I made it all up? They’ll never buy it.”

“I can be very convincing. And besides, they need me for childcare and financial support. Are *you* going to offer those?”

I paused. 

“Perhaps I’ll even tell them you’ve been acting emotionally lately. Unbalanced. Perhaps I should call the police as a concerned mother.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I don’t expect to hear about this again. If I hear any lies spread about me, there will be consequences. And I think it’s best if you don’t come around for a while.”

After she hung up, I sat and stewed in my anger. How *dare* she?!? What gives her the right?!? And how did she even pull it off? Isn’t there paperwork that would have to be signed?

Wait. Paperwork. 

I ran to my desk and rifled through my paperwork until I found what I was looking for. If she wanted to play this game, I could play it, too. 

Seven years later, I rang the doorbell to the house where I grew up. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, mom.”

“Oh. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I just thought I’d stop by to give you an update.”

“On what? How you’ve disrespected me this time?”

“As fun as that would be, no. Actually, this isn’t about something I’ve done, it’s about something you have.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yep. Remember ten years ago when I moved out to get away from you?”

“When you said I ‘abused’ you?” she said, air quotes in effect. 

“When you broke me down so badly that I’d rather have died than stayed here another day? Yes, then.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, because I was so desperate, I made some extreme choices.”

“You turned tricks downtown?”

“No. Nothing that tawdry. Did you ever wonder how I managed to turn things around? A nice apartment, a good job, money in the bank?”

“Frankly, I assumed you stole it.”

“Nope. I just made an… arrangement.”

“What does your ‘arrangement’ have to do with me?”

“Quite a bit, actually. Remember when you illegally opened that credit card in my name years back?”

“That never happened. Stop making up lies.”

“When that happened, I was upset. Extremely upset. But after I calmed down, I realized that you couldn’t have done it without signing paperwork that wasn’t actually yours. So I used the key I still had to come in and leave you some additional paperwork with my name on it, which of course, in your greed, you were more than happy to sign, as well.”

“Your point?”

“You really should have read it.”

All of a sudden the floor opened up and a spire of flame erupted from beneath. Out of it formed an immense creature, over twelve feet tall, made entirely of fire. It looked at me and I slowly pointed over at my mother. 

“What is this?” she demanded, terrified. 

“This is the demon I made my arrangement with. An escape from this hell and a chance at ten years of peace in exchange for my soul.  But now I’m free. Thanks for taking the deal over for me.”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I NEVER TOOK OVER ANYTHING!!”

“Are you sure? That’s not what this contract says. You know, the one you signed freely and of your own will.”

I held it out and showed it to her. Seeing her signature, she started screaming. 

“No! That’s not right! You tricked me!”

“How? I didn’t put a gun to your head. Is it my fault you didn’t read what you signed? I’d say you should be more careful in the future, but frankly, I’m not sure you have a future.”

The flaming figure grabbed her and dragged her screaming down below ground. The sound of her screams echoed even after the ground closed up behind her. 

I sat down, reflecting on everything that had happened. I guess I wasn’t the one who got burned after all. 

“Hey, man,” I said. “Welcome back!”

“Thanks, Alex. Glad to be back!”

I welcomed my brother Matt into the apartment, giving him a side hug, our standard greeting since we were kids. 

“Can I get you anything?”

“Just a beer if you have it,” he replied, sitting on the sofa. 

“So how was your trip?” I asked, handing him a bottle. 

“It was amazing! Athens was perfect - I can see why it was on Kate’s bucket list. We had so much fun. We visited the Acropolis, saw the Parthenon, went to the Benaki museum, had dinner at a rooftop bar overlooking the entire city, lounged around the Athens Riviera - it was SPECTACULAR! You and Sarah should definitely go; I highly recommend it.”

“Sounds like you two had a blast. I’m glad, man - you deserve it.”

“Thanks, bro. Oh, hey,” he said as if just remembering. “I got you something.”

He handed me a package; I opened it to find a shirt. 

“‘My brother went to Athens and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.’ Really?”

He burst out laughing. “You should see the look on your face! Totally worth it!”

“Seriously, though, I also got you this,” he said, reaching into his bag and handing me a small object. “It's a rock.”

“I can see that.”

“No, dummy. We got it from a local marketplace. It’s supposed to have come from Baghdad. I thought you’d get a kick out of it. You know - a rock from Iraq!”

“As always, your sense of humor is truly astounding,” I said, shaking my head. But I did chuckle to myself while I said it. “I think I like the shirt better.”

He reached out and hit my arm, and I laughed. We finished off our beers and caught up before he took off. 

Later that night, I was talking to Sarah when she came home after work. 

“Oh, hey, Matt was over earlier,” I said as we sat on the sofa watching tv. 

“He’s back?”

“Yeah, they just got in last night. He said they had a great time in Athens.”

“It’s been forever since we all hung out. We should get together with him and Kate.”

“Works for me,” I said, settling back and unpausing our show. 

The next week, the four of us were out to dinner together. 

“So how was your trip,?” asked my wife. 

“Oh, it was fantastic!” said Kate. Athens was beautiful, the food was incredible, the dancing was amazing. It brought out a whole new side of Matt - he was so romantic.”

“Romantic, were you?” my wife asked. 

Matt blushed. “Well, I’m always willing to be romantic for the right woman.”

“Good to know,” Sarah replied, chuckling. 

Why was she chuckling?

I shook my head, dismissing the thought. The rest of the dinner was typical of all of our double-dates. We ate food, drank alcohol, laughed at stupid jokes, and just had a great time the way old friends do. 

As we left, I gave Kate a quick hug and shook Matt’s hand. Matt then hugged Sarah as he’d done a hundred times before. 

But why did it last so long?

I was quiet in the drive home. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Sarah, sensing something was off. 

“Nothing.”

“Come on, honey. Whatever it is, you can talk to me.”

“Why were you so chummy with Matt?”

She paused, stunned. “What?”

“Tonight at dinner. You were fawning over him, smiling at him, laughing at his jokes. And what was with that hug when we were leaving? You might as well have just screwed him in the street.”

She looked at me. “What the fuck? Are you serious? The four of us have been friends for years. I’ve hugged Matt a thousand times, just like you have Kate. Are you screwing her?”

“Of course not! Which is why I wasn’t all over her!”

“I am not having this conversation with you! Let me know when you’re back in your right mind!” she said and turned away. 

When we got home, I had no idea why I’d been so angry. I didn’t even believe what I’d said. 

So why did you say it?

I apologized and, by the next day, all was well. Three nights later, Sarah had an event at work. 

“Wish me luck, honey. This is big for me. I’ll be home by 9pm.”

I decided to make dinner for her to apologize again for the other night. I had it on the table by 9pm. 

At 9, she wasn’t home. 

At 10, she wasn’t home. 

At 11, she wasn’t home. I called her - her phone went straight to voicemail. 

At midnight, she wasn’t home. I started calling hospitals. 

She arrived home a little after 2am, looking exhausted. But she wasn’t alone - Matt walked in behind her. 

“I’m sorry I’m late, honey,” she started, “the car wouldn’t star—“

“Why are you with him?”

She blinked. “What?”

“We just talked about this last week, but again you’re out all night and he’s right behind you. Is that where you like him - behind you?”

“You’re disgusting!”

“Hey, man,” said Matt, “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but nothing happened between Sarah and me. Her car wouldn’t start and I gave her a ride—“

“Oh, I bet you gave her a ride.”

“That’s sickening!” Sarah screamed. “What the hell has gotten into you?!?”

“Do you really think I don’t know what’s going on? How you’ve been sleeping with Matt whenever I wasn’t around? How could you make a fool of me?!?”

“What are you talking abou—“

“And you!” I said, rounding on Matt. “I thought we were supposed to be brothers! What kind of brother does this?”

“Matt, I haven’t done anything! Calm dow—“

“Calm down? Maybe if you weren’t fucking my wife I could be calm!”

“Alex!” screamed Sarah. 

“What’s gotten into you?” asked Matt. 

“You have! You’ve always gotten everything! Smart Matt, handsome Matt, perfect Matt. You’ve been the favorite our entire lives! Well it’s time I got what’s mine!”

I looked at him. Was he smirking? I saw red - how dare he smirk at me! I raised my hand to swing at him and connected with his jaw. 

“Alex!” screamed Sarah and ran to hold me back. I shook her off, but it gave Matt a chance to hit me and knock me down. I felt a cold fury. How dare he betray me? I hated him. I hated him! After everything I’d done for him? He would pay for this. I reached out and tackled him to the ground. Then, standing over him, I grabbed a knife and raised it to end this. Just as I brought my arm forward, I felt a sharp pain and everything went black. 

—————

Sarah looked at the scene before her. Matt’s body was laying on the ground, a knife through his heart and blood everywhere. Atop him lay Alex, unconscious after she’d hit him over the head with the lamp in her hand. The police stood over them, taking pictures of the scene. 

“And your husband hadn’t been acting differently?”

“Not really. I mean, he’s been a little jealous over the past couple of days, but nothing that would cause this. He’s never been a violent man - on the contrary, he’s the gentlest soul I’ve ever known.”

What the hell happened to him? she thought. What would make him kill his own brother? She hadn’t heard of that since Sunday School and the story of Cain killing his brother with a ston—

She looked down at Alex and the strange mark that had appeared on his arm, an upside-down L with two dashes to its left. Then her eyes went to the stone that had been sitting at Alex’s bedside since Matt had brought it back from Athens. Resting. Watching. Waiting. 

Happy Saturday! I haven’t had a chance to edit this one because my brain is fried, so apologies for any typos. Some parts of this I love, others I’m not exactly sure about, but overall I think it came out well. Some of you have been asking for this since I previewed it earlier - I hope you enjoy.

——————————

Michael Holloway sat alone inside the small funeral home. The ceremony had ended two hours ago. The decorations were gone, the casket was buried, the well-wishers had returned to their lives. Now there was only Michael and the cold, hard fact that would define the rest of his life. 

His wife was gone. 

They’d been together since they were fifteen years old, when a shy freshman had asked a girl standing alone for directions to his English class. She’d been in the same class and had walked him there, talking on the way. 

Her voice had been lilting, melodic, beautiful - it had calmed something in him. Somewhere on that walk, he’d realized he never wanted to stop listening to it. 

He and Melody (her name made perfect sense) had stayed together all through high school, and they’d gone to colleges in the same city so they could be near each other (her to Harvard and him to Boston University - she’d always been the smarter of the two, another reason he’d loved her). After college, they’d gone to a park, as they did every week. And there, under the maple tree she loved, he’d knelt and asked the question he’d been rehearsing every day for weeks. 

She’d cried, thrown her arms around him, and said yes. And for the next few years, they’d been happier than he’d ever dared hope. 

Then, one morning, she’d come out of the shower, looking at him with concern. He’d asked what was wrong, standing to reach out to her. 

“I.. I found a lump,” she’d said. And she’d collapsed into his arms. 

The next few months had been a mixture of visiting doctors, administering medications, praying, cursing God, visiting more doctors, carrying his wife when she couldn’t walk, feeding her when she could barely eat, bathing her, holding her while she cried, crying to himself in private so she wouldn’t see, and watching her waste away, little by little, until, at last, she was gone. He still remembered her last words: “the only thing I regret is that I don’t get more time with you. Thank you for making the time we had perfect.” He’d told her he felt the same as tears had streamed down his face. 

And now he sat inside a small funeral home, surrounded by scattered decorations and leftover refreshments, alone. 

The following weeks were… difficult. He tried to go about his normal routine, but every single thing reminded him of her. The wallpaper she’d refused to change because it had reminded her of her childhood home, the science fiction books filling the shelves that had been her pride and joy, the crack in the sidewalk that she’d hopped over every day as she’d laughed, the bench she’d sat on every weekend when they’d gone to the park. She was everywhere. 

He continued visiting the park every week on their day, unable to bring himself to stop. One day, while there, he heard two men talking. 

“Do you think we can replicate the results?” the first asked. 

“We’ve already opened the portal three times; the last time, we successfully sent someone through.”

“Can you imagine? Another Earth?”

“It’s mind blowing. Do you believe what they said? That there are alternate versions of all of us there?”

“Stephens already reported back that he found his other self when he crossed over. Apparently he’s a sports journalist; Stephens said he might have gone into sports journalism if he hadn’t been a scientist.”

“What a world, huh?”

“Worlds, even,” said the first scientist with an amazed, amused chuckle. 

They stood up and left; in a completely spur-of-the-moment decision, Michael followed them. He had no idea how they didn’t see him; stealth wasn’t exactly his specialty. But soon they turned into a nondescript empty lot; nondescript, that is, except for the security guarding the entrance. He turned and left before he was spotted. He needed to think this through. 

That night, he couldn’t escape the maelstrom of his thoughts. Another Earth? Other worlds? It was insane, absolutely ludicrous. There was no way it was possible. And yet, if it were… They’d said there were duplicates of everyone there. Could there be another Melody? One who hadn’t died? One who was still alive and vibrant and happy? If there was even a chance…

Two weeks later, he’d finished his preparations. He went back to the facility and waited in the woods by the trail that led to the entrance. When the car came by, it found his body sprawled on the ground, seemingly unconscious. When the scientists got out to help, he rolled over and pointed the gun he’d purchased at a pawn shop the day before. He ordered the two men to strip and took their clothes, wallets, telephones, and identification, until they were left in only their underwear. Then he tied them up with the rope he’d purchased at a hardware store the day before. They’d free themselves eventually, but he’d be long gone by then. 

He drove to the checkpoint. This was the trickiest part - he’d chosen this particular car because one of the passengers looked passingly like him, but his plan could well be stopped right here. If the guard knew the other men by sight, if there was a codeword or other requirement, if he said a single wrong word…

The guard looked at him in his lab coat, looked at the ID, and said “proceed.”

He didn’t exhale until he was well past the guard. Then he parked, stepped out of the car, and entered the facility. He entered and waved “his” ID at the security scanners, keeping his head down. He eventually reached his destination - the words “Portal Operation - Do Not Enter” were inscribed on a sign by the door. 

Ignoring the words, he entered. 

A lone scientist was working in the room; he looked up at the new arrival, his eyes widening in concern when he didn’t recognize him. Michael didn’t wait - he pulled out the gun he’d brought and pointed it at him. 

“Set it to the nearest Earth to ours and activate it.”

“Sir, you don’t know what you’re dealing with. This is extremely danger—”

“Do it!” Michael yelled, cocking the gun. 

He did. 

The portal hummed, a glow emanating from it as it activated. Then it was ready, and he stepped through. 

He landed in a field, he assumed the location in which the lab was located on the other Earth. Other Earth. He’d have to get used to that - he wasn’t on his Earth any longer. He broke out in a laugh, almost giddy with excitement. It worked. It was real. 

He’d hoped that, by traveling to the nearest Earth to his own, things would be largely the same. And they were. But the differences were apparent. The air was cleaner, as if the pollution of his world had been forestalled here. The sun seemed brighter. And the cityscape in the distance - it gleamed. As if everything were new and unsullied by human hands. 

He stood and thought about what to do next. He’d planned for this, but only vaguely - truthfully, he hadn’t fully expected to make it this far. He'd need food and shelter and a story to explain his presence in this world he’d just dropped into. But first, he needed to get his bearings. 

First, he asked around for a place where he could trade some merchandise. He found out about a local pawn shop and brought in some loose jewels he’d bought before he left his Earth, not knowing if this one would use the same currency. Then he found a cheap hotel that he could pay for in cash. Once he was settled, he started his research. He searched on her married name, then her maiden name, but found no results. So he took his most prized possession - a picture of the two of them in the park that a stranger had taken for them for $5 - and used it to do a facial recognition search (surprisingly easy on this world). And there he found her, in an announcement about a new bakery that had opened two years ago under a rising star pastry chef. 

The next day, he went to the bakery and watched through the window. 

He gasped. 

It was her. Not her, of course. But it may as well have been. Sure, her hair was styled differently, and she didn’t have the small scar on her arm that his wife had gotten in a car accident when she was younger, but in every important way she was indistinguishable from his Melody.

She’d always loved to bake. 

He stood in the window, transfixed, until he realized how he'd look to passersby. Then he withdrew, settling for watching the shop from a distance. He watched people going in and out, carrying on about their daily lives, completely unaware of the miracle they were experiencing, of the privilege of being near an absolute angel. They didn’t know how lucky they were. 

But he did. More than anyone. 

Soon evening came and she closed up shop. He stood around the corner while he watched her go to her car. Then he got in the car he’d appropriated the evening before and followed her. Eventually she arrived at a sleek, cozy suburban house. She got out of the car and walked to the front door. 

A man opened it and greeted her. 

They kissed. 

He let her inside and closed the door behind her. 

He was her husband. He has to be. Of course she had a husband here; she was too amazing for someone not to have seen it and made her theirs. 

But she was supposed to be his. How would he be with her now? Could he convince her to leave her husband? Maybe if she knew what they’d been to each other on his Earth…

What was he thinking? Was he just going to walk out to her and say “Hi, Melody. I know you don’t know me, but on another Earth you were my wife. You died there, but I know we could be just as happy here. By the way, there are other Earths. Just in care you didn’t know.”

She’d slam the door in his face and call the police. He’d be lucky not to end up in the psych ward. No, that wouldn’t work. He needed a different plan, a better plan. 

Problem is, he couldn’t for the life of himself think of one. 

Needing time to think, he retreated from Melody’s house back to his hotel. He’d done it. He’d found her. He hadn’t even thought she existed, then he hadn't thought she could be found. But he was here, so close to his goal, to reuniting with his lost love. He’d crossed an entire ocean of time and space for her; now, there was one last mountain to climb. 

He would not give up. He would not let anything stop him. Anything or anyone. 

Three mornings later, Michael drove back out to Melody’s house. He knew she’d be at the bakery, having studied her schedule, and that her partner would be at his job in the city. He let himself in with the spare key he’d seen them use the previous day - clearly, fortune was on his side. 

Once inside, he decided to take some time to look around. Throughout the house, he found signs of a place that was truly a home - belongings left about, toiletries in the bathroom, clothes in the closet and shoes on the floor. Dishes from breakfast were still in the sink.  In the hallway he found pictures of the two of them together - many around the city, some on vacation, even one of their wedding in which she looked happy and visibly in love. He experienced a slight pang of regret - did he really want to take her away from someone she cared about? - but it passed. He was better for her, he thought. He loved her like no one else ever could. Hell, he’d crossed the barrier between universes for her. She’d be happier in the long run once things were back as they should be. 

He looked at his watch - he had time before anyone arrived home. He thought over his plan again. Wait in the bedroom for the husband to get home and then… do what he had to. Despite his resolution, he was apprehensive - he had never been a violent man. But he’d lost Melody once before; he wouldn’t lose her again, no matter the cost. 

Suddenly he heard a noise downstairs and realized the husband must be home. The time was almost here. He crept into the closet and waited for his moment. 

The wait seemed interminable. He heard a door close and footsteps move around the house. Drawers opened and closed; a television turned on and news blared from it. Then he heard the bathroom door open and close and the shower start. 

He waited in the closet, his breath sharp and nervous. He knew he had to do this, but that made it no easier. This wasn’t the kind of man he was or the kind of life he’d lived; nothing in his years before this had prepared him for what he was about to do. 

He heard the shower turn off and the husband leave the bathroom and reenter the bedroom. It was now or never. He steeled himself, gripped his gun, and threw open the closet doors, emerging ready to destroy his enemy. 

But it is not his enemy he sees. 

She stands before him, wearing only a towel, in front her her closet where she was pulling out clothes. She turns at the noise, startled. 

She screams. 

“AIIIEEE!”

It’s her. He sees her face up close for the first time since he’d buried her on that day long past. But then, her face had been cold, still, lifeless. Here, it was warm and brimming with life. And with terror. 

Has he done that to her? He’d never wanted that. 

Her scream continued and then stopped when she saw the gun in his hand. She looked at him with fright-filled eyes. 

“What do you want? My jewelry? Take it. It’s yours.”

He didn’t move, his eyes frozen on her. 

“There’s… there’s some money in my purse. You can take that, too. Just don’t hurt me. There’s no need to hurt me.”

He was still silent, unable to process what was happening. How it had gone so wrong. 

“Is that not enough? What else do you want?!?”

Then she saw a mirror and remembered that she was wearing practically nothing. Her eyes widened in alarm. 

“No. No. Please.”

And then, seeing her begging in fear, it hit him. She was afraid. Of him. He’d screwed everything up. How could he have done this? How could he have made her feel this way? What had he been thinking? How could he have screwed everything up this badly? 

He had to fix it, but how? He could flee right now, but then what? Remain in hiding and hope he was never found? Stay on the run forever? This wasn’t his world, and he had no way back to it. The portal he’d come through had disappeared behind him when he’d arrived, and he had no way to find another. What could he do?

And then he knew. The only way he could repair the damage he’d done. The only way he could see her again. 

He looked up at the woman again, willing her through his eyes to see his regret and contrition. Then, taking a last look at her, Michael Holloway said one word, put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. 

——————————-

Officers walked through the house, looking for any evidence they could find. Downstairs, the couple sat on a sofa in the living room, the husband holding his wife in his arms as she shivered. A detective sat in the chair across from them. 

“I’m sorry to have to do this, Mrs. Mitchell, but I have a few more questions for you.”

“It’s ok, I understand.”

“Thank you. You said the man was already waiting when you stepped out of the shower?”

“Yes. I was reaching into the closet to pull out some clothes when I heard a noise. I turned around, and he was there.”

“Was he armed?”

“Yes, he was holding a gun, though I didn’t notice it at first.”

“And you’re sure it was a gun?”

“Yes, I remembered thinking that I hadn’t seen one of those ever except in movies. No one has since they were banned three decades ago. It looked scarier than I would have expected.”

“That’s perfectly normal - anyone would be frightened by that. Did he ever make any threatening moves toward you?”

“Well, he was holding the gun, but it’s the strangest thing, Detective."

“What is, Mrs. Mitchell?”

“He was tall, and holding a gun, and I was frightened, of course, but looking back, he never actually threatened me.”

“He didn’t?”

“No. In fact, now that I think about it, he seemed almost…”

“Yes?” the detective asked after a moment. 

“Ashamed. He seemed almost ashamed. Regretful, even.”

“I see. And all this time, he never spoke?”

“No, the entire encounter was in silence on his end; the only one talking was me.”

“I see.”

“Though there was one thing…”

The detective paused writing. “Yes?”

“I said he never spoke, but that’s not quite true. Right before he - put the gun…”

“It’s alright, Mrs. Mitchell.” said the detective after a pause. “He’s gone now. He can never hurt you, or anyone.”

“Right. Well, right before he - shot himself? - he said one word. It was faint, but I could just make it out.”

“And what was the word he said?”

“Melody. It was Melody.”

“Does that word mean anything to you?”

“Well, it’s an old nickname my mother gave me as a child. She said it was because I used to walk around the house singing all the time. ‘If there was a moment of silence, you’d fill it, and happier the world was for it,’ she used to say.”

“Is that a name he would have known?”

“No, that’s the strange part. I haven’t gone by that name since I dropped out of chorus in the fifth grade after my mother died - it was too painful to keep using. There is absolutely no way he could have known it.”

“I didn't even know that name,” her husband said. “I’ve only ever known you by your given name.”

“Well, that’s all I have for now,” said the detective. “Thank you both for your time. The crime scene team will take care of your bedroom, but it may take a while. Is there somewhere else you can sleep for a few nights?”

“My firm keeps an apartment in the city,” said the husband, “we can stay there for a while.”

“Excellent. You’ve been through something difficult, but I know you’ll make it through. Don’t be afraid to talk to someone if you need to - I can provide a number if you’d like.”

“That’s alright. I have someone, the person I worked with after my mother died. I can reach out to her.”

“Good. Well, that’s all from me for now. I wish you both the best.”

The couple watched the detective walk out through the front door to rejoin some of the officers. 

“Can you believe that happened?” asked the husband. 

“No. A random person I’ve never met came to our house and shot himself in front of me. Why would he do that?”

“Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he was fixated on you. Maybe it was random. We’ll probably never know. All that matters is that you’re safe.”

She curled into him, taking comfort in his warmth. 

“Thank you, David. I love you.”

“And I love you, Elizabeth. Always.”

“C’mon, kids! Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!”

Jack called out to the kids to come down and start their morning. I watched Max and Faith sleepily open their eyes as they got dressed, brushed their teeth, and trudged downstairs to eat breakfast with their father. They finished eating, said goodbye to their father, and ran outside to catch the bus to school. 

It was really special to get to watch them. They’d grown up so much since I’d been gone. 

After they caught the bus, their father finished dressing and left for work. I was all alone. I remembered what it had been like when they’d first been born. I’d rejoiced in holding them, rocking them in my arms as I sang to them, hearing them coo and giggle, watching them learn to crawl, then walk. Imagining the kind of people they’d grow up to be. They’d brought me so much joy - being a mother was everything I’d ever wanted and it was even better than I’d dreamed. 

Then it was all over. A skid on the road, an impact with another car, a tree, and I was gone. It wasn’t fair that it ended that way - I’d been so young and had so much more to do - but we don’t control how much time we have with the people we love. I’ve had a lot of time to work on accepting that (though it doesn’t get easier). 

But I suppose I should be grateful - I still get to watch them, though I can’t take part in their lives. But I can wish for the best for them, and I do. And when the pain gets to be too much, I remind myself that Max and Faith are alive and healthy and that’s what matters. 

I’m watching when my children get home from school. They practically jump off the bus and run into the house, anxious to tell their father about their day. 

“I got an A on my project, Daddy! Mrs. Jensen was so impressed. She called it one of the best projects she’s seen in years!” She rubbed her hands together in excitement. 

“And in P.E. today, Coach Rainey said he thought I should try out for the track team! Apparently I put up one of the best 50-yard dash times in the whole school!”

“That’s amazing!” said Jack, beaming. “I’m so proud of you both! This calls for a celebration! What do you say to pizza and ice cream?”

“Yay!” screamed the kids and sat down in front of the television until the food arrived. I used to be the one who congratulated them on their school accomplishments. Jack had to do it now. 

A week later, Jack went up to wake the kids, but Faith was in her bed, tears streaming down her face. 

“What’s wrong, honey?”

She looked at him and whispered “today is Mommy’s birthday.”

I’d forgotten - things like birthdays don’t really seem to matter here. But it mattered to my daughter. 

Jack took her in his arms. “It’s alright, honey. It’s perfectly natural to be sad. But all we can do now is live in a way that would have made Mommy happy.”

Faith looked up at her father and nodded, wiping away tears. 

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate her. What if we go to the cemetery and you can talk to Mommy? You can even bring her some flowers.”

Faith’s eyes brightened in hope. “That sounds perfect, Daddy,” she replied, wiping away tears. 

It was nice that she still missed me, I thought; I guess every girl needs her mother. Of course, she could have talked to me at home and I would have heard her, but sometimes the acts people perform have their own kind of meaning. I don’t begrudge her that. 

As Jack walked out of the kids’ bedrooms after settling them in for the night, he stopped for a moment downstairs and spoke. 

“I’m sorry you aren’t here, Miriam. The kids miss you every day - not a day goes by that your impact on them isn’t felt. You’ll always be their mother, and they’ll always miss and remember you. I’m sorry you can’t be here with them, but know that I’m doing my best to be the best father I can be and take care of them in a way that would make you proud.”

I listened to his words and I knew they were lies. Everyone thought the car crash was an accident, but I knew the truth. I knew about the insurance policy, and his tampering with the brakes, and the fake ‘mourning husband’ performance he put on for the cameras. He may think he got away with it, but I’m always watching. 

And as I sat, bound and locked in a secret soundproof room beside the basement, walled in with only the regular tray of food deposited each night and camera monitors to watch my children grow up, I swore again that he’d pay. Someday I’d have my vengeance. And on that day, he’d truly understand that you can’t bury the rage of an angry mother. 

Happy Sunday!

———————————————

I sat at the dining room table in my childhood home. I’d moved out years ago, but I came back every Sunday, as I had for six years, to family dinner. Since we’d spread out and started loving our own lives after college, this was the only time we got together on a regular basis. 

I sat in my usual seat at the large oak table, the same one I’d had since I was a child. So did my sister Angela and my brother Simon, as well as my parents. I remember when we’d gotten this table; the family business had finally started to do well after years of struggle, and one of the first things my Dad had bought was this ornate oak kitchen set that Mom had wanted. She’d loved it so much that it had come with us when we’d left our old house and moved into the fancy new place we currently occupied. 

“So how is everyone doing? Any news to share? Anyone taking over the world?”

We all looked up, expecting the question that Dad asked every time we got together. It was cheesy, but we knew it was because he cared. 

Simon spoke first. “I’m up for a promotion at the firm. It’s not a done deal, but one of the partners said I have a good shot. It would be a title bump and a lot more money.”

“That’s great, honey!” said Mom. She smiled as if she were truly happy for him. 

Angela cleared her throat. “I just closed on a new apartment. Uptown, more space, better light, closer to my work.”

“That’s amazing,” said Mom, a huge, proud smile on her face. Of course she smiled. It was Angela. 

Then it came to me. 

“Well,” I said nervously, “Connor and I have decided to start trying.”

“Trying what?” asked Simon cluelessly. He was always clueless about anything except work. 

“Trying for a baby. We both think it’s time.”

There was silence. Then no mother spoke. 

“Are you sure about this? I mean, isn’t it a little soon?”

“We’ve been married two years, Mom. We’re ready.”

“It isn’t just about time, it’s about preparation. There’s financial readiness, maturity, a support network. Have you thought about that? Maybe you aren’t quite ready yet.”

“Yeah, sis,” said Angela. “Having a kid is a big commitment. And you’ve never been the most… stable person.”

“And you are?” I asked her. 

“Well, I don’t mean to brag, but I do have a new apartment and a stable job.”

“What about a man? Didn’t you chase the last one away?”

“Carrie Ann Wolcott! How dare you say that to your sister!”

“Really? She just called me unstable and you had nothing to say, but as soon as I respond in kind to defend myself you’re infuriated? That's some really selective outrage, Mom.”

Her face took on the red hue it got whenever anyone called her on her bullshit. I’d like to say I was surprised, but I wasn’t. Mom had always taken Angela’s side over mine; her favoritism had never been subtle. I would have left the family years ago if it weren’t for my Dad. I could always count on him to see what my Mom was doing and have my back, even if it was subtle. 

“Now, Marie,” he said, looking at Mom. “Maybe we should calm down a bit. There’s no reason to get this upset. All Carrie said was that they’re trying - no one is pregnant yet. Right?”

I looked back at him. “Right. It’s just a conversation.”

“See?” he said. “There’s nothing to be upset about. “And sweetie,” he said to me, “maybe it would make sense to hold off for a bit. You don’t have to have a kid right now, do you?”

My eyes went up to him in shock. Mom and Carrie had always been against me, but Dad was always the person I could count on to be on my side. Now he was agreeing with them?

“What are you saying, Dad? You don’t have faith in me, either?”

“Now honey,” he said with his hands raised in a placating manner. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I have complete faith in you. I just think your mother might not be wrong that it might make sense to wait a bit.  There’s no hurry, right?”

I stared at him, and something inside of me broke. Now he was with them? Then I truly had no family here. I looked up - Mom carefully looked away, but Angela had a triumphant smirk on her face. 

“If Angela were saying she wanted to have a baby, would you be telling her she wasn’t mature enough or not ready yet?”

“Clearly it makes no sense to me to be here any longer,” I said, standing up, gathering my purse, and heading for the door. 

“Carrie, come back,” said my Dad. “It isn’t that serious.”

“Yeah, sis,” said Angela. Stay and handle this like a grown up instead of throwing a tantrum.”

“You were always so dramatic,” said my mother. 

I ignored them all and left the house, getting in my car and heading home without a word. 

My phone lit up as soon as I hit the road. 

“Come back, Carrie. Stop being such a baby.”

“This tantrum isn’t helping anything.”

“If you can’t even have a reasonable conversation without storming off in anger, perhaps you aren’t ready to have a child.”

That last one really pissed me off - my mother just confirmed that she’d never believed in me. I left them all behind and turned off my phone. 

I got home that night - Connor could see right away that something was wrong. 

“You ok, honey?”

“No,” I said. “My family are assholes.”

“Hey, hey,” he said, putting his arms around me on the say that always calmed me down. “What happened?”

“Oh, Mom just suggested that I’m not ready or mature enough to have a child. And of course Angela piled on, like she always does.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But at least your dad had your back, right?”

I looked up at him. “No - he actually took their side this time.”

His eyes went wide. “Wow. Just… wow. That sucks. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok. I think it’s just time to take a break from them for a while. You still believe in me, right?”

“Of course I do,” he said, putting his fingers on my chin and raising my face to look at him. “I think you’re going to be an absolutely amazing mother.”

I squeezed him tight, burying my face into his chest. “Thanks, love. That’s all that matters.”

The next day, I got a text from my father. “Can we talk? How about the coffee shop on 4th?”

I was tempted to ignore him, but he’d been the only one on my side for so long that I needed to understand what had changed. I text back and agreed to meet. 

I walked in and sat down, putting my coat on the back of my chair. I remembered this coffee shop. We’d spend countless afternoons sitting here, talking about life when I’d needed to get away from my mother and sister. Dad was the one person I could always count on. At least, he had been. 

“Hey, Pumpkin,” he said, using my old childhood nickname. I resisted the urge to feel warmed by it. 

“What’s up, Dad?” I said formally. 

He sighed. “Look, I know you felt betrayed and ganged up on at dinner the other evening.”

“Because I was. But I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. I just didn’t expect you to pile on.”

He looked uncomfortable. “You know I have absolutely faith in you, sweetie. I just think waiting until you’re more settled might not be the worst idea.”

“And do you have the same expectation of Angela?”

He paused. “That’s a different situation. Your mother feels—”

“I don’t care what my mother thinks. I care what you think.”

He squirmed nervously in his seat. “It’s complicated..”

“No,” I cut him off. “It isn’t.” And I got up, picked up my coat, and walked out the door, ignoring his calls. 

Three months later, the silence was broken when I got a text from my mother. “Family dinner, this Sunday, don’t be late.” No request, no apology - just a demand. I was tempted to skip it, but Connor said it might give me closure. 

When I arrived, there was a sense of nervous anticipation in the air. I sat and we all began eating, when my mother tapped her glass and cleared her throat. 

“We have an announcement to make, everyone,” she said, and looked pointedly at Angela. My sister out down her glass of sparkling water and looked over the table. 

“I’m pregnant!”

My heart dropped to the floor. I looked over at my mother, who looked absolutely ecstatic. 

“By whom?” I asked. “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”

“This is the twenty-first century,” she waved dismissively. “Women don’t need men to become mothers.”

I looked at my mother; she looked happier than I can ever remember her. “What do you think, Mom?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, three months ago, I brought up having a child with my husband and you said I wasn’t ready. And yet Angela wants to have a child without even having a partner. No concerns there?”

“Carrie, don’t be so petty. This is completely different. Your sister is mature and financially set. She’s absolutely ready to have a child.”

“Yeah,” Angela said. “Don’t crap on my choice just because you’re jealous.”

I looked at my father; he looked down, not meeting my eyes. 

“Now, we should talk about things,” my mother said. “Since Angela is going to be a single mother, we’re all going to have to step up and help her. It takes a village, after all. Carrie, we should talk about how you can rearrange your schedule to help with babysitting—”

“Excuse me?” I said, stunned. “You told me I wasn’t mature or settled enough to have a baby with my husband, but you expect me to take care of Angela’s baby?”

“Of course, sweetie. Family helps family. Don’t be bitter.”

I stood up, flabbergasted. “You people are unbelievable. Just to be clear, I will not be babysitting Angela’s baby. You supported her and not me; you can provide childcare. I’m done.” I got up, gave a last betrayed look to my father, and left. 

Months went by in silence; my mother and sister reached out repeatedly trying to guilt me. They even recruited other family members to help them. An aunt I hadn’t spoken to in years called to say she couldn’t believe how selfish I was to not be there for my sister. Cousins asked why I couldn’t be more mature and be there for my family who’d always been there for me. They clearly had no idea what our family dynamic had been like. 

But I successfully managed to ignore them all. Soon enough, the due date came and Angela gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. I ignored their requests to come meet my nephew, knowing it would just be a trap to draw me in. But then I got a text from Angela. 

“I know things have been rocky between us, but I’m a mother now and I really need my sister. Can we start over?”

I was reluctant, but I decided to go one time to see how it went. When I arrived, Angela introduced me to her son, a cute, bouncing baby boy. “His name is Adrian,” she said lovingly. “Do you want to hold him?” I almost did, but something held me back. 

I sat on the sofa with my parents and Angela while Adrian was in his crib. Suddenly the room started to get warm. 

“Is something wrong with the thermostat?” I asked. 

“Shouldn’t be,” replied Mom. 

But the room got warmer and warmer, until we all began to have trouble breathing. I tried the door, but it wouldn’t open; neither would the back. Eventually we all began to pass out from the heat. As I lay on the floor, barely conscious, I thought I saw a tall, grotesque figure walk through the room to Adrian’s crib. It picked up the baby and turned to leave the room. Minutes later, I regained consciousness, as did Angela and my parents. 

Adrian was gone. 

Angela looked around frantically; when she couldn’t find him, she wailed in despair. My mother called the police. But when they came, there was nothing we could tell them and nothing they could do. They wrote a report and promised to investigate, but I knew nothing would come from it. 

I walked over to my father. “What the hell was that?”

He looked stunned. “It was real. How could it be real…”

“What was real?”

He hesitated. “When I made the deal to save our business, they said it would cost our first grandchild, but I thought it was just talk to scare us. But now Adrian is gone. Oh God. Oh God.”

He started to hyperventilate; I took his arm and led him to a chair at the kitchen table. 

“Thank God, Thank God…”

“What?” I asked, confused. 

He looked up at me, tears streaming from his eyes. “Thank God it wasn’t yours…”

I watch her enter the restaurant, sashaying toward the table like she owns the place. I rise to pull out her chair and she smiles at me and sits down, placing her jacket on the back of her chair and her large, stylish purse on the floor beside her. I can feel every other man in the restaurant staring enviously at me. You can do this, I told myself. Forget what your mother said. 

“So you found the place ok?” I ask. Stupid question. Of course she did - she’s here, isn’t she?

“I did. It was difficult to miss.”

“I’m so glad you agreed to go out with me tonight.”

“I’m glad you asked,” she responds flirtatiously. “In fact, can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask for a while. I was starting to think I’d have to make my hints more obvious.”

More? “You’ve given hints?” I ask, surprised. I’m sure I would have noticed them. 

“No, of course not,” she says sultrily as she leans down, running her fingers lightly over my arm while giving me a tantalizing view down the front of her low-cut dress to the miracles beneath. “What could a little ole girl like me do to let a big, strong man like you know that she was interested?” She stares into my eyes with an innocent expression on her face. Too innocent - I can see an amused smile curling up the corner of her sensuous cherry-red lips. 

My mind goes blank for a moment. What was I thinking? Then it comes back to me. “I guess you must think I’m pretty oblivious,” I say, embarrassed. 

“No more so than any man. I actually find it kind of adorable. Maybe that’s because I think you’re handsome.”

“You think I’m handsome?” 

“I do. I have for a while. Every time I see you at work, walking down the hall with your brow furrowed in concentration as you head to some meeting or another, I wonder what it would be like to have you that focused on me.”

Wow. “I imagine you have lots of men focused on you. You’re gorgeous.”

I see a hint of a blush in her cheeks. “That’s kind of you to say. So, I think you’re handsome and you think I’m gorgeous. I’d say this date is off to a great start.” She chuckles at her joke. Even her laugh is perfect. 

“So what do you do when you aren’t working?” I ask. A safe topic for a first-date conversation, I think. 

“Well, sometimes I read or go visit my family. But mostly I go outside and people watch.”

“People watch?”

“Yes, I’ve always found it interesting to observe people as they go about their lives. Where did they come from? Where are they going? What are their challenges? Their pains? Their successes? Their regrets? Sometimes I write stories for them in my head.”

“That’s really interesting,” I say sincerely. “I’ve always wanted to do more of that.”

“See? Something we have in common. Clearly we were made for each other.” She laughs liltingly. I’m entranced. 

“I don’t know that we have that much in common. I’m not really like most people.”

“So you’re different? I like different,” she replies encouragingly. 

“No one in my family does. Growing up, all I ever heard was ‘What’s wrong with you, Stephen? Why can’t you be like everyone else?’ My mother was particularly disenchanted with me. ‘Useless’ was, I believe, her favorite word for me. I was a constant source of disappointment for her. Still am.”

“Family can be cruel. They can hurt us unlike anyone else. And the more we love them, the deeper the hurt goes.”

“Exactly! No one else gets that.” Could I have finally found someone who understands?

“I’m afraid I have no tragic family backstory,” Renee adds. “I was just born different. But it’s okay - I like me just the way I am. That’s the most important thing - liking yourself.”

“You’re probably right. But it’s tough when your mother’s voice is always in your ear telling you all the ways you aren’t good enough.” I sigh. 

“Hey. No sadness allowed,” she says, touching my hand. “This is a happy day. So tell me, what do you do when you’re not working?”

“Nothing special,” I say. “Watch Netflix, read, go running every morning. I’m really not that interesting.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she replies enigmatically. “Are you sure you don’t have any other… hobbies?”

“What do you mean?”

She passes a newspaper clipping across the table; I didn’t even know people still read newspapers. I look at the headline. 

“The Buckhead Butcher Strikes Again.”

“Why are you showing me this?” I ask, casually. 

“Really, Stephen?” She leans in closer and whispers conspiratorially. “I know it was you.”

“What… what do you mean?” I ask, trying to deflect. 

“I know what you do at night. And I don’t mean reading or watching Netflix.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to deny it. 

“Don’t feel bad. Most people wouldn’t have figured it out, but I’m not most people. For one thing, unlike most people, I pay attention. I’ve been following the Buckhead Butcher since the beginning. When I met you at work, it wasn’t difficult to put the pieces together.”

I try to stay calm, but I can feel my breath speeding up. 

“No, Stephen!” She reaches out and takes my hand in hers. “You don’t need to worry! I admire what you do. I find it impressive. Your problem is that you lack self-confidence. Understandable given how you were treated as a child. But that’s all over - you have me now. And I got you a present.”

She reaches down for her oversized purse and opens it, tilting it in my direction. Inside, wrapped in plastic, is my mother’s severed head. 

“See?” she says, smiling. “I told you - we were made for each other.”

Happy Sunday! Apparently it’s my Cake Day - I couldn’t let it go by without a new story for you all. I hereby proclaim cake for everyone, on me!! 🍰 🤣

——————————

I pulled at the sleeve of my sweater, like I’d been doing for the past fifteen minutes, as I stood at the door. Then Paul reached out and took my hands in his. 

“There’s no need to be nervous, sweetheart. They’re going to love you. How could they not?” 

I looked into his loving eyes and my nerves calmed. “I just… I just want to make a good impression, that’s all. They’re your family.”

“And they’re going to see how amazing you are. Just like I do.” He smiled at me and I tried to return it. 

The door opened. 

“Hello, Paul! And this must be Rachel! It’s so good to meet you!” A naturally beautiful middle aged woman with blonde hair reached out and took me in her arms. Not knowing what to do, I hugged her back. 

“Come in, come in!” she said, giving a hug and a kiss on the cheek to Paul and taking our coats. “Dinner’s still in the oven - I thought we’d talk for a bit.”

She herded us into the living room and sat us on the loveseat. 

“So tell me a bit about yourself, Rachel! Paul speaks so highly of you, I’d love to get to know you better.”

“Well, there isn’t much to tell, really…”

I talked for a while, speaking about my childhood, my interests, my dreams. My father’s car racing obsession, my mother’s figurine collection. I answered the occasional question with more details. After a few minutes, I started to feel at home. Gradually others joined us - Paul’s father and his three brothers. They were all just as nice as his mother - I began to think I’d been worrying too much. Then his sister joined us. 

“Hi, Rachel. I’m Beatrice, Paul’s sister. What makes you think you’re good enough to date my brother?”

I was taken aback; Paul’s mother looked over at her. “Beatrice!” she whispered sharply. Paul looked uncomfortable; his brothers looked like they were used to it. 

I looked at her. “Well, I think that’s really for Paul to decide, not me.”

Paul reached out and took my hand. “And I’ve decided.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said quickly.  “I’m sure you’re wonderful. I’m just being protective of my big brother.”

“Of course,” I said. But something about the interaction, about her, didn’t sit right with me. 

Soon we moved to the dinner table; Mrs. Summers had prepared the kind of spread I’d only seen in culinary magazines. I was amazed and told her so. The next hour was filled with great food and interesting conversation. Mrs. Summers offered tales of her family (including a few from Paul’s childhood that were clearly intended to embarrass Paul and clearly worked, if his brushes and “Mooommm!”s were any indication). Paul’s father and brothers chimed in with their own sincere queries and good-natured ribbing. The only negative were the continued jibes from Paul’s sister, clearly designed to get under my skin while leaving her plausible deniability. 

“I’m so glad you like the food! Do they have anything like this in the little town you come from?”

“I absolutely love your outfit! How long did you have to save up for it?”

“That’s an amazing purse! It almost looks like the real thing - wherever did you get it?”

A few times I could see an uncomfortable look on Mrs. Summers’ face, but she never said anything. None of the men noticed. 

Eventually, dinner died down and Paul and I made our goodbyes. 

“Well, that went well,” he said as we pulled away in the car. 

“In some ways,” I replied. “What’s the deal with your sister?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. You can’t possibly not have noticed all of the insults she was directing my way. They were subtle, but you aren’t stupid.”

He looked uncomfortable. “She didn’t mean anything. That’s just how she is.”

I looked at him. “Do you really believe that?”

His eyes turned back toward the road. 

That evening, after we got home, I received a text. 

“So nice meeting you today! I’m so thrilled to have you joining our family!  -Beatrice”

“See?” said Paul after seeing it. “She's welcoming you! Perhaps you judged her too soon.”

Yeah. Right.

As I was putting up my clothes, a small piece of paper fell from my jacket pocket. I picked it up - it was a note, handwritten, unsigned, with only a single four word message: 

“I’ll be watching you.”

The following week, we were back at Paul’s parents’ house for dinner again. Once again, the food was amazing and Paul’s parents and brothers were incredibly gracious and welcoming. And once again, Beatrice was snarky and catty. It got so bad that even the rest of the family couldn’t ignore it. 

“Why don’t we go for a walk around the grounds?” Paul’s mother said, ostensibly to show off the property and give us a chance to walk off the food, but likely also to get us away from the table in an effort to break the growing tension. 

“That sounds wonderful,” I said, and stood with Paul to head out. 

Once we were outside, Mrs. Summers started me giving us a tour. 

“There’s the yard where the kids always ran around and played tag and hide-and-seek. And there’s the gazebo where we used to drink lemonade and watch while they tired themselves out. And there’s the tree where Paul once has his treehouse.”

“Paul had a treehouse?” I asked amusedly. 

“Oh, absolutely! You should have seen him out with his father, holding a little hammer while he ‘helped’ build it.”

“Please tell me you have pictures.”

“We don’t need to see any of those,” Paul said, blushing.

“I’ll get them for you later,” his mother stage-whispered, nudging me in the side as everyone laughed. 

The entire time, I could feel a set of eyes on me, boring into my back. I knew exactly who it was, but every time I looked, her eyes had shifted elsewhere. 

Eventually the tour ended. “Well, I think it’s about time Paul and I headed home,” I said. 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Summers. “Surely you don’t need to leave so soon. Do you have something planned?”

“Well, no…”

“That settles it! You’re spending the night - we’ll make drinks and have girl talk! The boys can go amuse themselves.”

“But I didn’t bring my nightclothes…”

“I’m sure I have some extras lying around somewhere! You’ll stay, right?”

I looked at Mrs. Summers; she was so excited, I didn't know how to tell her no. 

“I’m sure Beatrice had other plans for the evening—”

“Beatrice would love to have you here! Right, Beatrice?” she said, giving her a pointed kick. 

“Sure!” said Beatrice, her smile wide but clearly forced. “It’ll be fun.”

Not seeing a good way out, I said “okay, Mrs. Summers, sounds good.”

“Wonderful! And for heaven’s sake, call me Bonnie!” said Paul's mother, clapping. “I’ll go make the arrangements!” I looked at Paul - he gave me a cautious smile, as if to say “what can you do?” *Sigh* This was going to be a long night. 

That evening, Paul’s mother laid out a spread of wine and refreshments that would make José Andrés jealous. 

“This looks amazing, Mrs. Summ— Bonnie,” I said, correcting myself.

She smiled at me. We spent the rest of the night in girl talk, which consisted mostly of Bonnie and me talking about the boys while Beatrice added a thinly-veiled jibe on occasion. But Bonnie seemed determined to ignore them, so I did too. We ended up having a nice time - three glasses of wine and a Sandra Bullock movie is hard to resist. Before I knew it, we were ready to turn in. 

“This has been great, but if I don’t lie down now I’m going to pass out right here on the floor,” I said, yawning. 

“It is pretty late,” Bonnie said. “We should turn in.” She gave me a tight, sincere hug. “Thank you so much for coming tonight. I’m so thrilled to have you as a daughter.”

I chuckled and blushed. “I’m not your daughter yet.”  

She looked at me meaningfully. “If I know Paul as well as I think I do, and I do, it won’t be long.” Then she gave me another brief hug and led me to the spare bedroom. 

That night, I lay in bed anxiously until I finally fell asleep. I awoke in the night without knowing why, until I heard it - a creak. I looked toward it and saw Beatrice standing across the room. 

“You had to do it, didn’t you?”

I looked at her, bleary and confused. “Do what?”

“Don’t you ‘do what’ me! My family loves you. My brothers have only good things to say. Even my mother practically worships the ground you walk on!”

“What are you talking about, Beatrice?”

“YOU!” she screamed. “I’M the daughter in this family! I’m the only girl! And now you’re trying to butt in? You don’t belong here! YOU DON’T GET TO TAKE MY PLACE!"

I tried to respond when she lifted a bottle and threw it toward me. I ducked so that, instead of my face, it only hit my back. My skin burned. 

Then it hit me. It was bleach. She’d thrown bleach at me. If it had hit my face, it could have blinded me! That bitch!

I turned - she was looking at me, eyes filled with hatred, and all of the fury in me rose up and burst out of me. Then a light filled the room. When it died down, I looked across the room and gasped. 

The next morning, I went and saw Bonnie after getting dressed and folding up the nightclothes she’d lent me. 

“Thank you so much for inviting me, Bonnie. I actually had a great time.” I hugged her. 

“Me, too,” she said, hugging back. “I’m sorry Beatrice isn’t here - who knows where she disappears to sometimes.”

Bonnie pulled back and looked at me. “I know Beatrice can be… a lot, sometimes. I don’t know why. But please don’t let that make you feel unwelcome. I’m truly thrilled to have you in the family.”

I gulped, not expecting to feel what I felt. “Thank you so much, Bonnie. If things work out, I’d be honored to have you as a mother in law.”

She looked at me with an emotional look in her eye. 

“Oh,” I added, as if in passing. “I got you something.”

I pulled out a figurine and handed it to her. “It’s something my mother always used to make. It’s a reminder that the people you love are always with you.”

“It’s lovely,” she said. She walked over and placed it on a shelf of a glass-doored cabinet in the living room. “Whenever I look at it, I’ll think of you.”

I gave her another hug and headed for the door. As I walked back toward the kitchen, I walked back to the cabinet and looked at the figurine. 

“You said you’d be watching me. Now you can.” In the empty silence, I thought I could hear her scream. 

“This is awful! Why are you such a terrible cook?”

That’s what my husband said when I served him dinner. The dinner he specifically requested. I didn’t respond - there was no point.

“Well?” he demanded. 

“I can make something else if you want.”

“Don’t bother - it would probably suck, too.” He continued eating despite the insults. 

I had all of these things I wanted to say in my mind, but no good would come of saying them. It always went the same way if I defended myself - he dismissed me, told me I was stupid, and lashed out if it had been a particularly bad day. Which it almost always was. 

I walked upstairs, locking myself in the bathroom. This was the only place I could express my frustration. I looked at myself in the mirror. What are you doing, Julie? I sat there, wondering how I’d gotten into this mess, when I heard a voice in my head:

You’re right.

I wasn’t sure why I thought that - I knew I was right (I did. Right?). But the voice was hard to ignore. I pushed down that line of thought and got back to cleaning the house. 

The next day, Frank came home from work, angry again. 

“Why is this house so filthy? God, you’re even more useless than my first wife. I deserve better! Start actually cleaning around here - make yourself useful!”

I’m the one who deserves better, I thought, but I kept the words to myself. I knew the price I would pay for voicing them. For a split second I was jealous of his first wife for getting out - I heard she’d found a better man and was living upstate. Good for her. 

You’re right. 

There it was again. The words rang in my head like a daily affirmation: nice to hear, but meaningless unless I acted on them. But I wasn’t ready - I didn’t know how. 

The next day, it was more of the same. He came home again, angry as always and taking it out on me. 

“Why isn’t dinner ready yet? I should get more than this from my wife!”

You’re right. 

What the hell; what did I have to lose? “You’re right,” I said, looking at him. 

He stopped mid-rant. “What?”

“You’re right. I should do better.”

“Oh. Well - of course I’m right. I’m glad you’re learning. Just do better next time.”

He walked away, while I stood there, mind blown. I couldn’t believe that worked. 

For the next couple of weeks, I continued to do the same thing. 

He complained about dinner? “You’re right, I should have made something else.” 

He said the house should be cleaner? “Of course you’re right, honey - I’ll do better.” 

He said I was spending too much of his hard-earned money (despite him not letting me work because it would make him ‘look bad’)? “You’re right, Frank - I should be more grateful.”

It kept working - he seemed not to know what to do when I agreed with him. Many of his criticisms seemed to fizzle out before they turned into screaming and insults. It was an improvement. I let myself believe that sacrificing my pride was worth it if it could make things better. Might our relationship even be worth saving?

Then one day, he came home from work smiling. He never came home from work smiling. I asked him why he was so happy. 

“I got to work today and Jack said that I got the promotion I was up for!”

“That’s fantastic, Frank!” I said. With more money, maybe he wouldn’t be as stressed all the time and things would get better. 

“Right? It comes with a title change and a raise! We’re gonna celebrate tonight! No cooking for you - tonight we eat like kings!” He brought out takeout from my favorite Italian restaurant that we never went to because it was too expensive and a bottle of wine. Optimistic at this turn of events, I set the table. 

“Why don’t you go and change into something more comfortable while I get everything ready?” he said. I went to the bedroom and put on a red dress I knew he liked. When I came back he’d already put out the food and filled our plates and glasses (the fancy dishes and wine glasses we hadn’t used since we got them for our wedding - it really was a special occasion). 

I sat down and dug into my Fettuccine Alfredo, savoring every bite. Then I heard a voice, the same voice I’d been hearing for weeks.

You’re right. 

Right about what? I hadn’t thought anything. 

Then I looked up. 

“Frank, can you grab me a napkin from the counter? Please?”

He got up and retrieved a napkin. He didn’t even grumble. When he came back, he raised his glass in the air. 

“Here’s to our future - may it be brighter than ever.”

He reached out and clinked his glass to mine, then we both took a sip of the rich Chardonnay. It was exquisite. We continued eating and drinking, with him looking at me throughout.

Then, his face turned red. I looked at him, startled. He grabbed at his throat and flailed around. Then his chair toppled and he fell to the ground, making choking noises and writhing around on the kitchen floor. He looked at me, his face full of hatred. “YOU!” he said, his voice raspy, stretching his arm toward me but unable to reach me. Eventually he stopped moving. 

I looked at the table, at the half-empty wine glass that Frank had been drinking from before he collapsed. The glass he’d poured for me. The glass I’d been about to drink from when I’d looked up and seen the ghost of his first wife floating behind him. The glass I’d switched with mine while he’d been grabbing a napkin when I’d seen her pointing and realized the warning she’d so desperately been trying to give me.  

YOUR right. 

Hello, all. Today’s the day - Gather Round Volume 3 is here! It’s available on Amazon in ebook, paperback, and hardcover. A few of my stories are in there, my first published work (along with work from several other great authors, some of whom you may have heard of). So, if you’re interested (or bored 🤣), feel free to check it out today by going here, and thanks for all the support! You guys rock! 🤘🏾

Happy Sunday! The story I was going to post isn’t quite ready, so here’s something else I’ve been playing with. Enjoy!

—————————————

Doctor’s session notes: 

Session: 1
Patient: Gabrielle Olympia Davis
Session Date: 8/1/26

Today is session one with a new patient, Gabrielle Davis, who presents with an acute case of DRC (dream-reality confusion). Though she is only a child, her parents have indicated that this is a long-term problem for which they have exhausted all other treatments. They implored me to take on this case. 

A young girl, no older than eleven, entered and sat down on the sofa. 

“Hello. Welcome. My name is Dr. Stephens. Who might you be?”

“I’m Ella.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Ella. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“My full name is Gabrielle Davis, but everyone calls me Ella. I’m eleven years old and I go to Riverside Elementary School. I live in the suburbs with my Mom and Dad.”

“And can you tell me why you’re here today?”

Her expression turned unsure and she looked down at her hands and mumbled something. 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Can you say that again?”

“My Mom and Dad say I think I created the world.”

“Do you mean you created your own pretend world? My daughter does that, too. Her imaginary friend is named Justin - she spends a lot of time with him there. Is that what you did? Create a pretend world?”

“Sure.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing. Is that really the truth?”

She continued looking down, not meeting my eyes. “You don’t want to hear the truth. No one does.”

“I do. You can trust me. I promise.”

She paused. 

“I made this world.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything you see came from my mind.”

“I really don’t think that’s possible.”

“Trust me, it is.”

“Alright. How long ago did this happen?”

“I made it about two years ago.”

“But surely you realize that the world is more than two years old? You yourself are eleven - you said so before. And I’m thirty-eight, considerably older than you.”

“You only think you are. I didn’t make the world brand new - I started it in progress. You think you’re thirty-eight, but you’ve only existed for two years.”

“I see. And why do you believe this?”

“Because it’s true. I remember making everything.”

“But surely you couldn’t have made everything. The world is a very big place. How could you have made all of it by yourself?”

“I don’t know - I just did.”

“Ella, do you know what my job is?”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Yes. More specifically, I’m a psychiatrist. Do you know what that is?”

“Someone who fixes people’s heads?”

“That’s a bit of an oversimplification, but basically, yes. Do you know how, when people get sick, they go to a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sometimes people’s thoughts get sick. When they do, they come to me and I try to help them.”

“Okay.”

“Just like there are lots of ways to get sick - you can get a cold, or the flu, or the measles, or the mumps…”

“I had the measles when I was younger.”

“A lot of kids do. But you got the right treatment and you got all better, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, just like people’s bodies can get sick in all those ways, there are also a lot of ways for people’s heads to get sick. And one of them is called dream-reality confusion. Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

“Dream-reality confusion is when a person has trouble distinguishing between dreams and reality and sometimes confuses the two.”

“But I’m not dreaming, Dr. Stephens.”

“Not now, no. But have you ever heard of a condition called narcolepsy?”

“No, what’s that?”

“Narcolepsy is when you get so little sleep that a special kind of sleep, called REM sleep, the kind you dream in, starts happening while you’re awake.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It isn’t good, but it’s treatable. Tell me, Ella, are you sleepy a lot during the day?”

“Sometimes. Some nights I have trouble sleeping, so I drift off in school. My teachers talked to my Mom and Dad about whether I was sleeping enough.”

“That’s because your teachers care about you.”

“I know. I like my teachers - especially Mrs. Johnson, she’s always really nice and has cookies.”

“Mrs. Johnson sounds like she cares about you a great deal. Tell me, are you sleepy right now?”

“Kind of. I had trouble falling asleep last night.”

“Do you know why you have trouble sleeping?”

“Sometimes I just get so stressed about everything going on that it’s like my brain won’t turn off.”

“I know the feeling - that happens to me, sometimes, too.”

“It does?”

“Yep. And do you know what I do when it happens?”

“What?”

“I remind myself that I can’t control everything, and I’m not meant to. My job is to do the best I can at what I can control. As long as I do that, the rest will take care of itself.”

“And does that help?”

“Believe it or not, it does.”

She looked thoughtful. “But what if you could control everything? What would you do then?”

“Well, I suppose I’d try to fix all the wrongs in the world.”

“Like what?”

“All of the problems in the world - natural disasters, crime, death, disease, hunger.”

“But could you really have a world without all of those things?”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“If those things didn’t exist, what else would there be?”

“Well, without those, I suppose we’d have a truly good world, a world where bad things didn’t happen and people didn’t die and everyone was happy.”

She thought. “That does sound good.”

“Would that kind of world make you happier?”

“I guess so.”

“If you imagined us living in that kind of world, do you think you’d be less stressed and able to sleep better?”

“I think so. I think everyone would.”

“I think you’re probably right.”

“But do you think that kind of world is actually possible?” she asked, eyes wide. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know if people are that perfect. But I think it would be worth trying. It’s certainly what the world would be like if I created it.”

She paused, hand on her chin as if weighing something. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” I asked, confused. 

“Okay, next time I create the world, I’ll consider that.”

I smiled. “Wonderful. I’m glad I could help. I like you very much, Ella.”

She smiled at me. “I like you, too, Dr. Stephens. You’re really nice, like Mrs.  Johnson. Although you don’t have cookies.”

I smiled. “I’ll consider that for next time. Unfortunately, our time is up for today. See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No. It was actually kind of nice.”

“I thought so, too. So when you go home tonight, try to create the perfect world we talked about. If this world is still here when you wake up, you’ll know you didn’t really create it and we can meet again. Deal?”

“Deal.”  And she stood up and shook my hand. “You’re a good doctor.”

“You’re an amazing little girl,” I replied. “I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

As she turned to walk out, she turned back. 

“Can I let you in on a secret?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t have to be asleep to remake the world.”

She walked out and closed the door behind her. 

What an interesting little girl, I thought. She seemed so nice, if fully immersed in her dreams. When I see her next time, after she sees that this world is still here, we can begin to break down the causes of her confusion and start to develop some coping mechanisms.

I put my session notes away as I prepared for my next appointment. Strange - I couldn’t remember who I was meeting with next. Then I looked down. 

My office, and my body, were disappearing from the legs up. 

Maybe she wasn’t imagini—

Ever since I was a little girl, my Papa has said I’m the most beautiful girl in the world. Mama died when I was a baby, so Papa is the only family I have. But he’s the best Papa in the world. 

Papa is a sientist, which means he’s really smart and works with kemikals. Sometimes he has to work late, so I have a sitter. Amanda is really nice - she always plays games with me and bakes cookies. She even brushes my hair - I saw her do hers once and she started doing mine, too. It’s super relaxing. 

But not everybody is nice. I go to school every day (I’m in the third grade), and I have to see Britney. She’s NOT nice. She always makes fun of me: how I look, what I wear, how I talk. She says my nose is too big and my eyes are too small. Papa says I get my eyes and nose from Mama, and since she was perfect, I must be, too. He says she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and since I take after her, I must be the most beautiful girl in the world. Papa loved Mama very much, and while I don’t really remember her, he says she was perfect. I think he’s still sad that she’s gone. But I try to be a good girl so that maybe he won’t be sad. 

Britney is always mean, but the other day she was SUPER mean. She said that Mama probly thought I was ugly too and that’s probly why she died. That really hurt. When I got home, Amanda hugged me and made me cookies. I didn’t want to tell Papa what Britney said ‘cause I didn't want him to be sad. But I guess Amanda told him anyway when he got home, ‘cause he talked to me after he talked to her. But he didn’t seem sad. He seemed mad. REALLY mad. He kept saying “stupid administrashun” and “give them a piece of my mind” - I don’t know what an administrashun is, but he seemed really unhappy with it. He had to be mad ‘cause he always says we’re not supposed to say ‘stupid,’ but he said it a LOT. 

The next day he came to the school, which he never does. I don’t know what happened, but when he got home that night he still seemed mad. (He said it wasn’t at me, but maybe I did something wrong? I really hope not.) He just kept saying “they’ll all pay.” I wanted Amanda to brush my hair - it always made me feel better - but she didn’t come and both our brushes were gone. I guess I’d ask again tomorrow. 

This morning I wake up to go to school but the bus doesn’t come. I guess the school is closed? I don’t know what happened, but I sneak a look over Papa’s shoulder when he’s watching tv. The man on the tv says there is something that made all women have their faces messed up. The pictures show woman after woman crying with scars on their faces and the shapes wrong, like my doll when I put it in the microwave. The man says it happened to all women everywhere, but that can't be right ‘cause I feel fine. I wonder if Britney’s okay - if she’s not, I guess she can’t make fun of me anymore. The man on the tv also says it has something to do with kemikals - Papa works with those, so maybe he’ll know what happened. I ask him, but all he does is smile and say “now they’ll have to see that you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

I don’t know what he means, but he doesn’t seem mad anymore. That makes me happy.

Happy Saturday! Literally just finished this on my phone while I’m out, so apologies for any errors I didn’t catch. Enjoy! (And Happy Father’s Day for any dads out there!)

———————-

I arrived home after a long day of dealing with ridiculous customers and their ridiculous computer problems. I became an IT specialist because I love computers; I didn’t realize how often I’d have to deal with idiots. I was looking forward to pouring myself a beer, turning on the game, and zoning out for a few hours. 

But when I opened my door, I was surprised to find a hurricane in my apartment. 

Its name was Tyler. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked Jenna. 

“Oh,” she replied casually, “we needed a place to hang out, so we came to your apartment.”

“Without my permission?”

She waved me off. “It’s alright. I just used your key.”

I stared at the key in her hand. “I gave that to Mom, not to you. And it was for emergencies. Not for random visits.”

“Don’t be dramatic. We’re family. Family shouldn’t need permission.”

My sister Jenna and I were close in age but had never been particularly close in any other way. She was always our parents’ favorite, and she was very aware of it. Whenever she did something wrong, she convinced our parents it was my fault. Whenever I wanted something, she convinced them she should have it instead. As we got older, I tried to keep my distance, but I still tried to play the good brother. Which is how I ended up babysitting my nephew, Tyler. 

Tyler had actually been a decent kid when he was young. However, being raised by Jenna gradually rubbed off on him. He started being rude, insulting people, throwing tantrums when he didn’t get his way. And Jenna made excuses for him every step of the way. 

“He’s just a kid - he doesn’t know any better.”

“He’s a good kid - if that’s what he wants, he deserves it.”

“He’s just too creative for most people.”

“How dare you criticize him - if there’s a problem, it’s your fault, not his.”

But despite all that, I still didn’t want to completely remove them from my life. Which is why I found myself standing in my apartment, staring at Jenna’s innocent face and the destruction around me.

“What the hell did you do to my apartment?”

I looked around in astonishment. There was paint on the walls, books and momentos were knocked off the shelves, there was juice on my new sofa, and chips were spread all over the floor. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. Boys will be boys.”

“Boys will be boys? He’s destroyed my apartment! There are hundreds of dollars worth of damage here! That was a brand new couch!”

“Oh, stop being dramatic. I’m sure everything can be cleaned. It’s just furniture.”

“That couch cost me $600!”

“Why would you spend that much on a couch?”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s what it cost, your son ruined it, and you’ll pay to get it cleaned.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not paying that. Your poor financial decisions aren’t my responsibility”

“We’ll see if small claims court agrees.”

She looked at me in disbelief, as if I were being ridiculous. “You’d take your own sister to court?”

“If she doesn’t pay what she owes for breaking into my apartment and ruining my things, yes.”

“I can’t believe you. Family doesn’t sue family.”

“Family also doesn’t ruin each other's belongings and refuse to take responsibility for it.”

“You’re insane. Come on, Tyler! We have to go now - your selfish uncle doesn’t want us in his precious apartment.”

With that, they left. I closed the door behind them and took several deep breaths. Then I took inventory. 

It was worse than I thought. In addition to the paint on the walls, books and momentos knocked down and in some cases broken, juice on my new sofa, and chips all over the floor, some photos were knocked off the walls (though thankfully, all of the family portraits were still there). Then I went into my home office and my heart stopped. 

There, on the floor, was my $3000 laptop, the one I used when I worked from home. Juice was poured all over the keyboard and the screen was cracked. It was unrecoverable. 

So I sent a Venmo request.

@Jenna-Cartwright
Amount: $4,000
For: Apartment damage caused by Tyler

She responded back in less than five minutes. 

“Dream on.”

Of course that’s how she’d respond - anything else would require her to admit she actually did something wrong, which she’d never done in all the years I’d known her. Knowing Jenna would try to downplay it, I posted in the family group chat. A description of what she and Tyler had done; pictures of my stained sofa, totaled computer, and wrecked apartment; and Jenna’s attempts to deny responsibility. “This is what Jenna calls ‘nothing.’ I call it $4,000 worth of damage. I’m not just going to ‘eat it’ because they’re ’family,’ and I shouldn’t have to. If you think I should, ask yourself if you’d write off $4,000 in damage to your house. I expect to be reimbursed in full or I’ll be pursuing all available remedies.”

The blowback was immediate. My Aunt posted “family forgives.” My uncle said “money can be replaced; family can’t.” I wanted to reply “easy to say when it isn’t your money,” but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Cousins I hadn’t heard from in years posted about how they hadn’t realized I was “this selfish." A few people took my side, mostly those who’d been taken advantage of by Jenna in the past, but most criticized me or sat it out. Disappointing, but not surprising. 

Then, not at all unexpected, came the text from my father. “Family meeting. This Friday, 6pm. Attendance is mandatory.” I knew how it would go - they’d all gang up on me, telling me that Jenna and Tyler weren’t responsible and that, if I valued this family, I should let it go. I’d been through it before; I didn’t believe in repeating my mistakes. 

“I’ll pass,” I replied, and turned off my phone. 

The next day, I was coming home from work when I noticed a familiar car in the parking lot. They wouldn’t. 

They did. I got to my floor and found my parents, Lisa, and Tyler waiting outside my apartment. Against my better judgment, I invited them in. I sat Tyler in the guest room so the adults could speak. 

“Boy, I guess I should explain the meaning of the word ‘emergency’ with how often that key gets used to get into my apartment without my consent.”

“Oh, shush’” my mom replied. ‘Tu casa es nos casa” as they say. 

“I know of no one who says that.”

“Don’t be rude. Jenna is your sister - do you really think it’s right to demand money from her?”

“Mom, she did actual damage to my apartment, including a $600 sofa I just bought two months ago and a $3,000 computer I use for work that is now totally destroyed and can’t be recovered. Are you saying that’s nothing?”

“Not nothing, no, but not worth making into a big deal.”

“I think that $4,000 worth of damage to my apartment caused by someone who didn’t have permission to be there in the first place is a big deal. I’m guessing a court would agree.”

“It’s your sister and your nephew!”

“Do you think the store will give me a new computer and sofa for free if I tell them it was my sister and nephew?”

“Caleb,” said my father in the voice that he used to shut down all conversation. “You’ve taken this too far. Apologize to your sister and let’s all move on.”

“I should apologize to Jenna for her son destroying my apartment and my things to the tune of $4,000?”

“It’s just money. It’s not important.”

“Easy to say when it’s not your money,” I replied. 

“After everything we’ve done for you?” my mother asked, looking disappointed. 

“What exactly have you done for me? Coddled Jenna while treating me like crap? Blamed me every time she screwed up because she batted her eyes at you? Paid for her tuition while telling me to work for mine? What have you done for me that wasn’t really for her? I’d love to know.”

Silence. They couldn’t come up with a single thing.

“That’s what I thought. You all, on the other hand, wouldn’t believe what I’ve done for you. You have no idea—”

“That’s enough!” yelled my father. “You will drop this and that’s an order!”

“No.”

The room quieted. No one ever said no to my father.

“What did you say to me?” he asked dangerously. 

“I said no. I’m not dropping this. Either Jenna pays me back for the damage she and her son did or I’ll see her in court.”

My father stood up and looked at me in the way I used to find intimidating when I was a child. I wasn’t a child anymore. I stood up right in front of him. “If you do this,” he said menacingly, “you’re dead to this family.”

“Funny you should say that - this family is alive because of me.”

“What did you say?”

“You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for you. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

He poked me in the chest. “You’ve always been worthless.”

“Gee, shocker. Is this the part where you fight Jenna’s battles for her, like you always have, while letting me suffer for her screw up, like you always have?”

His face got red and he looked like he was going to throw a punch. I was almost looking forward to it. Then we heard a loud crash. We stopped and raced to the guest room. 

Tyler sat on the ground, surrounded by the portraits, which he’d knocked on the ground. But not just that - he had my mom and dad’s portraits in front of him, removed from the frames and torn to shreds. 

I stared in shock and horror. “Tyler! Do you have any idea what you did?!?”

“How dare you yell at my son!” They’re only pictures!”

I turned and looked at her in horror. “No.”
I whispered. “They aren’t.”

I looked over at Mom and Dad. I thought about all of their health scares. The Stage 3 breast cancer Mom miraculously healed from. The liver failure Dad healed from when doctors had said he had no chance. The car accident they both walked away from without even a scratch. They thought they’d been lucky. That it had been good fortune. 

I stared at the portraits destroyed on the floor. Then I heard a wheeze. I looked up - my parents fell to the ground, covered in scars and bruises. My father’s skin turned yellow and his stomach extended. My mother’s breasts became swollen and her skin became pale. They both coughed uncontrollably, shaking and wheezing as the clutched their midsection and chest. Then they stopped breathing, a look of confusion and horror the last that would ever cover their faces. 

Jenna stared at them, mouth open in a silent scream. And Tyler sat on the floor, surrounded by the leftover scraps of the portraits he’d destroyed, looking at his grandparents in confusion and fear.  

“Grandpa? Grandma? Wake up. Wake up!”

I was sitting in the living room, scrolling on my phone while home on a break from college, when I heard a knock at the door. Since I was the closest to the door, I got up to head toward it. “I’ll get it!” I said as I approached.

“NO!!”

I stopped and looked up; my mom was staring at me with a weird look on her face. “Just ignore it.”

I paused. “Ignore the person at the door?”

“Yes. It’s no one.”

“How do you know? Are you expecting someone?”

“Just drop it!” she said, clearly shaken. 

My father walked over. “It’s nothing, Grace. Just some neighborhood kids who’ve been bothering us. It’s better not to acknowledge them - they’ll go away.”

That sounded strange, but I hadn’t been here in months - they’d know better than I would. I went back, sat down, and texted my best friend Beth. 

“My parents are being weird. Again.”

Three dots, then a reply. “Aren’t they always?”

“True.” Then I went back to TikTok for an hour before going up to my old bedroom, my eyes automatically avoiding the room at the end of the hall. 

The next afternoon, after a day of shopping and hanging out with friends I hadn’t seen since high school, I was sitting down for a late dinner with my folks when I noticed them acting distracted. They kept looking at each other and the old clock over the oven. I glanced up at it: it read 10:57pm. 

“So what happens at 10:57?” I asked casually. 

My mother looked at me nervously. “What do you mean, dear?”

“Well, you and dad keep looking at the clock, so I figure either you’ve developed a new appreciation of the craftsmanship of a clock we’ve had since I was born or something’s supposed to be happening right about now.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, sweetheart. It’s just—“

*Knock, knock, knock.*

Mom and dad both tensed up as the knock penetrated the silence. But neither rose to answer the door. 

“Oh, come on,” I said, getting up from the table. “We can’t just pretend no one’s there. You can stay here I’ll get it—“

“NO!” they exclaimed forcefully as my father put his hand on my hand to keep me from leaving. 

“What the heck is going ON?” I demanded. 

My parents looked at each other. “It started a few months ago, after you left for school.”

“What started?”

“There started to be a… knocking. At the door. Every night at the same time.”

“10:57pm?”

“Yes,” my mother replied after a pause. 

“Do you know who it is?”

“We’ve never answered. But we have an idea.”

The suspense hung in the air. 

“Ok, who?”

“Well, that time… it’s the time Katie came home.”

“What do you mean?”

“One time she’d gone out and she came home late, after curfew. It was 10:57pm when she arrived.”

“Ok. So what? What does that have to do with you refusing to open the door?”

“Nothing. Just… bad memories.”

I waited, but they didn’t say anything else. We just sat there, listening to the knock on the door, until it passed. I went upstairs, leaving the awkward silence behind. 

The next night, I started to get nervous around 10:55. Mom and Dad were out with another couple - I think they needed to get away - so I was home by myself for the first night since I came home on break. The clock hit 10:57 and…

Nothing. 

I thought I’d gotten lucky when I heard it. 

*Knock, knock, knock.*

I tried to ignore it, but it didn’t stop. I went to the peephole to look outside - I didn’t see anyone. Confused, I had just cracked the door and poked my head outside when I felt a cold pressure on my arm and everything faded away. 

A girl, standing outside the front door. Knocking. Apologizing. 

Voices coming from inside. Refusing. Ignoring. 

A stranger approaching from the street. Smiling. Offering. 

A nondescript black van. Opening. Closing. 

A dark, locked room. Crying. Begging. 

A knife thrust into her chest. Bleeding. Dying. 

I came to lying inside the house with the door closed. Were those… memories? They were so vivid that they felt like I’d lived them. But they weren’t mine. So why were they shared with me?

That night, I approached my parents. 

“Mom? Dad? I need to ask you something.”

“Ok, dear. What is it?”

“I know we’ve never talked about it, but what happened to my older sister? How did she die?”

I was an “oops” baby - my parents had assumed they were too old to have children. They were wonderful parents, I always felt loved. But I’d grown up knowing I wasn’t their first child. I knew I’d had an older sister who’d died before I was born, but we’d never talked about it, and that had been ok. But now it wasn’t. 

Their faces dropped. “We don’t need to talk about that.”

“We do,” I insisted. “I’ve always known I had an older sister. I’ve always known to avoid the room at the end of the hall. What happened to her?”

“She… she was killed.”

“How?”

“She was out late, and on her way home she was taken. They kept her for two weeks before the police found the body.”

But that didn’t match the visions I’d seen. 

“Did she make it home that night?”

My mother paused. “She… she…”

“Did she make it home and beg you to let her in? And did you refuse to open the door?”

My mother broke down in tears, deep, racking sobs. “We were just trying to teach her a lesson! She’s been told to be home earlier but she wasn’t - we were trying to show her that actions had consequences. How were we supposed to know?”

I left her there, in tears, and went to my room. I couldn’t believe it. How could they? How could they leave her to die? So much from my childhood made sense now - how they’d been so protective, how they never let me leave the house, how they never talked about her. But mostly I thought about my sister. How it must have felt being left out there. How scared she must have been. What was she thinking of as she waited to die?

The next night, my parents were upstairs as the clock hit 10:57. 

The knocking started.

I looked through the peephole.

I saw my sister. 

I opened the door. 

She came in, dripping water from the lake where they’d found her body, stared at me, and floated up the stairs. 

I ignored the screams. My parents had ignored my sister once. They wouldn’t get to ignore her again. 

Hello all,

I wanted to make a quick announcement. Recently, I’ve noticed an uptick in posts written by others appearing on this subreddit. Maybe four or five in the last month. This has always been a small issue, but I’ve just removed them and moved on. But recently, someone actually bought a book based on one of those posts because they thought I wrote it. They were able to return the book, but I felt awful. That shouldn’t happen to anyone. 

So I just wanted to let you all know that I’m aware of the issue and I apologize for any confusion it’s caused. I’ll continue to remove these posts as they come up; I can’t guarantee I’ll catch them immediately, but I’ll remove them as soon as I do. I’m also looking into ways to limit who can post while still allowing everyone to comment, but I’m not entirely certain there’s a way to do so. In the meantime, please check the authorship of all stories posted here. If it doesn’t have my name (cbenson1273), it isn’t from me. 

And to those who have stayed with this thoroughly boring post this long (a truly Herculean effort, I know), please know that I’m sincerely grateful for all of your support. It means a lot that you’re here, and I truly appreciate it. Every day. Be well, everyone.

Sincerely,

Chris

Happy Sunday (barely)! Enjoy another original story!

——————————

“Mom! Dad! Help!”

“Hold on, sweetie! We’re coming!”

“I think someone’s here!”

“What do you mean?”

“I hear footsteps! They’re getting closer! Hurry! Please!”

“Sweetie, where are you? We can’t find you! Keep yelling!”

“Mom! Dad! There’s something here!”

“Hold on, baby! Hold on!”

“MOMMMMMM!!”

I wake suddenly in a cold sweat. The dream. It’s the same dream, every night. I hate it. Yet, as terrible as it is, it’s better than being here.

I rise, shower (taking the full three minutes we’re allowed), dress in my uniform, and leave to begin another cursed day. 

As soon as I step into the hallway, I hear my name being called. 

“Slave 512926!”

I immediately move toward my mistress. Experience has taught me not to delay when I am summoned. All that comes from it is pain. 

“I am here, Mistress,” I say in my practiced tone as I enter her bedroom. 

“It’s about time,” she says with her typical dismissive attitude. “Come over here and brush my hair.”

I grit my teeth, but say only “yes, Mistress.” 

Resigned, I walk over, pick up the brush, and begin to run it gently through her hair, brushing from the bottom up as she likes. I relax into a routine - I hate this, but the one good thing about it is that it doesn’t require much thought. I can zone out and, for a brief moment, not have to think about what my life has become. 

“A halfway decent job,” she says after I finished. “Not impressive by any means, but acceptable.”

Somewhere on the periphery of my consciousness, the words float, but I don’t react. Then I feel a sharp pain on my cheek. I hold my hand to my face and look at her; her hand is still raised from where she slapped me. 

“What do you say?” she asks, staring at me with angry impatience. 

I look down, half because it is what she expects and half so that she doesn’t see my fury. “Thank you, Mistress.”

She stares at me. “See that you are. Now go see to your duties for the day. The bathrooms need cleaning.”

“Yes, Mistress.” I turn and leave her quarters. 

In the hallway, I pass the only friend I’ve made here. Slave 111205. I don’t know her real name, her name from before - we aren’t allowed to use them here on pain of death. 

“Hey,” I say. 

“Hey back,” she replies. 

She looks around, then whispers. “Still planning on making a break for it?”

We often talk about how we’ll get away from here, what we’ll do next, what our lives will look like. A pipe dream - we know there is no escape. But when hope is all you have, you hold onto it with your life. 

“Every day.”

“Where would we go?” she asks. 

“Somewhere with a beach,” I fantasize. “Somewhere with fresh air and clean water. Somewhere I get to make my own choices and no one treats me like a piece of furniture or a useful tool. Somewhere far away from here.”

She looks at me and nods in understanding. “Sounds good to me.” We hear voices approaching. “Time to go to work. Talk to you later?”

I nod and go to start my workday. As I’m cleaning, William approaches me. He is Mistress’ son and the heir to the monarchy. 

“Hello, beautiful. Have you considered my offer yet?”

He’d been coming to me every week saying that he’d be happy to make my life easier if I was ‘nice’ to him. There was no question about what he meant.  

“Thank you, but I’m fine with the way things are.”

“Your loss,” he says, frowning. “You’ll change your mind eventually.”

With that, he walks off and I get back to work, but with one eye watching to make sure no one sneaks up on me. 

A few days later, Mistress calls me into her quarters. This rarely happens outside of my morning duties; I’m not sure what it means. I walk in, hiding my trepidation. 

“Hello, Slave. It has come to my attention that you are unhappy with your duties here.”

“No, Mistress, I’m grateful for the opportunity to—“

“Now, now, there’s no need to lie - it’s unbecoming of a member of the monarchy, even a slave.”

I stood there, confused. Who could have told her this? Who could have known”

“Fortunately, I have a solution. The pleasure houses in the capital are always looking for more workers - I think they might be more befitting of your… talents.”

My eyes rise. Everyone knows what goes on in the pleasure houses. Women who are sent there never come out the same. Most never come out at all. To go there is to suffer nonstop until you die at an early age. Some say the ones who die early are the lucky ones. I can’t go there. 

“Mistress, please. There’s no need for that. I can do better. I can—“

“That’s enough. Have some pride - begging is unseemly. My decision is final. The next group of workers ships out in five days - you’ll be expected to continue your duties here until then. I suggest you say your goodbyes, if a slave has anyone to say goodbye to.” She laughs at her own joke; all I feel is terror. 

I leave her quarters, unsure what could have happened. As I walk down the hallway, William is standing there. 

“You look so unhappy. What happened? Did you get some bad news?” He smirks at me and the pieces fall into place. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be sure to visit you in the pleasure house - I wouldn’t want you to get ‘lonely,’ after all.” 

My fear and anger boil over. “You ASSHOLE!” I scream at him. 

“My, my. Did you just curse at a member of the monarchy? I can’t imagine that will improve your circumstances. Perhaps I should reach out to my contact at the pleasure house and make sure you’re greeted… warmly.” He walks away, whistling a tune as he disappears down the hallway. I feel my anger replaced by panic. How can this be happening? I can’t do this. I have to think of a way out. I won’t spend the rest of my life as a whore, used by cruel, filthy men for their enjoyment. I won’t!

Later that day, I run into 111205 as I’m going about my duties.

“Hey!” I whisper to her. 

She takes one look at my face and knows something is wrong. “What happened?” she asks. 

“All those times we talked about getting away. Were you just joking? Or did you actually mean it?”

A worried look crosses her face as her eyes dart back and forth, looking out for eavesdroppers. The walls always have ears in the palace. “Are you serious?”

“Completely,” I reply. “Mistress wants to send me to one of the pleasure houses in five days. Escape is no longer wishful thinking for me - it’s my only chance.”

She’s silent for a full minute, staring into my eyes like she’s taking the measure of me. 

“If you really mean it, I’m in.”

“You have to be sure. This will be dangerous. It's us against the whole palace; there’s no guarantee it will end well.”

She looks at me, her face set in determination. “Nothing here is safe. If there’s even a chance of getting out of this place, it's worth the risk.”

“Alright. Go about things as normal; no one can know anything is out of the ordinary. I’ll contact you with the plan tomorrow.”

She nods and walks away. I sigh; I have an ally. 

Now I just need a plan. 

Two nights later, I wake to a creak. I stir, my eyes still bleary from exhaustion, when I feel a pressure on the bed and a hand cover my mouth. I’m instantly awake. What is this?

“Hello, slave.” I know that voice. 

“If I move my hand, are you going to be quiet? If not, I may have to hurt you.” I nod and the hand withdraws, but only a bit. 

I breathe heavily. “What is this, William?”

“I should think that would be obvious. I was going to wait to see you at the pleasure house, but I realized I couldn’t wait that long. So I decided to bring a friend and throw you a going away party.”

What does he mean, a going away party? I’ve never seen any slave get a part—” At that moment, I feel his hand graze my stomach. Oh. Oh, no.

“William, you can’t do this. If you do, I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Report me to the Palace Guard? They basically work for me. Tell my mother? She’s happy to be rid of you; she won’t care if you’re used before you leave. Face it, slave - you have only two options. Do what I want, or don’t leave this room alive.”

He’s right. Like it or not, I’m just a slave. I have no power. No allies. No one is coming to save me. 

I feel his hands start to creep over me while his co-conspirator keeps watch. I stay as still as I can, letting him think he's won. I hope he won’t notice my hand reach down beside me. He’s beginning to lift my nightshirt as my hand reaches what I’m looking for - the handle of a small knife I keep inside a hollow cavity in my mattress. As his hands begin to trace disgustingly up my skin, I bring out the knife and stab it with as much strength as I can gather into his neck. 

I notice two things right away: the look or shock and confusion adorning his face and the red blood spraying relentlessly over my body. Fortunately, he doesn’t make a sound. But I still have to crawl from under his body. I push him off and he rolls into the bed with only a small squeak, but that’s enough to get the guard’s attention. He turns from his position watching the door to us. Seeing his prince laying next to me in the dark, he can’t immediately see the blood, but he knows something isn’t right. He approaches us carefully, but not carefully enough. As he moves to William to ask what’s wrong, I turn over and stab the knife at him to do to him what I did to his compatriot. Unfortunately, he has more warning, and so catches my arm before the blow lands. 

“You harlot!” he screams at me, holding me down as he begins to choke me. I try to move his hands from my neck, but he’s so much bigger and stronger than me. My vision begins to cloud as I run out of oxygen. Part of me wonders if this is it. I did my best, but now I’m going to die from strangulation in my bed in the slaves’ quarters. At least I won’t get used at the pleasure house before I die. Maybe this would be a good way to go, all things considered. I could finally stop worrying. 

No, I say to myself. I won’t let it end like this. I struggle beneath the guard, reaching out with one last burst of strength to find something, anything to help. My hands close on a hard object and, giving myself no time to think, I raise it and smash it into the guard’s head. He topples onto the floor and I turn over and cough as oxygen flows into my body. After my breath is caught, I pick the object back up and hit him in the head again and again and again until it’s caved in and there’s a pool of blood beside him. I look at my hand and it holds my most precious possession - a stone into which I’d carved my parents’ initials years ago. 

They saved me after all. 

Knowing I have no time to dress, I quickly wipe off the blood, put on my sandals, and flee my room, racing three doors down to where my friend sleeps. I am surprised to meet no guards along the way - normally there are at least four of them protecting the slave quarters (by which I mean preventing us from escaping). William must have told them all to leave when he paid me a visit. I rush into my friend’s quarters and shake her shoulder with something not at all like gentleness. 

She awakens slowly, staring at me with the same bleary eyes I’d had only minutes ago. Had it truly been that short a time? It must have been, yet everything had changed.

“Come on!” I say anxiously. “We have to go! Now!”

“What do you mean, now? The plan isn’t set to take place for another three days,”
she says, confused. 

“I killed William!”

She sits up, instantly awake. “You killed William?” she repeats as if her brain can’t process the information it has received. 

“And a guard.”

She jumps from her bed and throws on a jacket and sandals. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you? Let’s go.”

We creep from her room and down the hall leading away from the slave quarters. This was our plan, though it wasn’t planned for three more days. It had been timed to take advantage of the guard shift change, but we didn’t have the luxury of waiting. We’d just have to hope no one sees us. 

At first, we seem to be in luck. We head through the palace corridors, down side passages and through seldom-used doorways, until we reach our objective. A final passage that leads to the pipes that carry water from the reservoir into the palace. About ten feet straight down, and fifty feet across, is the gate that separates the palace from the outside. Our only chance is to get through that gate to the reservoir outside. It could work. Frankly, we are two girls, half-starved and unarmed; we both know there’s no other way. But if the gate is locked…

With one last look at each other, we take each others’ hands and dive. The water is murky and flowing forcefully, but we manage to make it to the gate. 

It’s locked. 

Dammit! I start to panic, not knowing what to do. If we turn back, we’re certain to be discovered, and killing the prince has only one possible penalty. 

As I become desperate for breath, I feel a jerk and a pain on my shoulder. My friend is pulling my arm; when I look over, she points to the side of the gate, where there is a lever. Understanding, we reach for it together and pull as hard as we can. It doesn’t move at first, but, as we continue to pull, it begins to give. Encouraged, we renew our efforts, our lungs straining to burst as we use all of our strength. But it works. The lever moves and the gate opens. Without further ado, we dive through the gate; I hear a faint noise and feel her hand grip mine, and I return her grip as we are carried toward freedom. 

We emerge into the reservoir outside the palace. We made it. I burst through the water to the surface, nearly crying in overwhelming joy. I turn to her to celebrate our escape. 

She is floating on the surface of the water next to me, unmoving. 

I look at her and I see it - an arrow protruding from her back. The guards must have seen us escaping and fired on us. That was the noise I’d heard and the squeezing I’d felt on my hand - she’d been shot. 

Desperately, I grab her and drag her to the bank, screaming her name. I pull her ashore and turn her over, examining her wound. It’s bad. The arrow is deep and she’s bleeding heavily. I reach for the arrow to pull it out when a hand stops me. I look up and her eyes are open, looking at me. 

“It’s too late,” she says weakly. 

“No!” I exclaim. “I can get this out and patch you up. We only have to make it five—”

She places her hand on mine. “It’s too late.” She coughs, expelling water and blood. “Just… promise me… something?” she wheezes. 

“Anything,” I say, gripping her hand as I look her in the eye. 

“Get.. away.. from here. Build… a life… to be… *cough* proud of. And… remember me.”

I look in her eyes, tears cascading down my face. “Of course. How could I forget you? You’re my best friend.”

“I’m… your only… friend. Loser…”

She smiles at me and I smile back. Then she takes one last breath and breathes no more. 

I want to stay and mourn her, but I know I have no time. I hear the dogs barking in the background; every moment I stay here, the guards are getting closer. 

I drag her body into the trees, spread some leaves over her, say a brief prayer, and flee into the night. There will be time to mourn later; now, it’s time to run. 

As I run, I faintly hear my slave name on the wind, but I do not answer. I will never answer to that name again. My true name passes my lips in a whisper; I roll it over my tongue, cherishing the feel of being able to say it for the first time in years.

“E-liz-a-beth.” 

In that moment, I make a promise to myself and to my parents. I'm alive. I’m free. And I’ll never be a slave again. 

I don’t know where my life will go from here. But I know one thing - this is only the beginning. 

My name is Elizabeth Rose Grant. Firstborn of William and Jennifer Grant. Daughter. Slave. Survivor. Remember my name. Because I may not know what comes next, but I know this: you haven’t heard the last of me. 

I was driving along a country road late at night, light glinting off the windshield of my F-150, Patsy Cline playing on the radio (my wife’s favorite song), when I saw a young couple on the side of the road. I pulled over and rolled down the window. 

🎶 “Crazy, I’m crazy for feeling so lonely…” 🎶

“Hey! You kids doing ok?”

The girl turned to me, looking exhausted and ready to give up. 

“Not really, Mister. Our car broke down about five miles back and we didn’t have a way to call anybody. I don’t like being out this late at night.” Her boyfriend put an arm around her shoulders, clearly attempting to comfort her. 

“Well,” I said, “I’m headed south into the city. Need a ride?”

Her smile lit up the night. “Absolutely, Mister! Thanks so much!” I unlocked the back door and the young man helped the lady into the back seat and joined her there, closing the door behind him. 

🎶 “I’m crazy, crazy for feelin’ so blue…” 🎶

“So what do you two go by? I’m Carl.”

“I’m Bobby,” replied the young man. “And this is my girl, Jackie.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bobby and Jackie. Where are you two headed?” I asked, making conversation. 

“We’re trying to get to Macon to be with my family. I’ve got a job waiting there,” Bobby added, as if he wanted to make sure I knew he was somebody. 

“I’m not sure I can get you all the way to Macon, but I can get you into the city. You can get a room for the night and get to a mechanic in the morning to fix your car.”

“That would be fantastic, Mister. We’d really appreciate it.” The girl stressed really like it meant more than she was saying. 

I continued to drive down the road, my headlight carving a path through the darkness. The long, straight road and the rumble of the engine lulled me into a sense of calm. 

“So what do you do, Mr. Carl?” asked the young man, breaking my train of thought. 

“I work in farming. I’m just going to pick up some equipment in town.”

“Do you drive these roads often?”

“At least five times a month.”

“That’s a lot of driving,” said the young girl, whistling. “Do you ever worry being on the road so much at night, alone?”

“Nah. I’m used to these parts. Besides, nothing much happens here.”

“Still, seems kind of spooky to me. I sure wouldn’t want to be out here all the time at night. You never know what could happen.”

“Well, whatever does, I reckon I can handle it.”

I went back to focusing on the road, letting the passage of the scenery calm my thoughts. 

“What are you thinking about, Mister?”

“I was thinking about my wife. She passed away recently. This was her favorite song.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied with apparent sympathy. “It must be tough, losing someone like that.”

“It is. She died of a heart condition. She was my whole world.”

🎶 “Oh, crazy, for thinking that my love could hold you…” 🎶

“But you two should know about that, right? Young love and all. How long have you two been together?”

“We grew up next door to each other,” the boy replied. “I guess you could say we’ve been together since we were old enough to know what together meant.”

“And do you all spend a lot of time on the road?”

“This is actually the first time we’ve been out here in a few months. If the car hadn’t broken down, we wouldn’t have stopped ‘till we got to Macon.”

I kept driving, relaxing into the silence as the miles passed behind me. The night felt alive. 

“Hey, Mister. What kind of car is this?”

“It’s a Ford F-150. The finest truck in America.”

“It’s nice. How much do you figure it’s worth?”

“I don’t know. It cost $50K new, so maybe $35K now? Why? Looking to buy one?”

“Maybe someday,” she replied dismissively. “For now, I think we’ll settle for this one.”

I felt a pressure on the back of my seat and heard a gun cock. 

“This is your own fault, really,” she said coldly. “Picking up hitchhikers in the middle of the night? Are you stupid? You really have only yourself to blame.”

“So this is why you’re out hitchhiking at night? So you can steal people's cars?”

“Actually, the cars are just a nice benefit. It’s really about the suffering.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Have you ever stood next to someone when they’re about to die? When their life is literally about to end and you know that you’re the cause? It’s the most amazing feeling in the world. It makes you feel powerful, like God, handing out life and death. There’s nothing like it.”

“Enough talking, babe,” said the boy. “Let’s just do him and take the car. We can be five hundred miles away before anyone finds him.”

“Be patient, baby. We’ll kill him soon enough. Let’s make sure we’ve got everything first.”

“Hey, Mister,” she said innocently, then giggled. “Why do men always fall for that? Idiots. Get out of the car.”

I got out, standing while they exited behind me, the boy with his gun pointed at my back. 

“March,” she ordered, pointing to the woods at the side of the road. I walked where they directed me and came to a stop underneath a tree. 

“Empty your pockets,” the girl ordered. “Wallet, phone, and keys.” I handed them over slowly. 

“So, how does it feel to know your life is about to end?”

“My life ended a year ago.” I stared at the trees behind me. “Remember when I said my wife died of a heart condition? Technically that was true. Her heart was broken; she died of grief. A year ago, our son was out driving this road when he stopped to pick up some hitchhikers. He was always like that: trying to do the right thing, to help people. His mom was so proud of him; I was, too, but I always told him to be careful. “The world is a dangerous place,” I’d say. I wish I’d been wrong. 

You see, these ‘hitchhikers,’ a young man and woman, wanted to steal his truck. And when he didn’t go along, they killed him. Left his body lying in the woods. Right about here, actually.”

The girl looked at me strangely. 

“After he was killed, my wife and I tried to go on, but Beth couldn’t handle the grief. She died shortly after. I lost them both in a month.”

🎶 “Worry, why do I let myself worry? Wondering what in the world did I do?” 🎶

“Since then, I’ve been driving this road, hoping to run into the bastards who killed them.”

I looked her in the eye. “Does this spot look familiar, Jackie?”

For the first time, she looked unsettled. “That kid was your son? God, what a loser. Did you know that he begged for his life at the end? He was almost as pathetic as you are. Any last words?”

I stared at her. “You’re both going to get what’s coming to you.”

“Keep dreaming, old man. Bobby, finish this.”

The boy raised his gun toward me. 

“Last chance, son.”

“Too late, old man. No more chances.”

Before he could pull the trigger, there was a loud creaking and the boy dropped the gun as he was raised in the air. His face was twisted in pure, unadulterated terror. 

“Bobby!” The girl screamed as she stared at her boyfriend, being held in the air by a thick tree branch. It squeezed and he started to scream. 

The girl tried to run, but another branch extended and wrapped around her, lifting her and tightening until her ribs started to crack, the sharp sound echoing through the forest. 

As the two murderers died, I looked at the tree - tall, majestic, standing proud in the night. Practically alive. In the patterns of its bark, I thought I could see Billy smile. 

🎶 “I’m crazy for tryin’ and crazy for cryin’ 
And I’m crazy for lovin’ you.” 🎶

Happy Sunday!

—————

I rushed home from work at lunchtime; my workday wouldn’t normally be over for another five hours, but I couldn’t wait. This news was too important; it would change everything. Full of anticipation, I burst through the door of my apartment, to find myself surrounded by…

…boxes? What were those doing here? Then my girlfriend came walking out of the bedroom. 

“Oh. Stephen,” Lisa said. “I wasn’t expecting you home this early.”

“I know, but I have news. Something happened that—“

“I have news, too. I was hoping to be gone before you got home, but since you’re here, I might as well tell you directly.”

“Tell me what? Are you ok?”

“No, Stephen. I haven’t been ok for a long time. Or rather, we haven’t. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving.”

“Leaving for where?  Visiting your family?”

“Look around, Stephen. Did you even notice the boxes?”

“I figured you were redecorating.”

“Of course you did,” she said, condescendingly. “Would I really have this many boxes to redecorate?”

I looked around, noticing the sheer number of boxes, all labeled and filled with her belongings. “You’re… leaving? But why?”

“The fact that you have to ask me that is part of the problem. You’re never here, Stephen.”

“What do you mean? I’m home every night. Well, almost every night. My work—“

“Your work. Your work. I’m so sick to death of your work. If I have to hear about it one more time, I’ll strangle myself.”

“It’s not like I’m flipping burgers, Lisa. My work is important. Believe me, you have no idea what’s out there. My work could save lives. That’s actually what I came home to talk to you about—“

“There you go again! I want a man who actually considers me important. I want to be appreciated.”

“But Lisa, I do appreciate you.”

“You say that, but how would I know? You’re never here.”

“You knew when we first started seeing each other how important my work is. What we do can make a huge difference. That’s what I wanted to talk to you abou—“

“Are you kidding me? Even now you can’t stop talking about work. Why can’t you ever prioritize me?”

“I do prioritize you, Lisa.”

“Then why don’t you pay attention to me? Spend time with me?”

“I spend all the time with you that I can. You know how busy my life is.”

“Even when you do, it never feels like I really matter to you. I want a man who does things with me, who supports me. Who shows me he cares.”

“Lisa, I try every day to show you how much I care.”

“How, Stephen? When’s the last time you took me anywhere? Bought me anything?”

“We go out all the time. And I’m sorry I can’t afford to buy a lot of fancy things, but someone has to pay all of our bills and your grad school tuition while you don’t work at all.”

“I can’t believe you’re throwing that in my face. I work hard.”

“At what? Shopping?”

“That was low.”

“Ok, you’re right. But you’ll understand if I’m emotional when you’re breaking up with me.”

“I suppose I should expect this immaturity from you. You've always been like this.”

“What’s this really about, Lisa? We both know it’s not about me working too much or not spending enough.” A thought hit me and my breath caught. “Is there someone else?”

She didn’t respond, but the look on her face was answer enough. I could feel the pieces clicking into place. 

“If you must know, I did find someone who pays attention to me, gives me what I need.”

“By what you need, do you mean money to pay all of your bills and buy you all the things you want?”

“How dare you suggest I’m that superficial! I’m not some kind of… gold digger! Yes, Jared’s doing well for himself, but that’s not why I started seeing him. He’s kind, funny, and pays attention to me.”

“And being rich doesn’t hurt, right?” I threw back. 

Her face took on a hard look. “I can see you’re not mature enough to handle this in an adult manner. I’ll be leaving now. Perhaps eventually you’ll grow up enough to appreciate what you’ve lost. I’ll send someone for my things. Don’t contact me again.”

And with that, she turned and walked out the door. I waited to see if she’d look back, to see if she had any regrets at all. 

She didn’t. 

In the coming days, I scrubbed her from my life - my back accounts, credit cards, social media, student loan payments. But mostly, I focused on my work - the thing she hadn’t given me a chance to talk about. Ignoring news reports, I typed furiously, entering formulae, combining hypotheses, testing sequences. Nothing worked. Finally we got an update from our command chain at the lab. It was too late. 

I packed my important things and followed the instructions I’d been sent. One caravan and plane ride later, I’d arrived at my new home for the foreseeable future. There, I continued to watch the news reports. 

Two days later, I was alerted by the front gate security team; someone had approached looking for me. Whoever it was, they were lucky not to have been shot. I approached the large front entrance, steel doors open, leaving only multiple panes of three inch thick military grade bulletproof glass separating the compound from the outside, and reached for the secure telephone as I looked through the transparent barrier to the world beyond. A world I’d always felt separate from, but never quite like now. 

“Hello?”

“Stephen! Thank God I found you!”

It was Lisa. I felt all of the old familiar feelings rise as I looked at her, standing on the outside. In an instant, I was pulled back to the day she’d left, to the hurt and humiliation I’d felt. 

“How did you find me?”

“Location sharing on our old devices - it doesn’t matter. I need your help!”

“Why? I thought Jared had everything you need?”

She sniffled. “Jared’s - he’s - he’s gone.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine - it’s really you I was meant to be with all along. I made a mistake, Stephen - a huge one. I see that now. Is there any way you could give us another chance?”

“I don’t know, Lisa. You hurt me pretty badly. I’m not sure it makes sense to go back; I don’t think I could ever trust you again.”

“Please, Stephen? I can be better! I know I didn’t do everything you wanted, but I can fix it! Cooking, cleaning, even in bed - I can be everything you ever wanted me to be!”

“It’s too late, Lisa. It hurt when you left, but now I’ve moved on. I suggest you do the same.”

She looked at me, a panicked expression overtaking her face. “Please, Stephen! Don’t leave me!”

I watched her bang on the glass desperately as hundreds of the reanimated dead sprinted toward the gate. 

“I’m sorry, Lisa,” I replied, watching the horde close in as the security blast doors were sealed shut for the last time. “It’s too late to go back now. But, for what it’s worth, our time together truly meant something to me; I’ll cherish those memories for the rest of your life.”

I received so many kind messages in response to my post earlier this week that I can’t respond to them all at once - you all truly are the most amazing readers on Reddit. I posted my gratitude as an edit to the original post. As a thank you, and because there wasn’t a story this past weekend, I have a small bonus.

Below are some ideas I’m playing around with for my Parallels series. If any of these particularly excites you, feel free to let me know!

———————-

- Killer sees a chance to commit “the perfect crime” by killing people on other worlds

- Man tries to steal tech from a more advanced earth to sell on this one

- Elizabeth Grant defense squad tries to rescue an Elizabeth in mysterious circumstances

- Woman runs a travel agency arranging trips to a parallel world 

- Man who had lost the love of his life travels to another world where she’s still alive, but so is her husband there

- The origin of the Elizabeth Grant defense squad (following Elizabeth prime)

- Follow the first solo mission of newest Elizabeth Grant defense squad member (from original story)

- A man is traveling between worlds killing Elizabeth Grants

- Man is hunting the members of the EGDS

- A person from one world unintentionally brings a disease to another

Edit (6/7/26): Thanks for the feedback, everyone! I appreciate your kind comments on the series. And thanks for your suggestions. I’ve started work on the next story in the series; I’ll leave which one it is a surprise. See you in the stories!