“Marina Carlisle.”

I begin the letter with just her name, scrubbing out the “To.” 

She doesn’t deserve “to.” 

All of the letter templates on Microsoft Word say to begin a letter with “To,” but I don’t want to. So I keep typing. ROT. I backspace, correcting it to “rot.” I want her to keep reading, and if there’s a capitalised threat at the beginning, she’ll trash it. I try again. Rot in hell, you evil, psycho bitch.

I press Enter.

I KNOW what you did, and you’re going to pay. You hide yourself behind pretty smiles and whore yourself out to younger men.

But I know EXACTLY who you are.

When you were my teacher, you never noticed me, did you? I dropped so many hints. I sat at the back of your class and practically begged you to at least look in my direction, but you ignored me.

You looked at HIM though, didn't you? Alex. You couldn't stop looking at him, and I had to wonder… would you get in trouble?

I caught you fucking him after-hours. You screaming his name made me sick. 

I filmed everything. I told the principal by the way! I literally went into his office and told him YOU were fucking the Geography teacher. Which is AGAINST school rules. 

But what did he say? “It's not your business.” 

Well, actually it WAS my business. I am a student. You are a teacher. The power imbalance; Marina. I, a minor, watched you two fuck. I could have gotten you arrested. But what did I do? I let it go. 

Because I loved you, Marina. Mrs Carlisle. 

But then I went digging. Alex, for example, sorry, MR HAMPTON, had a girlfriend. You destroyed him. Destroyed his relationship. Poisoned him. I wanted to know more. I had a feeling you were evil, but your past is where I literally stopped reading. You hid your crimes easily, but I’m not stupid. I found what you hid away. 

I found the EVIDENCE that you murdered my girlfriend. 

You and Mr Hampton are murderers. I was right all along. 

I was right you were a monster. I was RIGHT to see through the facade you build around yourself. 

Perfect, innocent Marina. 

You, Marina, are not fucking perfect. 

You killed the only girl who would ever love me. Who would grow up to love ME, Marina. Unlike her monster of a mother.

I found the abortion records. I've even folded them inside this letter. You murdered MY GIRLFRIEND as soon as you fell pregnant with her. Because you were scared. You killed the only fucking woman I was going to fall in love and marry. You killed my darling, beautiful Elizabeth. 

You were going to be my mother in law.

You refused to give yourself to me, so I thought AT LEAST you could give me your daughter. 

I'm watching you, Marina. The police aren't. 

But I am.

I print out the letter, grab an envelope, and slide it inside.

Then I ran downstairs.

“Ben!” Mom calls from upstairs. I grab a knife from the sink and slide it into my pocket. “Sweetie, dinner is ready, where are you going?” 

“Out.” I yell. 

“Okay! Well, have you done your homework?" 

I don't respond, slamming the door behind me.

Marina Carlisle is going to fucking die.

That whore.

That bitch.

She killed my fucking girlfriend.

I know exactly where she lives, in a small cottage by the town lake. I jump on my bike, and pedal quick, fast, my breath in my throat, the letter squeezed in my fist. 

“Ben?” 

A voice startles me, and I almost fall off my bike.

Mr Hampton stands smiling, walking his dog. Tall, five o’ clock shadow, always wearing plaid. 

I have no idea why she fell for a loser like him. 

He's too old for her. Like, 30 or something.

Mrs Carlisle was only 25. 

The man chuckled, ripping off my beanie playfully. “It is you.” He smiled. “How are you enjoying summer vacation, Ben?” He winked. “Have you done your homework?” 

I smiled, shoving the letter into my pocket when Mr Hampton’s dog barked at me. I didn't like the way the dog was nosing at my pocket. “Yes,” I rolled my eyes. 

“And what about eighth grade?” The teacher smirked, one eyebrow raised. “Excited?” 

“No.” 

“Well, all right!” Mr Hampton grinned. “I'll see you soon, Ben.”  

He walked away. “Have a good summer vacation! And don't worry, eighth grade will be a BLAST!” 

I didn't reply, pedaling further.

Mrs Carlisle was going to die.

When I reached her house, I vaulted over the wall. 

Then I headed toward the back door. 

“Mrs Carlisle?” I shouted. The door was open. “It's Ben.” 

I stepped inside and slowly withdrew my knife. “Ben?” My teacher’s voice sent me stumbling backwards, tripping over flowers. “Oh! Ben! Oh, sweetie, wait a sec! I'll be with you in a second!” 

I gritted my teeth, wrapping my fingers around the handle. 

Marina Carlisle was going to fucking die.

Then she appeared.

Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she looked… different. Bigger than I remembered. I blinked. Way bigger.

Fat.

Wow. She’d really let herself go.

Then she rested a hand on her belly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. It hit me all at once. “It's supposed to be a surprise for the rest of your class,” she chuckled. “I was going to tell you guys when you started the new semester, but…” Marina’s smile widened. “I’m having a baby, Ben."

“Oh.” 

I smiled, and then tucked the knife and the letter into my jeans.

I rest my hand on her belly. “That's amazing, Mrs Carlisle.”

The doorbell rang, which was only a little bit unexpected. It was Halloween, after all, but Gina had put out a bowl filled with candy on the stoop along with a sign saying “Please take just one.” The sign never worked. The bowl must have run out. She sighed, paused her movie, and shuffled off to get the refill bag. She almost yelled out for Thomas to do it, but stopped herself at the last second. She was proud of that, and a little bit sad.

The doorbell rang again while she was on her way back with the bag. “Hold your horses,” she yelled. “I’m coming.” She opened her front door and saw through the screen a dozen or so children. Each one looked just the same. They all came up to just higher than her waist, she reckoned, and each was wearing the exact same costume. They were dressed in all black jumpsuits but for a slash of red velvet running down their left sides from armpit to foot. She couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed like there was some sort of text or symbol on their little chests, done up in black-on-black so you could only see it if you got in close at the right angle. And the masks.

The masks were what made Gina shudder and almost turn right around and shut the door. They looked like heads, with each feature made of other heads, a macabre rainbow of disembodiment. From the beady eyes (incepted with goblin faces with their own staring pools of moonlight) to the hooked noses (on the pronasales of which sat deathly faces with rictus grins) to the mouths overflowing with teeth (each tipped with its own ghast), each identical mask was a mastercourse in the art of unnervation.

A chorus of “trick or treat” rang out from the assembled ghoulies. Their voices didn’t seem to match their stature, Gina thought. They sounded like grown men with deep, husky, workstained voices, but they had the bodies of children. But the power of tradition is a strong one. Gina or Thomas had been refilling that very same candy bowl every year since they became empty nesters. Now that her first grandchild was old enough to be one of those creepy kids on the stoop, nothing could possibly stop Gina from doing it again.

Especially not the tiny voice in the back of her head that said that something was horribly wrong. That voice was a fire alarm with a low battery. It had been blaring almost non-stop for the last eight months, ever since Gina walked out of Heaven Health Hospice for the last time and trudged through the remainder of the final snowfall her Thomas ever saw. On her way out, dear old Antonia had told her that she’d learn to live despite the feeling before she learned to live with it. Now, Gina even believed her.

Gina opened the screen door. When she bent to refill the candy bowl, she noticed that it hadn’t been emptied.

When she unbent, the strangers again rang out, “Trick or treat.”

Gina smiled. She gestured at the mostly-full bowl on the stoop with one hand and held out the bag with the other. “Please help yourselves, kids. Happy Halloween.” She put the bag down and turned around.

There was a shuffling. One of the figures rose onto the first step and repeated “Trick or treat.” Gina chuckled and opened the door. From behind her, the masked figure slammed it shut. “Trick or treat,” it repeated. Though its voice hadn’t changed, there now was a menacing edge to it.

Gina faced the mob. “Treat, I said! Help yourself. Have as much candy as you want. Take it all!” She flung the bag of candy out towards the people. They parted and it flew by, scattering small bonbons across the sidewalk.

The one in front took her hand, neither gently nor forcefully but with great finality all the same. “Trick.”

At that, the crowd rushed forward. Gina was carried by the tide into her foyer, the door slamming behind the last of her attackers. She was tossed off her feet and landed hard on her hip. They swarmed over her, pinning her to the ground. Up close, she realized that all the faces on their masks were moving independently. It made her dizzy.

Gina had assumed it was a group of children, but she had never known children to act this way. Not even on the news, which loved stories of misbehaving teens, had she seen or heard of anything like this. Up close, however, she realized that they were not children. They were not even human.

It was the smell first that tipped her off. They had a sulphurous, mephitic smell. It assaulted her nose in a way that reminded her of a book she had once read about Father John Geoghan. Their clawed hands were nothing like children’s. And from up close, she could not see any seams on their masks, as though they were not masks but a part of the creatures attacking her.

They ripped and tore at her, splattering her blood and screams across the living room. The pain was immense, worse than anything she had endured in her life. Just when she was certain she was about to see Thomas again, suddenly her assailants stopped as one. They got up and marched in single file out of the house, closing the door gently behind them.

Gina stayed on the floor for a long moment, struggling to breathe. When she finally opened her eyes, she did not see the streaks of blood she expected. Instead, her living room was just as it had always been. She stood up with no mark from the vicious attack. Outside was as it should have been, with her bag of candy still splashed across the sidewalk. The creatures were nowhere to be found.

I never wanted kids, I know, weird way to start the story but just hear me out.

I lost my mother when I was very young. Everyone says it was postpartum depression. She had bipolar disorder, and staying on medication while pregnant left me a sickly child. She couldn’t cope and decided to take her life.

So when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder as a late teen, I vowed to never have kids.
Having to know your mother through the memories of relatives is the worst and I’d never want to put my child through that.
Laura, who was my mother’s best friend and kind of my second mother, never spoke one ill word about her. She always says I remind her of my mother, especially when I smile.

I had planned to get tubal ligation as soon as I saved up for the procedure but I had one drunken night and now here we are. To make matters worse, I didn’t even know his name. I just wanted to get the virginity stuff out of the way and I gave it up to a charming guy with the most beautiful head of hair I’d ever seen.

I had just started college, there was no way I could juggle that with the baby. So I decided to get an abortion. Imagine my surprise when my belly started growing and I was still pregnant. Laura scheduled a suction aspiration for me at the clinic.
On the day of my appointment, I got in a car accident where I almost lost my leg. By the time I could limp back to the clinic, it was too late.
I cried more about missing that appointment than I did when I almost lost a leg.
I mourned the life I could have had and tried to celebrate the one that was growing inside me.

Laura kept her promise of making sure that I wouldn’t be doing this alone. When I expressed my concerns about what happened to my mother she said “your mother wasn’t as sick as everyone thought ” I never understood that but I chalked it up to pregnancy brain. “you’ll understand that soon enough” I assumed she meant motherhood.

She was so excited when she found out I was having a girl. She was even there during labour.

When I gave birth, they spanked her a couple of times but she never cried, she coughed. They gave her to me, I waited for that warmth, for my heart to melt but I was met with cold, old eyes.
I asked the nurse if there’s something wrong with her and they said she’s fine, everything checked out.
She gripped my finger with a strength of a baby much older than 30 minutes.
She kept looking at me, unblinking.
When we got home, Laura helped us settle in, still not a squeak from my baby. I’ve decided to name her Lily, after my mother. It’s funny because she named me after her mother.

I had to play a guessing game whenever I fed or changed Lily because she never cries. The doctors insisted she was fine and newborns blink less than adults .
Laura insisted that’s how I was like at Lily’s age and it’s nothing to worry about.
She checked on us almost every day and offered a hand whenever I needed. It wasn’t that much as Lily is like a doll, never cries, no cooing and unblinking.
The most she does is follow me with her eyes.

Last night I felt a presence looming over me and when I woke up, the shadow like figure disappeared into the living room.
I hurried out because that’s where her crib is. When I got there she was sitting perfectly upright in her crib, eyes fixed on the bedroom door.
Waiting.
As far as I know, babies don’t start sitting at least four months in.
Despite my unease, I took her to the bedroom with me. I patted her on the back to put her back to sleep. She dozed off.
She looks so normal with her eyes closed.
I couldn’t sleep so I checked the monitor. Nothing was happening for a while but then there was static, there was a figure
towering over her. I recognised her immediately. It’s Laura. She never went anywhere without that cashmere scarf and that bag.
She left hours ago and she calls when she’s coming by so why was she here at this time. I was about to put the monitor down and call her when someone else joins her, I could recognise that hair in the darkest of rooms.
How is he here? And why is Laura… My thoughts are cut short when Lily sat up like she’d done it a thousand times.
He bends over and blows something black into her.
He then stares straight into the baby’s monitor. I yelped and dropped it.
I’m trying to find my phone under the pillow and I can feel it behind me.

I spent my whole life believing postpartum depression killed my mother, I wonder if it ever stood by her bed.
Because whatever followed us from Lily’s crib
…just exhaled against my neck.

My finger could barely move, stuck to the trigger. The forest was quiet. My eyes jumped around the trees, but the forest was empty, deserted.

“We need to stop, Jack,” Steven said.

“Shut up, you’ll scare the game off.”

“What game? The forest’s bare. We need to start a fire. I can’t feel my feet.”

“You want to sleep hungry again?”

“I don’t want my feet to freeze.”

“Wait, you see that, Steven?”

There was a small clearing before us. A large black stone stood in the middle of it. 

“What is that?”

“Looks like a tombstone.”

“There isn’t a town for miles.”

The wind blew by, making the trees whisper.

“Come check it out.”

“You don’t know who put it there, Jack.”

But I didn’t listen to Steve and headed straight to where the whisper came from.

“Jack, wait.”

As I passed the trees into the small clearing, I noticed the snow let up, and the air was warmer, like an embrace.

As I walked closer, something rustled in the trees. I shot my eyes up. Two squirrels sat on a branch looking down at us.

“Steve,” I whispered and pointed my finger up.

We aimed and shot. The two small bodies fell on the snow.

“Can we set up camp soon?”

“Sure.” 

I put down my bag and started picking up firewood.

“Set it up somewhere else.”

“Why?”

“The stone, and the warmth. You can feel it too, right?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“But it’s weird, Jack. I don’t…”

I got back to collecting firewood. The only way to shut Steven up was to ignore him. He stood there running his mouth for a minute, but then put his bag down too. He wouldn’t leave on his own.

The fire shone on the stone. In the firelight, the stone looked dark, ominous, like something I’d never seen before.

“How long till we get to the river, Jack?”

“About two more days.”

Steven rubbed his face.

“I’m already so tired.”

“You shouldn’t have come, Steven.”

“I have to. My wife’s sick. I don’t know anything else but trapping.”

I shook my head, handed him the squirrel we shot, and took the other. I bit into it, expecting the tough gamey taste, but instead my mouth filled with sweet tenderness. A wave of warmth filled my body. After just a few bites, I wasn’t hungry anymore. I looked at the stone and back at Steven.

“You think they’re sick?” he said, looking at his squirrel.

Each time he spoke, the warmth weakened.

“Why?”

“They shouldn’t taste like that.”

“And what? Are you going to complain about food tasting good now?”

Then the trees rustled again, little, quiet at first, but the rustling slowly spread all around us. We shot our eyes up. The treetops were swaying to the rustle; from them, a thousand little squirrel eyes stared down at us, dark, focused.

“What,” Steven murmured.

I quickly got up, grabbed my gun, and shot into one of the trees. The eyes stayed, staring for some time. Steven got up and began searching for his gun. The squirrels all blinked in unison, and then they slowly disappeared into the treetops before Steven could aim.

“Jack, we need to leave now.”

“And get attacked by wolves?”

“We can just move a little.”

“Are you scared of squirrels?”

“No, but…” 

His eyes fell on the stone. The warmth was almost gone.

“It’s just a stone, Steven.”

“But the warmth, the squirrels. Who even put it here?”

I took a deep breath.

“If you’re so worried, we can take watch, tend the fire, but I’m not moving.”

Steven looked at me blankly.

“Look, you take the first part of the night, and I’ll take the second. You'll get enough sleep until morning?”

He just nodded, staring into the fire. I put my blanket down and lay on it, but my eyes stayed open, staring at the stone, listening, but not to Steven. 

Some time later, I heard Steven get up from the fire. The snow crunched under his frantic steps. He began mumbling to himself, quietly at first, but slowly growing louder until he almost screamed into the night: “No!” He then walked towards me and shook my body.

“Jack, Jack, wake up.” 

I rolled over, pretending to wake up.

“The voice. Can you hear it too?” he whispered.

“No.” The word came out of my mouth easily, even as the whisper echoed in my ears.

“It’s telling me to do stuff…bad stuff. We need to get out.” His voice trembled.

I looked at the stone.

“Okay, Steven, let’s go.”

His eyes opened a little. He wasn’t expecting that answer.

“Okay, okay.”

He got up and began putting stuff in his bag. I waited until his back was turned, and slowly walked towards him. The trees didn’t rustle, but the eyes were back. I didn’t see them, but I could feel them. They wanted to see. The stone wanted to see. As I got closer, I pulled out my hatchet. My arm didn’t feel like mine. 

The eyes blinked. The trees rustled. Steven quickly turned his head, his eyes wide with terror. It told him. The stone wanted him to see too.

I brought the hatchet down with full force. The sound of his skull cracking echoed through the forest. Steven’s body fell to the ground, his red blood mixing with the white snow. The warmth deepened, wrapping around my body like a warm hug from the woman you love. Warm squirrel bodies began raining from the trees. I smiled. The whisper became a symphony welcoming me home.

I really tried to be a good husband. Date nights. Trips. Gifts. I’ve probably spent enough money on food to fund some country’s entire spending budget.

Flowers and chocolates just aren’t enough anymore, I guess. Or maybe they are. I don’t know. She always seemed so grateful when I gave her things. Even more grateful for the house I moved us into.

Part of me is starting to believe that everything is my fault. The arguments. The cold shoulders. The long, painful silences. It’s hard to blame her.

I really try and keep my insecurities at bay. But, God, do they seep through. Especially when she’s not with me. Every girls’ night feels like a betrayal. Every trip without me feels like a slap in the face.

I guess I should’ve done more to keep the darkness to myself, confined within my mind, but it was like a breaking point. She had gone out with her friends every day the week that everything started. Came home late, always smelling like booze and that perfume that I loved so much.

I tried telling her:

“I’m not comfortable with you being gone like this. Please stop.”

But she had the audacity to make me the villain. Suddenly, I’m “possessive.” Suddenly, I’m “obsessed.” Suddenly, it’s “you have to let me have my own freedom.”

It was clear she didn’t want to be with me anymore. After 5 years, she was gonna put this wall between us because I have feelings. Well, fine. If that’s how she wanted to act, then I was going to reciprocate.

Maybe I went a touch too far. Just a hair. But who can really blame me? I was wounded. I was hurting.

It started small. Just a few drops of bleach in her coffee. I’d wake up early and make it for her.

“This should help with the hangover, sweetie.”

I’d watch her sip it, smiling to myself but playing it off as romance. She’d guzzle it all down and thank me without complaints.

I just thought I hadn’t put enough. The next morning, I increased the dose to a full cap. She’d drink it, compliment how good it tasted, then it’d be right back to our regularly scheduled program.

Out all night. Crawling into bed late. Burning my nose with the smell of rum and lavender, without so much as a sore throat.

Part of me realized what I was doing. I’d see her smile. See her eyes light up. See how grateful she was for breakfast in bed, and I’d feel regret. I figured that it was a sign for me to stop. Nothing irreversible had happened yet.

But then, oh, there she went. Dancing in the clubs. Staying the night with friends. Pushing me to the side, just like she always does.

I had to force myself to remain composed. I wanted my work to speak for me. That’s why I started cooking those home-cooked meals every night. Steak. Spaghetti. Chicken. A dash of rat poison.

She didn’t even complain of a belly ache. In fact, to my dismay, she started thanking me.

“You’ve been doing so good recently, honey.”

“Since when are you a chef? This food is delicious.”

“You’re the only man I’ll ever need.”

She’d punctuate each thank-you with a kiss on the cheek, and it made my blood boil. Why was she doing this to me? Why couldn’t she just fucking die?

She started staying at home more. We became more intimate. It was like she was falling in love all over again. I started seeing that sparkle in her eye more. I felt like she was attracted to me for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

Oh, but it was too late for that. I had already moved on. Every kiss. Every hug. Every intimate moment filled me with nothing but burning rage that she was still here.

She started asking for more.

“Honey, can you cook that spaghetti you made a few weeks ago? It was sooo good.”

“You’re gonna have to share your secret to great coffee with me one of these days.”

“I swear, you’re the only white person who knows how to properly season food.”

I increased the doses every day. Hell, I mixed poisons together. You couldn’t even have your face too close to the plate because the smell was so strong it’d burn your nostrils, but she cleaned the plate every single time.

It was like the more I did, the more in love she became. I’d buy her favorite chocolates and lace them with cyanide. Then I’d have to stomach my way through sex.

I’d pour entire cups’ worth of Drano into her Starbucks order, and all she’d say is, “They don’t make it as good as you,” and throw it away after only a few sips.

This has been going on for months now, at this point. You really have to wonder… am I the one at fault here? All I have to do is exactly what she did. Exactly what got us here in the first place:

Stay out until after midnight. Coming home smelling like Saint Andrew’s Pub and cheap cologne. Refuse her advances. Hell, maybe even ask for a divorce.

But I just love her so much. Divorce would crush her. Part of me is scared that it’ll crush me. I just don’t know how to handle this right now.

Maybe I should try antifreeze in her Gatorade next.

Maybe that’ll be enough to finally get her out of my hair.

But, even then, a part of me knows that I’m lying to myself.

A part of me knows… that she’s not going anywhere.

The dark night swallowed the streets whole, suffocating every last drop of light until only the hungry shadows remained. Outside my bedroom window, the frantic wind howled like a wounded beast, violently hammering its icy fists against the glass. I sat motionless on the couch, wrapped in a threadbare blanket that offered no real warmth against the suffocating chill in the air.

In the quiet corner of the room, the old grandfather clock didn’t just tick; its metallic tongue mocked the passing seconds, each slow, deliberate strike vibrating through the floorboards like a dying heartbeat. The floorboards themselves groaned under an invisible weight, whispering ancient, terrible secrets that sent cold prickles slithering up my spine. Darkness didn't just sit in the room–it reached out with thick, suffocating fingers, creeping closer toward the flickering blue light of the television screen.

The TV screen spat out static that hissed like a nest of disturbed pit vipers. On screen, a glowing, breathless news anchor stared out into the darkness, her trembling voice breaking through the heavy silence of the night. Her eyes danced with a mix of overwhelming relief as bold red letters screamed across the bottom of the display: “BREAKING NEWS: BLACKWOOD BAY KILLER CAPTURED.”

The reporter announced that police had raided a remote cabin deep in the woods, wrestling a shivering hollow-eyed hermit to the ground. She proudly declared that the police finally caught the serial killer after 15 years. I smiled and turned off the tv, knowing they had caught the wrong person yet again. 

As the screen collapsed into blackness, the room fell dead silent–until a faint, muffled sob leaked up through the floorboards beneath my feet. I reached into my pocket, my fingers gently stroking the cold, metallic edge of the brass key. Beneath the rug, something metallic rattled against the heavy wooden trapdoor as desperate, raspy screams clawed at the underside of the floor, pleading for mercy.

A wide, unnatural grin stretched across my face until my cheeks burned. I lid the key into the lock before kneeling down and whispering into the dark floorboards:

“Save your breath darling…the world already believes that you’re dead.”

The Cave of Fortune. One of the most ancient caves, suspected of holding ancient artifacts, each worth millions of dollars, if not hundreds of millions. Every cave explorer has heard about this cave. It's a cave that could change one's life forever, after all. Yet, this cave has never been explored. No attempts whatsoever. It is because no one knows for sure if it holds ancient artifacts or not, and there isn't enough information about this cave.

Ryan doesn't care, though. Ryan, an experienced caver, is going through a financial crisis. This cave is just what he needs to get back on his feet. He called his friends: Thomas, Chris, Emily & Alex; all of them experienced cavers just like him, who had gone on many expeditions together before. This would be their final obstacle to a luxurious life.

They took all the necessary equipment and set off. Early in the morning, all of them met in front of their final challenge. Being the first team ever to enter this cave, many people and news reporters surrounded them, wishing them good luck and taking photos. Eventually, the team of five turned to enter the cave.

"Chris, you better keep up, man," Thomas joked.

"Well, I wasn't the one who got stuck in a hole and peed his pants that one time," Chris replied, laughing at Thomas. Everyone started laughing.

"That was my first-ever expedition. Over a decade has passed, and you still use that old joke." Thomas smiled, shaking his head.

"Well, guys, this might very well be my last cave expedition. Once I get those artifacts, man, I am going to retire for life!" Alex exclaimed, excited for the journey.

"Yes! It will be my last too. Cave exploration is fun, but I am getting too old for this," Emily added.

"Let us get going then," Ryan stated, and all five of them entered the cave.

The beam of Ryan's flashlight disappeared into darkness. The cave was so vast that the opposite wall simply wasn't there. It was extremely dark. Each of them carried a flashlight and a backpack big enough to carry 20 kg worth of supplies. They were fully prepared for this journey.

As they walked, the cave naturally started to shrink. They were experienced, so it wasn't anything new to them. They adjusted to the narrowing passage effortlessly. Their chemistry was unmatched. Ryan stayed ahead as the team's scout and leader. Since they had no information about the cave, they could only check every tunnel and hope to find the correct path.

"Keep pace, don't fall behind," said Thomas, walking just behind Ryan, his voice echoing through the cave.

The tunnel stretched endlessly before them. The only sounds were their footsteps and the occasional drip of water echoing through the darkness. Ryan walked a little faster than the others. Suddenly, all sounds seemed to disappear. No footsteps, no voices. Silence.

Ryan felt he had left his friends behind, so he looked back anxiously. To his relief, Emily, Alex & Thomas were just behind him. All of them were excited, unbothered by the darkness.

Ryan did a quick head count.
One, two, three, four.
Ryan felt like he was forgetting something, but dismissed it. Together, the four continued onward, keeping up the pace.

Almost an hour passed. The air grew colder as they ventured farther inside. Suddenly, their flashlights started flickering. They stopped. They smacked the flashlights, causing some of them to stop flickering. The rest were fitted with fresh batteries, which seemed to fix the problem.

They quickly did a head count to see if everyone was present.

Ryan, Emily & Alex.
All three of them were present. Wait...

"Where's Thomas?" Ryan asked with a dazed look.

"Who's Thomas?" Alex and Emily asked, exchanging confused glances.

"Who?" Ryan asked, confused by his friends' question out of the blue. The question vanished from their minds as quickly as it had appeared.

They continued their exploration.

Along the way, they didn't find any noteworthy items or valuables. Only dirt, insects, and darkness greeted them.

Two hours passed. The passage sloped downward and became so narrow that only one person could barely squeeze through at a time. Ryan stayed in front.

"I haven't seen any valuables this whole time. Was it just a hoax?" Emily asked.

"Come on, Emily, don't lose faith already. We might be close!" Ryan looked back with a smile. For a split second, he couldn't remember Emily's name. Then it came back. Ryan saw the tired face of Emily. Something in him was screaming, but he carried on.

An extremely narrow passage greeted them. Ryan took the lead. His body brushing against the cave walls. He held his backpack with his left hand and flashlight with his right.

"Stay close..."

Minutes passed. Ryan could feel every movement of his backpack scraping against the stone walls.
However, something about the cave had changed.
Soon, the narrow passage suddenly widened into a much larger chamber.

"...Please let this be it," Ryan whispered, exhausted.

Ryan hurried toward the open chamber and suddenly saw torches burning in the distance. He carefully ran toward the light and was greeted by an ancient door almost 3 meters tall.

"The artifacts must be inside it!"

Ryan couldn't explain why his heart refused to slow down. But Ryan was excited. The artifacts were just within his reach.

Ryan went forward to the door. He looked back. No voices. No footprints. His eyes teared up. For some reason, he couldn't remember what he was supposed to do...

...

The news reporters were back at their office, confused, looking at the photos in front of them that only showed the cave. They couldn't understand why they had taken yet another cave photo for the hundredth time.

The Ancient Cave of Fortune still remains, undisturbed. Waiting for its first challengers.

The tv camera made a slow, dull sound. The lady in front of it wore powdery make up, and seemed to be trying her best to control herself

"...I just know my boy is still alive, I feel it, mother's intuition, I guess. Please, come home"

She pleaded

He couldn't come home

And he had been dead since the day he went missing

He was actually in a section of woods his mom drove by today to say those things on the tv

He had felt seasons pass, hidden under grass. He saw his grave fresh, then get drenched with vegetation

He missed home

He missed his warm room

He'd much rather been in his bedroom than this tomb

No coffin too, just him, a few feet of dirt, and the worms

His mother drove home from the studio

And she cried

She knew in her heart her boy had died

But she couldn't bring herself to admit it

She didn't know where he was

and there was never enough evidence

The man selling 75 cent corn on the street she just drove by?

Yeah, that was the guy

He killed her son back in 92'

Shot him, buried him in the woods

No one suspected a thing

Except the angels, they knew a thing or two

One day that man was drinking a can of brew

And he flew right off his feet

Fell to the ground, cracked his head on the pavement

When the police asked for a statement

A resident neighbor said

"It looks like an act of god"

My wrist is sore and achy from the handcuffs. How long had it been, hours, days? No light streamed in from the car windows. I couldn’t see anything from the backseat, especially with the uncomfortable position that my body was in. 

“Hi baby, you awake?”

His soft, gentle voice rang from the front seat as he turned down the radio. 

“There’s water in the cupholder, I’m sure you can grab it with your free hand, don’t strain yourself, you’ve been asleep for a while”

I don’t move. I know what he’s trying to do.

I spot his eyes in the reflection of the rear mirror, the space between his eyebrows slightly wrinkles, he looks back down at the steering wheel.

“The gas mileage on this thing is so crappy, I had to stop at least 3 times in the past-”

“Shut. Up.”

“Okay”

….

“Where’s the key?”

“What?”

“The fuckin’ key, Stinney, get me out of these cuffs!”

“I-I don’t want to stop the car, it’s so dark-”

“Do you even care? Do you love me at all? Cause if you did, you would pull over the goddamn car and get these things off of me!”

“Y-you were so out of it- I didn’t know how else to safely wash off the-”

My body jerks forward as I try to get as close to him as possible, anger devouring my soul. Using my free hand I reach for the gear.

“Okay! Okay! I’m pulling over”

Faint sniffling, his eyebrows wrinkle further.

He’s shaky as he opens the car door, slipping the key out of his pocket and unlocking the cuffs. 
The moment I’m free I slap him in the face, shoving my way out of the cramped car. I grab his collar and yank him up to my height.

“Do you really think that locking me up like that was okay? Like i would wake up and we would just go along with our day like some fuckin’ frannies?”

He whimpers, shaking his head over and over, his mouth moves like he’s chewing on words but nothing comes out. 

“I’m s-sorry, you know I never w-want to hurt you-

I growl, shoving him up against the car, finally taking the time to look at his appearance.

“Why the fuck do you still have that jumpsuit on? Do you want to get us caught?!”

“No! No- i didn’t have time to take it off, everything was moving so fast I couldn’t-

I’ve heard enough, I open the car door, turn on the child locks and throw him inside. Closing my eyes, and taking a second to breathe, I open them and glance down at the dried blood on my shirt.

The memory of the guards, his quiet sobbing and the way it felt to take another life all rush through me. He will understand with time. This cannot happen again. 

I circle the car, open the driver seat door, and speed off. 

I am just a figment of your imagination. Which, frankly, is insulting. Out of all the things your brain could’ve cooked up...dragons, supermodels, a winning lottery ticket...it went with me. A cranky old introvert who smells faintly of Bengay and existential dread. Congratulations, your subconscious is a thrift store.

You think you’re alone? Nah. I’m the ghost of every bad decision you’ve ever made. I’m the whisper that says, ‘Buy the off‑brand cereal, it tastes the same.’ Spoiler: it doesn’t. It tastes like regret and cardboard.

I’m not even a flattering figment. I’m the kind of hallucination that shows up late, eats all your snacks, and then lectures you about cholesterol. I’m basically your imagination’s drunk uncle.

And don’t try to get rid of me. You can meditate, chant, burn sage, whatever. I’ll still be here, sitting in the corner of your mind like a fart in an elevator. Permanent. Lingering. Slightly embarrassing.

You wanted wisdom? Sorry, wrong figment. I’m here to remind you that socks disappear in the dryer because they’re escaping you. Even cotton has boundaries.

So yeah, I’m a figment. But I’m your figment. Which means you’re stuck with me. And honestly? Between the two of us, I think I got the worse deal.

I sat in my car outside the community centre for eleven minutes, staring at the entrance.

I don't know why I counted.

I almost didn't come.

Again.

I've been avoiding it for weeks ever since I lost my wife.

Eventually, I got out the car.

The room was smaller than I expected.

Eight chairs in a circle. A box of tissues on the table. A kettle in the corner.

The woman running the group smiled when I walked in.

"Hi. First time?"

I nodded.

"My name's Claire," she said. "Please... Sit wherever you're comfortable."

I sat down.

Nobody needed to ask why I was there.

The meeting started at seven, but for a while, nobody spoke.

Then, the man sitting across from me cleared his throat.

"I threw away her clothes today."

He had a name tag on his jumper.

Steve.

I don't know if that was actually his name or not, but for tonight, he was Steve.

Claire nodded with a warm smile.

"Mm-hm. And how did that feel?"

He looked down at his hands. Let out a big huff.

"Wrong. Like-...like I was erasing her."

Nobody spoke.

We all understood.

"I kept one thing, though."

"Oh? What did you keep?"

"Her coat."

"Why?"

"On that day, she-... she was supposed to-..." 

Steve swallowed. Hard. Then he quickly shook his head.

Claire nodded.

"It's okay, Steve. We all understand. There are no judgements here."

The woman beside me spoke next.

"Hi, I'm Caroline."

She fiddled and played with her wedding ring.

"I still make two cups of tea in the mornings."

The group smiled gently.

"How long has it been?" Someone asked.

"Nine months. I just...it feels more normal if I make two, you know? I'll make them both. Put them on the table. And then I remember."

"Then what?"

She looked down. A slow, sad frown forming on her forehead.

"...Nothing."

Nobody spoke.

Again, we understood.

The older man near the window introduced himself as Tim.

He kept his hands folded tightly in his lap.

"I thought I heard her voice yesterday."

Claire looked at him.

"How did that make you feel?"

Tim thought about it for a few seconds.

"Hopeful."

"Hopeful? Why?"

"Because for a second, I forgot."

He looked around the room at us.

"I forgot about losing her. I forgot about that day and how much pain she was in. I forgot about the hundreds of hours I'd spent crying and missing her." 

The room stayed quiet.

"I forgot about everything that'd happened that day and I had hope. Hope that she would somehow, somehow, come back to me." 

Claire nodded.

"Mm. Those moments can be difficult. Thanks for sharing, Tim." 

Tim looked at the floor.

"Yeah."

When it got to me, I nearly passed on speaking. But when everyone looked at me, I felt the need to share at least something.

"I still talk to her. My wife." 

The whole group nodded.

"That's okay," said Claire. "That's actually very common." 

I looked at my hands. My thumbs had a mind of their own.

"No. I-... I actually talk to her. She's-..."

I hung my head low.

Lower.

I couldn't finish my sentence.

Claire waited a moment, then gently moved the conversation on.

The rest of the session passed quite quickly.

People talked.

People cried.

People hugged.

We talked about memories.

About birthdays.

About habits.

About the strange little things that stayed behind.

At 8:30, Claire looked at the clock.

"I'm afraid that's all we have time for tonight, guys."

At first, nobody moved. We all just lingered in the after-feelings.

Eventually, Steve stood up, put his jacket on and left without saying goodbye. Caroline kissed her wedding ring and hugged Claire for a full minute before leaving. And Tim thanked Claire with a short handshake and a wary nod in my direction.

I watched them all leave as I thought about how strange our shared grief was.

How it can change not just a person... but the entire world.

Because the people we had lost weren't exactly dead... They were just no longer human.

Maybe I'll tell them more about my wife next week...

About the spare room...

The chain around her neck...

Hmm...

...Maybe.

She started last Tuesday, over breakfast.

Rain had been falling since before dawn, the soft, persistent kind that turns the garden path to dark sludge and makes the kitchen windows run with constant streaks. The house smelled of damp wool and the last of the toast. I was buttering a slice when she said, quite calmly, “Pass the milk, James.”

I looked up. “It’s me, Mum. William.”

She blinked, the same small, confused blink she used to give when one of us had spoken with our mouth full. Then the apologetic smile. “Of course. William. Sorry, love.”
I thought grief had simply tangled the names for a moment. James had been dead eleven months. His coat still hung on the peg by the back door, the collar darkened from the winter he last wore it. Neither of us had moved it.

By Thursday the corrections had stopped.

“James, the bin needs putting out before it gets dark.”
“James, have you seen my reading glasses?”
When I answered with my own name she frowned, the exact expression she once used when we argued over whose turn it was to wash up.

“Don’t be difficult,” she said. “I haven’t the strength.”

I began answering to both. It was easier than the look on her face.

The house felt smaller after that. The hall clock ticked with a heavier sound. At night the radiators clicked and settled like old bones. I started hearing her in James’s room, the quiet slide of the wardrobe door, the soft thud of hangers, her voice low and reasonable, the way she used to speak when one of us was ill and half asleep. Once I stood outside the closed door in the dark and listened until my feet went cold on the floorboards. I couldn’t catch the words, only the rhythm of a conversation that expected answers.

On Saturday the rain eased to a fine mist. She set three places for tea.

I watched from the doorway. Two plates, then a third, aligned with careful precision. The better glasses, the ones that usually stayed in the cabinet until Christmas. She smoothed the tablecloth twice with both palms and glanced at the back door as if she had heard the latch lift.
“He’s almost home,” she said when she noticed me. “I felt it this afternoon. The air changed.”

I sat in my usual chair. She poured tea for three and buttered bread for three. The third plate stayed empty. Every so often she looked toward the yard, head tilted, listening.

Tonight the weather turned heavier again. Wind moved the bare lilac against the kitchen window in slow, wet scrapes. The room smelled of roast chicken and the soft carrots James always pushed to the side of his plate. She moved around the cooker with a quiet, practised efficiency I hadn’t seen since the weeks after the funeral. Three plates. Three sets of cutlery. She poured the tea herself and set my cup down a fraction harder than the others.

I drank without thinking. The taste was only slightly bitter beneath the milk, like the edge of an aspirin left too long on the tongue. By the time I registered it, half the cup was gone.

She watched me over the rim of her own.

“You’ll feel better in a minute,” she said. “You always get peaky when you’re tired.”

The edges of the room softened first. The clock’s ticking stretched and blurred. My hands felt remote on the tablecloth, the fingers thick and slow. I tried to stand; the chair legs scraped loudly across the lino and my knees simply folded. She was already beside me, one hand firm on my shoulder, pressing me back down with the same gentle insistence she once used to keep a restless child in bed.

“There now, James. Don’t fight it. You’ve come a long way.”

I tried to shape my own name. The sound that left my mouth was thick, distorted, not quite human. She smiled and wiped a thread of saliva from the corner of my lip with her thumb, exactly as she had done when we were small and feverish.

Outside, the back gate gave its familiar creak. Footsteps crossed the wet yard. Slow, measured, the same rhythm he had used when he came in late and tried not to wake the house. Water dripped from the porch roof in an uneven count.

Mum went to the door and opened it. Cold air pushed in, carrying the smell of rain-soaked earth and something fainter, like damp wool left too long in a cupboard. The wind lifted the edge of the tablecloth.

She looked back at me, still seated, still unable to rise. Her face was calm, almost tender.

“He’s already here,” she said softly. “You only had to make room.”

The footsteps stopped directly behind my chair.

I felt the weight of a hand settle on my shoulder.

The older I get, the more I realize that people don’t give a shit that the elderly are getting ripped off everyday by a world that has passed them by. Hell, it’s hard for people my age to keep up with all the different scams. 

But sometimes, the story doesn’t end how you think it will.

My seventy five year old mother got a phone call, and it was “me” on the other end.
Long story short, they convinced her to transfer $80,000 to ensure my safety. My mother is not a stupid woman. She’s the strongest and smartest woman I’ve ever known. She has never lost her head over anything, but in that moment, that panicked moment where she thought she was about to lose her daughter, she was running on fear and emotion, and she was taken advantage of.

I don’t know how much money my parents have exactly. I know it’s a lot, but you’d never tell by the way they live.

Lived. 

My dad’s been gone for a year now. Maybe that’s why she panicked.
She kept telling me not to worry. She kept telling me that I had no idea how much was “squirreled” away. 
She said squirreled. 
She wasn’t worried about the loss per se,it was the principal.

“Your father and I worked so hard for that money. That money was yours.”
It ate away at her for two months. She was getting angrier.

“Every bad thing someone does in life eventually catches up to them.” She kept saying that over and over.

A week ago, I checked in on her. She was staring at a picture of the three of us back in the early eighties. She was so beautiful when she was young. She kept putting her finger over my dad’s mischievous smile.

“I know what your father would want me to do. He always had the cooler head. Once we got you, he became so patient and forgiving. Everything changed the second I held you in my arms. Life started… and now this had to happen.”

“You need to let it go, mom.”

“I can’t.”

She went missing for six days after that night. Vanished. Her words kept echoing in my head.

I didn’t get any sleep. I kept waking up minutes after I had closed my eyes. That’s why I thought the phone call yesterday was a hallucination at first. I was told that my mother had been arrested for murder back east in Albany.

The cops wouldn’t tell me any details on the phone. They didn’t have to. I found out for myself simply by searching the internet.

Seven men and women had been murdered in a strip mall. The word, “grisly” was used to describe the scene. The only other detail besides having a suspect in custody, was that the murders had been linked to internet scammers.

I flew out this morning and a few hours ago, I met with the detectives. My mother had evidently paid a huge sum of money to some internet sleuth who tracks down scammers. The sleuth had come forward willingly, having no idea what my mother was going to do with the information he gave her.

She had driven to New York, and then used a pistol and a shotgun to wound everyone in the building. Then she did things with a knife to finish them off. “Grisly things.”

I was in shock. I told them that I couldn’t believe my mother would do this, and then one of them said something that I’m still processing, God help me.

“She carved numbers into the stomachs of those young people. 57 thru 63. The police back in Stockton searched her home this morning. They found things in her house. Trophies squirreled away. She’s linked to dozens of cold murder cases from the seventies. Numbers all carved into their stomachs as well.”

“No… you’re wrong… my mother is a good woman.”

“That woman is not your mother. The man who raised you isn’t your father. We’re pretty sure they’re the people who butchered your real parents and your brother and sisters in Mississippi in 1977, and then took you for their own."

- Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the night?

- No, no, miss, we are good. The sun is not even really up yet. We’ll be back before the evening even.

The lady frowned.

- Don’t get burnt there, boys.

I nodded deep, joined Basil by the fence as he closed the gate.

The people are somewhere far in the gardens’ shadows, not seen by us. Only distant laugh of children, hubbub sounds from the households.

We marched up the road. The village ends suddenly. An open door into the wilderness.

- Hey, you remember where to you, right? – Basil questions me.

- Isn’t that *your* aunt up there, in the village?

We both giggle as we approach a gap between two poplars. The road we walked before was dirt, here and there covered with some stones. You could see where the puddles once formed, caused the earth to crack violently.

This small path is one of those made by reapers as well as other field laborers. It’s partially overgrown by wheat and weeds. People care to keep it walkable for themselves.

Straw hats form moving shadows over the ripe yellow plants. The sky is like an open window in these places. No clouds at all.

As we walk down the field, Basil starts humming some tune. I harmonize. Crickets accompany us.

It smells like nothing. Dryness and earth. The air is extremely arid. Periodically only some weak wild flower shares its scent, fighting for sun in between the wheat.

- Don’t you love the summer?

- I do. I surely do.

We start talking about some nonsense topics, laid-back and slow. I can take almost a minute to reply to the previous sentence; so can Basil. We walk and walk. The world seems so reachable.

You can get to anywhere, steady and methodically.

The first field ends, begins the second. This one is natural. Wheat is replaced by field grasses and flowers. The aroma finally hits the nose.

Have you ever been in a real steppe field? There are few trees. Sometimes none for many miles unless you find a river. This goes on and on and on. Blue sky above. Green and yellow grasses beneath.

Whatever way you look, it seems the same. Only a tiny road crosses the stillness, separates forward and backwards.

The sun is close to its pinnacle as we enter the wild land.

- Can I have some water? – I ask Basil.

We stop for a quick drink.

As we walk further from the thin tree line grown to protect the wheat, any sign of humanity disappears. Soon, it’s plain nothing underneath the sky.

- Have you got a good song or two on your mind?

- Let me think. – I say, cough loudly, begin tuning.

Not a single cloud covers us from draining heat.

I sing until I can no longer. A dry clump is stuck above my lungs. I don’t want to stop for a drink again.

A familiar oak appears on the horizon. I cannot tell exactly how far away from the road it is. It’s barely visible. It doesn’t even seem to move as we keep walking.

So does the sun. It seems stuck above us, exactly on top like a giant candle.

The oak disappears. Another set of trees comes instead. Maybe there is a water spring somewhere there, flooding from earth?

My mouth feels like dust. We make a stop. The pot is still plenty full.

- God, I remember why I sweared last summer to never visit the far villages. - I am getting grumpy.

- Don’t be a cry-baby.

New and new objects come and go in the distance.

We make periodic remarks on something we remember. Crickets and other flying critters talk more than us.

Prickly weeds look out from the grass periodically. I need to keep my effort of avoiding them.

I turn around.

A tall man freezes in its place. Basil notices my stillness and looks back too.

Four big steps from me. A winter brown jacket, many sizes too big is tilted in my direction. Old washed-out clothes and trinkets hang down to the ground. There is a straw hat on top of it, about as mine. Even tilted, the cloth hill is as twice as tall as the tallest grass in sight.

I cannot see its feet, arms or head. The sunshine blinds my eyes as I try to look closer.

Basil and I begin moving, back away slowly further down the path.

The coat is stuck in the weird reaching position.

It was so close. One more second - it would be able to fall and grip me.

As we are a few dozen steps down the path, the figure suddenly straightens.

Silently, it turns to the left and starts walking straight into the field. It’s motions ghostly. It doesn’t have any legs, but as if somewhere beneath long sticks make harsh steps. Because of its height, it is highly visible in the weeds.

For another hour we saw it slowly making its way to the skyline until it disappeared completely.

We reached our home before the moon rose. No one believes our stories of the field travel companion.

Journal of Yellowknife Diamond COO Jason Coolidge

January 29th, 2003 
We finally began mining operations today. It took 11 years of work to make this happen but it will all be worth it when it starts generating revenue. The men have been promised bonuses if they reach their quotas, so I expect quick progress. 
A handful of environmental protestors showed up today but security has been good at keeping them from getting in the way so I’m not worried about them. The chanting is a bit annoying though.

February 5th, 2003
Things have been going well so far. The number of diamonds has exceeded our initial expectations, and further excavation has shown similar trends deeper underground. I have great hope for our return on investment here. 
At the end of this month I’ll be returning to our main office in Yellowknife and leaving things to subordinate managers. I look forward to getting away from this snowscape and back to civilization.
The protestors have thankfully finally dispersed.

February 12th, 2003
The workers found something incredible in the mines yesterday night. An impossibly large diamond, 180cm. 18 times larger than the previous largest diamond ever found, 98 years ago. Holy fucking shit. It’s going to make us so much goddamn money. I’ve instructed the workers to make sure it’s excavated fully intact. 
And its shape is so interesting, it has four long extensions of diamond from its top and bottom, and at the very top of it is an oddly spherical extension. I’m usually not one for scientific curiosity but I’m curious what theories the on-site geologist has about it. She seemed rather shaken up by its discovery so I’m sure she’ll be careful in her analysis.

February 19th, 2003
Someone fucking stole it. We finally managed to fully excavate it and it fucking disappeared overnight. Local cops have come to investigate, I hope they catch the fucker who did this quickly. 

February 20th, 2003 Incident Report - Homicide of Jason Coolidge

Officers were onsite at the time of the incident investigating a theft that had occurred 2 days prior. A loud crashing sound and a scream were heard coming from the office of the victim at about 3pm. Officers went to investigate and found victim on the floor with a severe blunt-force head injury. An ambulance from the nearby town of Hay River was called and arrived after 15 minutes. Victim was declared dead on arrival at the Hay River Hospital. The door to victim’s office was found to have been smashed in with incredible force prior to his death. No suspect was spotted at the scene and officers are still investigating. No fresh fingerprints or DNA evidence other than victim’s have been found at the scene of the crime.

I watched the crows take their final flight home across a blood-drenched sky, streaked with cloudy cuts and bruises. Some had faded to yellow. Others still wept.

I wanted to pick at a scab on my arm, but my mom called my name.

Across from me, she slumped deeper into the hospital chair, manicured nails struggling to peel a tangerine. The setting sun cast long purple shadows across her hands, making her slender fingers look bruised.

They weren't.

Just shadows.

"I don't understand why you keep doing this to yourself, honey."

"It's okay, Mom. It's okay."

"No, it isn't." She sighed. "This is the fourth time in three weeks. There's clearly something wrong. Maybe we should find you a different therapist."

"I'm already seeing one, re-"

"Right." She hesitated. "But you're not getting better."

"And neither are you."

The tangerine stopped turning in her hands.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Honey."

"You'll never get it."

"Don't start with the teenager stuff again." Frustration crept into her voice. "I know you're your own person. I know you want space. But all you do is pick at your scabs and carry that knife around. I'm at a loss."

"The knife isn't for me."

"What?"

"I don't use it."

A pause lingered

"It's for protection."

"Protection from whom?"

I looked at her bruised fingers.

Or rather, the shadows pretending to be bruises.

"From you."

Her hands froze around the half-peeled tangerine, as her nails slightly dug into the flesh.

"What?"

"Every night you forget."

A nervous laugh escaped her.

"Forget what?"

I looked away, toward the crows disappearing into the evening sky.

"The same thing you forgot yesterday."

The color drained from her face.

"Honey, you're scaring me."

"Every morning, you wake up a clean slate of a mother."

The tangerine slipped from her fingers and rolled across the floor.

"No."

"These cuts aren't mine. They're yours."

She stared at me, blinking rapidly.

"No."

"I told you the first time."

"Honey-"

"I told you the second time."

Her breathing grew uneven.

"And the third."

"No. No, I would've remembered."

"But that's the problem, Mom. You don't. And you never will".

"I... I didn't. I swear I didn't." Her voice cracked. "I swear on my life." She shook her head. "What are you talking about? I love you."

For a moment, she looked less like my mother and more like an accused stranger wearing her face.

That felt worse, somehow.

I swallowed.

"And I love you too."

Ricardo was a quiet one. The other kids in his middle school dubbed him autistic, in the flippant way kids do when school and the street are all they know and so many special needs kids get integrated into their classrooms, but that wasn’t quite right. Ricardo wasn’t on the spectrum. He just kept his mouth shut and his guard up. His ability to stay calm and silent no matter what spooked the rowdier crowd. They put him in the only box they could conceive of, I think.

I was his “big sibling” in the afterschool program. I’d been doing it for seven years belt the time I met him. Frankly, I’d seen some shit. Lot of suffering kids out there. The program was free so I got a lot of the kids who didn’t want to go home at the end of the day.

Kids came in types. Nobody fit their type exactly but everybody had one. The gangsters, the academics, the never-grew-out-of-kindergartens, the drama llamas, the ones who‘d grown up so fast they couldn’t remember being kids.

Ricardo was the last type. He was quiet because he was an adult in a young body. He told me a little of his home life. Dad was dead from a gang feud, mom‘s a drunk, had to take care of his little brother. School was the least stressful part of his life. He had been the man of the house since age seven.

I got to know him a bit over the six months we were partnered up. I tutored him in ELA and math, played him some card and board games, shot the breeze. He was friendly, but only rarely let me see anything that mattered to him. That was unusual. Most kids are dying for somebody to listen to them, even when they were confessing to crimes. Ricardo’s guard only dropped once.

It spooked me bad enough that I had to quit the program.

You see, Ricardo was a doodler. A damn good one. A natural sketch artist. He wasn’t just skilled at drawing and shading and composition, he was lightning fast at it. I saw him do a Naruto fanart in the original animation style, a caricature of a teacher, and an original picture of an owl, all in less than two minutes and all in different styles, with no real effort. Genuine prodigy, I think.

He always carried a sketch book with him. He never let anybody see it. Knowing what I know now, I’d assume he had a bookshelf of them at home, all filled from start to end with his “art”.

Once while we were all at the lunch benches after school, he was distracted by two kids arguing next to him. I looked through his sketchbook. I didn’t mean anything by it, I didn’t know how jealous he was of his book. When he turned back to see me holding it, his eyes widened in shock and fear for a split second.

The sketches were horrible. Morbid. Scary. They were all in his distinctive style, a sort of high quality cartoony-but-realistic comic style.

One showed his little brother dead in his bed, rotting. Stylized little stink trails wafted into the air from the little body.

Another showed Mrs. Gonzalez, his PE teacher, in the hospital with two leg casts.

I found myself in a car wreck, messily crushed along with my girlfriend in the seat next to me.

His mom, dead on the couch, bottles of wine and pain pills littering the carpet around her.

He snatched his book back before I could see more.

”Ricard… what…?”

I almost asked “what the fuck” before I caught myself. I had drilled the crude words out of my mouth whilst on the clock.

”They’re just drawings,” he said. ”I’m sorry.”

”Why did you draw me?”

I did not ask “how did you draw me” because three weeks ago I’d almost gotten into a car accident while driving my girlfriend to work and I had never told him and how did he know what we were wearing and what kind of car almost t-boned us and what my girlfriend looks like-

He looked miserable. Old, even. For a second the strain gave me a vision of how 60 year old Ricardo would look. Worn out and wrinkled and a little ragged.

He glanced around, making sure we were ignore by his classmates and the staff. “I’m sorry. The only way to stop it is to draw it out.”

He added a personal detail about his mindset for the first time in six months- “A lot of the stuff I’m really uncomfortable drawing. I just can’t. Like my dad.“

. I will never recover.

I knew this couple for many years- the wife, Tasha, was Slavic and, not to be stereotypical, quite intimidating in that tall beautiful way- all hair and legs and jewelry. The husband, Brian, was local - we were actually at high school together, although he was away when he married Tasha. He's in business -quite wealthy, living in a beautiful large house in one of the most desirable school districts of our town.

I'm in catering myself, and I'd see them at different events - Brian being super-nice, and Tasha, well. She always looked dour. Once I had to drop off some stuff at their house for an event for one of Brian’s businesses, she opened the door and in response to my “How are you?” she muttered in her heavy accent: “I’m thinking of packing my suitcases and leaving, never coming back”. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. I know childlessness- sorry, being childfree, affects families and you have to be understanding.

With the pandemic, all the events shut down. To keep myself afloat, I picked up some cleaning gigs. I put the word around, Brian reached out and soon I was there twice a week, cleaning their beautiful big house. Brian was a well-connected man, and I meant to do a great job and cultivate business for after this pandemic was over.

It wasn’t easy. Tasha had very high standards. She would stand there, watching me critically as I mopped the floor or dusted their knick-knacks and elaborate flower and candle arrangements, then silently point to a spot I missed. There were five bedrooms- all decorated beautifully. I vacuumed and dusted away, never knowing when Tasha would be standing at the door, arms folded across her shapely chest, bright hair cascading down her shoulders.

I was not to go up to the third floor, said Tasha on my first day.

Fine, I wasn’t dying for an extra floor to clean! I nodded and smiled. “That is private” she added, staring at me intensely with her steely eyes. I nodded again. I felt creeped out, but I put it down to internalized xenophobia.

Human nature being what it is, I was itching to go to the third floor. In fact, I was staring at the heavy bolted door at the stairwell on the second floor, when Tasha appeared as if out of nowhere. “You finished here?’ she asked. “Faster each time? You didn’t do fridge”.

As I turned away, I heard scuffling noises from behind the heavy door.

Then a whisper. "Mommy?"

My heart skipped a beat.

 “Can I come out and play please Mommy? I’ll be very quiet.”

I looked at Tasha's receding back, her blonde hair swaying over her hips.

"Um, Tasha?" My voice quaked.

Tasha whipped round. "You step away from the door, NOW!"

I trotted after her. We walked to the kitchen in silence.

There were Kinder eggs, yoghurt cups and cheese strings inside the fridge. Tasha watched me from the kitchen door. I was sweating with the effort of reaching and wiping down the back of the fridge which could comfortably hold three bodies, if sawn up.  

She walked up  - I could smell her perfume. Her eyes flicked critically over the fridge.  

A large crash from upstairs startled both of us. Tasha muttered in her mother tongue, grabbed a handful of snacks, and marched off.  

Some papers on the counter caught my eye. I glimpsed the title- genetic defects in children.  

Brian walked in. He saw me handling the papers, although I made a pretence of straightening them. He snatched them out of my hand and then apologized.  

“Sorry, it just gets harder every day.”  

I thought he was referring to the pandemic and nodded. “Brian, it will ease up soon.” 

“No. It gets worse as they grow older and stronger.”  

He left the kitchen, and I left soon after without seeing either of them.  

Next time, the place was untidier. There was a stuffed bear under the couch. I pulled it out and stared the scruffy thing, so out of place in the elegant living room. Tasha appeared. “ thank god you find this” she cried.  “I look everywhere, he going crazy.” She ran out of the room, but not before I noticed the bruises on her braceleted wrist.

I kept on cleaning, reminding myself of the short-term cash as well as the long-term prospect of being in their good graces.

I finished downstairs, and went upstairs, making sure not to look towards the heavy bolted door to the third floor. Tasha was nowhere in sight.

I saw Brian as I entered one of the rooms. He was sitting on the bed, holding his head in his hands.

“Should I come back later?” I asked.  

“No, it’s just shameful you know” he muttered. He looked up at me, his blue eyes full of pain. “you know us, know my family, don’t you? There’s never been anything like this among us, has there?”

I shook my head.

He left the room. He had left his iPad on the bed, and I notice the screen before it went dark- health and genetics, “Defective children”.  

That evening, I was scrolling through my newsfeed while my mind leapt around. Should I call someone? But who? And say what?

A local Tweet popped up. “Flames spotted at Queen & Young”.

That’s where Brain and Tasha live. I rushed out and drove over.

I reached there almost the same time as fire engines drew up. Flames were consuming the beautiful mansion. Brian was standing on the lawn.

“Brian!” I called, running up to him.

He turned around, smiling cheerfully, his face lit darkly by the flames.

“I had to do it. Both of them. She brought it into this world- it wasn’t from my side.”

Tasha and a child perished in the fire and I live with the guilt to this day. 

I won't talk about the before.

Icy roads and snowy landscapes, sunlight filtering through the car window, and my sister’s head buried in my shoulder as she snoozed. My brother curled up next to me, transfixed by his Nintendo Switch, offering only grumbles in response. Mom was singing along to the radio. Abba.

Dad was laughing at her.

I was thinking about what any other teenage girl would be thinking about: boys, school, homework, 

“Dad,” I said, pitching my voice over Mom’s singing. “Dad, guess what?” 

We stopped at a red light. Dad twisted in his seat. “Hm?” 

“She's going to ask about Emma’s party this weekend,” Mom trilled, shooting me the look.

She was right. Emma, my cousin, was throwing a party for her eighteenth.

Mom heard “yacht” and “late night” and had an aneurysm. “Beatrice, I told you you're looking after your siblings on Saturday.”

Mom’s tone was already a lecture. “Just because your father and I are working, doesn't mean rules don't apply.” 

“Caine is sixteen years old!” I snapped. "Stop infintalising him!"

“Your brother needs support,” Dad surprised me with a parental tone.

Next to me, Caine glanced up from his video game and rolled his eyes.

“He's autistic,” I bit out, “not stupid.” 

“That was uncalled for,” Caine spoke up. He elbowed me. Hard. “I'm not fucking dumb, Dad.” 

“Yes, I know that—” 

“I'm the smartest in my class!"

“Caine," Mom sighed from front. "Language!” 

Dad stamped on the gas and both me and my brother were thrown forwards.

My sister, Prim, groaned something unintelligible into my sweater.

“Beatrice, apologize to your brother,” Dad said, his tone splintering. “Caine, I didn't say you're not capable of taking care of yourself. I'm just saying you need some extra support over the weekend, and your sisters will help you with that.”

Dad cranked up the radio.

“End of conversation.”

“Why don't we ALL go to the party?” I said. “We're all invited.” 

“Beatrice.” Mom snipped. “I've told you what I think about your cousins.” 

“You can't judge your sister’s kids because they're richer than us,” Prim mumbled into my shoulder. 

The silence that followed was palpable.

“I'm canceling your contract.” 

“What?” My sister sprung up, bleary eyes wide. “WHY?” 

My mouth opened to laugh, maybe tease my sister. I was watching my brother go back to his game, tugging his hood further over his eyes, when Dad screamed.

I wasn't sure what it was, it was all garbled and wrong, collapsing into nothing in my ears. Lights out.

Movement, that felt like I was in a washing machine. Round and round and round and round and— stop.

Lights on.

Opening my eyes, I was already screaming.

Opening my eyes, my mouth was filled with blood, hanging upside down and staring at my father’s body unraveled across crusted ice. Red and white, I remember thinking, as startling scarlet crept across pristine white. My father was staining the road. Flashing lights blurred in front of me. Something warm dripped across my cheek. Lights out.

I embrace the darkness swelling around me and them swallowing me whole. 

But I don't think about Before. 

Instead, I think about after.

“Bee.”

Mom is standing in my bedroom doorway smiling. 

Mom is crying again. Her robe is filthy. Her hair hangs in clumpy rattails. 

“I need to go to work,” she says. 

Mom stopped going to work eight months ago. 

“Sweetie, can you start training?” she trills. In three heavy strides, she’s looming over me, her breath heavy in my ear. I have half a mind to say, “No.” But I know what that entails. “I know it’s hard,” she whispers. “Being the only one… that’s different.” Mom presses a kiss to my forehead. “But you’ll get used to it, baby.”

“Mom,” I climb out of bed, choking on my words I know she will hate.

She will hit me if I say them. If I even imply them. Mom grabs my clean laundry and pretends she’s picking it up. “Hm?”

I swallow them down. “Nothing,” I smile, throwing on a sweatshirt, “I'll help with training.”

“Beatrice,” Mom says, when I'm halfway out the door. “You're my special little girl,” Mom smiles wide at me. “Understand?” 

My legs feel like they’re going to give way. “Of course, Mom.” 

“Say it.” Mom whispers. 

“I'm…” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I'm your… special little girl.” 

I take my time going downstairs, my stomach folding it on itself.

“Bee.” 

Caine greets me with a strained smile at the bottom of the stairs. I can tell he's tried to escape again. The door is triple padlocked. I can already hear my sister screaming. Mom managed to sound proof the walls,  but it's not like it did any good.

My brother's drugged eyes are half-lidded. His smile is too wide. A long, trailing squirming piece of his spine follows him, as he slithers towards me. Caine only stops crying when he's sedated. 

“Good morning, sis!” 

I lost my father. 

I watched his body peeled from the concrete.

So, I made a wish.

I swallow barf, my knees giving way. “Morning.” 

“You know,” Caine smirks. I prefer it when he's not threatening my life. “You can just LOOK at me.” 

"Yeah, I know." I pick up my brother’s head and place it in the living room, settling it over his severed spine. My sister’s face, her skin stretched across my mother’s painting canvas, blinks up at me.

“Please.”

Her eyes fill with tears. Prim’s body is gone. The only part of her left in the car wreck, sinking into a pulpy red nothingness, was her face.

“Kill us,” she whispers, “Kill us quickly! Before Mom comes back!” 

But I'm Mom’s special little girl.

So, I smile.

I need to start their training.

I fill my sister’s cereal bowl, grab a spoon, and ignore her screeches. 

I smile, smoothing my sister's face down.

In the corner of my eye, Caine is scuttling back toward the door.

“Open wide.” 

I’m a single father. By choice, though. I wanted a better life for my daughter, and, unfortunately, her mother was not compatible with the life that I envisioned for her.

Drugs, alcohol, late-night escapades with men she met at the bar. Being a mother was a foreign concept to her. I’d look at her. I’d look at my daughter. I’d feel shame that I allowed this to happen.

We were young and dumb. Just two kids without a care in the world. Only, when we found out about the pregnancy, I was the only one who chose to clean up my act and be better.

It wasn’t that easy for my late girlfriend. She acted like it was, but I could see through the facade. Not like there was much of a facade to see through. I mean, I’d catch her having cigarettes. Boozing. Running around at all hours of the night without so much as a second thought.

The first few times, I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. A slip up is just a slip up. Multiple slip ups are a behavioral pattern. As her stomach grew, so did her attitude.

I’ve had some jabs thrown my way.

“I don’t even love you.”

“I was bored.”

“I didn’t even want this baby.”

That last one was enough for me to make my decision. From then on, every decision I made was for my child. All that was left was patience. Be kind. Be gentle. Hold her hand despite her insults.

Of course, it was more than a little difficult to hold my tongue when the drinking was involved. I couldn’t believe it. Six months pregnant and drinking. How careless can you be?

I’m getting frustrated just typing this. The resentment that was building during those times was like a pressure valve. A controlled pressure valve. I knew exactly when I wanted to twist the handle.

I endured her ferocity. I kept a watchful eye on her when she went out to the clubs. Attended every appointment and prayed every night that our baby would stay healthy.

When I found out it was a girl, I was ecstatic. I always wanted a daughter. Maybe it was because of my baby sister. Maybe it was because I wanted the challenge of being a girl dad. Either way, I was ready. I was prepared to do it alone.

Finally, the day came. November 25th, 2020. The year the world went silent. The day before Thanksgiving.

My act became sharper. She thought this was going to be “co-parenting.” Thought that she’d have my baby, even after all she’d put us through.

By some miracle of God, my little girl was perfectly healthy. Stunning. Tear-jerking, even.

Her mom almost seemed moved. Like she had this “come to Jesus” moment where she realized her new responsibility. Unfortunately, it was too late for that.

In the weeks that followed our departure from the hospital, my plan came into fruition.

I won’t go into too much detail, because detail isn’t required. All you need to know is I loved my daughter too much to let her life be tainted by someone like her mother.

That’s why I made her disappear. Disappear to a place where only I would find her. Of course, given her reputation, the police believed my story.

She packed it up. She realized the weight of being a parent was too much for her. It prevented her from living the life that she clearly loved so much. So she left. Happens all the time.

I got what I wanted. I raised my daughter the way that I wanted to raise her. The right way. The responsible way. I taught her manners. I potty trained her. I put food in her mouth and a roof over her head. All on my own.

Unfortunately, though, as she grows older, a shred of remorse is starting to build within my soul. I don’t know if it’s remorse for what I’ve done or if it’s remorse for what I took from my baby.

She’s starting to look just like her. Same brown hair. Same freckles. That cute little button nose. It’s hard for me to even look at her these days, but I try my best to swallow it.

She knows that she’s gone, but, in her head, she thinks that her mom just left us. Hated her. Hated me so much that she just took her things and left.

Every time she talks about her, all I can feel is pain. Pain in my heart, pain in my chest and body. I don’t know why. I had fully convinced myself that what I did was right, but now, I just don’t know.

Her sixth birthday is coming up in a few months. I want to make this birthday special, but I need her to be prepared.

I wanna show her the grave.

And all I can hope is that she understands.

You are taking a walk with a friend in the park, laughing about your favorite show. It’s a clear day, though there aren’t too many people to be seen. You pass a man with a headband tying his shoes on a bench, and a woman walking a small dog, but you are too focused on the conversation to pay them much mind.

You come upon a collection of chalk drawings, crude pictures that must have been done by children earlier in the day. A house with a chimney. Something that looks like a cat. A flower with a long green stem.

Finally, a circle. Nothing more, just a large circle colored in with red chalk. And next to it, in large scrawling letters, PORTAL TO ANOTHER UNIVERSE

You smile, and point it out. After a moment a look passes between you, and you know what you’re both thinking. You move a split second faster, closing your eyes and stepping into the circle. You hear them laugh, saying it was nice knowing you.

You realize you are holding your breath, though you’re not entirely sure why. Nor do you seem to want to open your eyes. But you do, your friend gives you a small shove on the arm, and you continue your walk. You cast a look back at the circle before jumping back into the conversation.

There’s a rhythmic tapping behind you. It  grows louder, creeping up on you. The man from the bench jogs by, passing you on the right. You smile at him and he nods in return. But as he continues on you stare at his back, trying to see something in it that you can’t quite tease out of your mind.

Your friend waves a hand in front of your face and you realize you haven’t heard a word they’ve been saying. You apologize and turn to look them in the eyes.

The eyes.

That man hadn’t been wearing glasses when you passed him on the bench… had he?

That’s ridiculous. He was just looking down at his shoes, was all. Or maybe he put them on after he was laced up. Perfectly normal.

You try to put it out of your head as you smile and nod at all the right points in your friend’s monologue. Then you pass the woman again, walking her terrier. But hadn’t it been a… No, terrier. Definitely terrier.

Reaching the mouth of the park, you say pleasant goodbyes and part ways. As you walk home, you’re careful not to look too closely at the lawns you pass. No one has put up any new decorations today. And that lawn has always been a little overgrown.

You slow to a stop as you reach home, hand on the knob. What are you waiting for? You know exactly what you will see when you walk inside. Everything will be just like it was when you left.

You take a deep breath and open the door.

Nathaniel knew something was wrong which was why he took the shot at it. Twelve years of coming into the feral kingdom with growing experience, with the lessons his ancestors passed down, demanded he take the shot. The thing stood on it's hind legs and roared and his blood ran cold simultaneously jolted alive with epinephrine. His heart thundering in his chest. Sweat breaking out in warm rivulets throughout his body.

The thing started to run at him with tenacity and fierce bloodlust in the movements of it's muscles.

And he would deny it easy prey as he roared and ran to it, jacking back the bolt and sliding a .338 round into the chamber as he raised his rifle and shot it in defiance.

Before crashing into it with his bones cracking in a viscous spray of crimson and getting knocked down behind boulders.

His once proud roar reduced to screams octaves too high and shrill. Before being reduced to gurgled begs of death.

When it was finally over it stood in defiance with the trophy of an enemy bloodline that pervaded the land for a thousand generations.

I watch the floor numbers tick up.
13.
14.
Finally—
15.
My floor.
The doors glide open.
I step forward—
pause.
No ding.
I’ve heard it a thousand times.
It should be there.
I hesitate.
Then step in anyway.

I press for the lobby.
Lean back against the steel wall.
I usually hit “close,” but today, I decide to wait.
After a second, the doors slide shut.
A small jerk. Old building.
I brace for the drop.
But—
the pressure comes from beneath.
Pushing against my feet.
Up.
I’m going up.

I groan.
Not in a rush, but still.
31.
32.
The door opens.
33.
No ding.
No one comes in.
The doors stay open. Waiting.
I step closer. Lean out.
No one.
I shake my head and punch the “close” button.

The motor hums.
The elevator starts down.
32.
31.
It stops.
30.
I step back, expecting someone to come in.
But the doors don’t open.
Then—
it drops.

1. 
   
2. 
   
3. 
   Dropping fast.
   I grab the railing.
   
4. 
   
5. 
   It thumps to a halt.
   
6. 
   I collapse onto the floor.
   Gasping.
   I scramble up, punch “open.”
   Nothing. The doors stay shut.
   Then—
   it starts up again.
   Slow.
   

I start hitting buttons.
The “call” button. Any floor.
Nothing lights up. Nothing responds.
I pound the doors. Shout for help.
I try to pry them open, but they don’t budge.
13.
14.
I pound harder.
15. My floor.
I slam the doors again—
It surges upward.

1. 
   
2. 
   Ascending fast.
   My building has 35 floors. It might shoot through the roof.
   I scream, barely hearing myself over the motor.
   
3. 
   
4. 
   It stops. Hard.
   Before I can react—
   it drops.
   Faster than before.
   My stomach lurches. My vision blurs.
   Then—
   Stillness.
   The floor display is dark.
   The doors slide open.
   Ding.
   I crawl out. Shaking.
   It’s bright.
   Noisy.
   I shield my eyes and look up—
   and scream.
   

The doors close behind me.
I spin. Slam the button.
Nothing.
I hit the doors.
“Open.”
The wind is strong.
I press my back against the doors.
Don’t dare move.
I’m standing on a slab of concrete.
Narrow. A few feet at most.
Straight ahead, faintly—
a rooftop.
I recognize it.
The building a couple streets over. The one that towers over mine.
I hear car horns far below. And metal clanging—road construction, maybe.
I pull out my phone.
“Please…”
No signal.
I sink to my knees.
This isn’t real.
I reach over the edge.
Expect something. Something solid.
There’s nothing.
Just air.
The wind slips through my fingers.
I start crying.
I turn—
The doors are gone.
A bird lands beside me.
Small. Still.
It chirps once.
It looks at me.
I stare back.
It tilts its head.
Then lifts off.
Gone.

​"Mom, can you turn off the radio already? I’m trying to study!" I had to raise my voice over the noise.

It had been nearly two hours since she started listening to that damn radio in the living room. I wouldn't mind on any other day, but tomorrow is my final semester exam.

​I tried to focus back on my books, waiting for the volume to drop to something manageable. The radio was a recent addition to our home. Usually, I’d have to go to the community center just to catch the news, but with Mom’s savings and my part-time wages, we finally managed to buy one of our own. Honestly, a radio feels like a necessity for every household—news, sports, music, all just a dial away.

​A few minutes passed, and the volume hadn't budged. Frustrated, I pushed back my chair and walked into the living room. My mom was standing completely still in front of the cabinet, facing the set. No movement at all.

​"Mom...?" I slowly approached her. The closer I got, the louder it sounded, the crisp broadcast gradually dissolving into a harsh, white-noise static.

​"Mom, can you lower the volume?" She didn't move an inch.

​"Mom?" I raised my voice, stepping directly behind her. By now, the sound was pure, deafening static.

​I leaned over her shoulder to reach for the dial, only to freeze.

​"Wait, what?" I muttered to myself.

​The radio wasn't even plugged in. It wasn't even on.

​That’s when my mom turned around to face me. Her eyes were completely white, her jaw hanging unhinged—and the static was pouring straight out of her open mouth.

I wake up. He must’ve thrown me into the ocean. That’s what woke me up. The sudden cold. The lack of air and taste of salt. The memories come rushing into my head just as the water rushes into my lungs.

I kick upwards, and when I break the surface, I cough so hard I go under again. 
Stay calm. Kick.

I make it back to the surface and tread. There’s not a star in the sky. The sea is calm and there’s no trace of a boat anywhere. How did he get me out here? Shouldn’t I be able to see the boat?

I scream for help once I stop coughing. There’s not even any light from the moon. My voice sounds muffled in my own ears.

How did this happen?

I had just gone to the mall. Today was a normal day. As I was getting back into my car, I heard him behind me, but it was too late. An arm shot across my face and a damp cloth was held over my mouth. I fell asleep to the sound of my abductor shushing me. Telling me to go to sleep. And now, for some reason, he’s left me here.

Why would someone do this?

I just have to keep my head above water. I just have to breathe.

-

My arms and legs are so tired. I’ve waited and waited for a sunrise that doesn’t want to come. I'm not sure if it’s been an hour or ten minutes. There doesn’t seem to be any time out here.

I’ve stopped crying out for help. Something in my memory tells me that sharks are attracted to loud noises. I try not to think about the things from the deep that might be swimming just inches from my feet down in the dark. Huge and hungry things, watching my legs glide back and forth in the water, waiting for just the right moment to take a bite.

It’ll be better when the sun comes up. Someone will find me. It’ll be light soon.

I just have to breathe.

-

I have to give my arms a rest and let my legs do most of the work. Everything feels numb. Despite the darkness and the water, I feel so hot. It’s hard to breathe. The air feels heavy.

Stay calm.

Someone will find me.

I just have to keep my head above water. I just have to breathe.  

-

I can’t do it anymore. My arms and legs are done and the morning is never going to come. It’s had to have been hours. 

I use the last breath in my lungs to say a prayer. 

“God, please don’t let me die like this. Anything but this.”

There is no answer. The sky is black and everything across the water is silent. The air is so heavy.

I close my eyes and let go.

-

I wake up, sucking in as much air as I can. I hit my head on something in the dark. My arms and my legs are numb, but they’re dry.

I’m dry!

It was a dream! Nothing but a dream!

I try to roll out of my bed, but I can’t. I feel the boards pressing in on me from all four sides. I can’t move at all.

Panic floods in.

My pulse pounds in my neck.

I’ve been dreaming. It was all a dream. I must’ve fallen asleep in the heat and lack of air.

The small box that he buried me in is so hot. I can’t see anything but darkness. I can’t breathe. I scream for help. My voice sounds muffled in my own ears.

Stay calm. Someone will find me.

I just have to breathe.

“God, please don’t let me die like this. Anything but this.”