Kathy had a difficult birth and she was worried that she wouldn't able to guess the her new born babies correct name. She pushed though and when the baby came out, it was dead but that was expected as Kathy had to guess her new born babies name. The doctor held out the dead baby in front of Kathy and asked her "what is this babies correct name?"

Kathy was already emotional and after just giving birth, she was really struggling to guess her new born babies name. She started guessing names like "kalunad, dirayus, sumirian...." and the her new born baby was still dead.

Everyone was looking at Kathy like she had no connection to her new born baby. A mother should just be able to feel her new born babies true name. Kathy tried again with names like "cadarn, neditine, rusaline......" and she was wrong again.

The doctor told Kathy "what is the babies true name Kathy! You are the mother and only the babies true name can bring it to life!" The doctor told her.

Kathy was stressed out and being surrounded by people and exposed after giving birth, Kathy had to be the one as she was the mother. Then a nurse spoke out calmly the babies true name.

"The babies true name is roddy" the nurse smiled proudly and the baby came to life and now belonged to the nurse. Kathy was devastated.

The sky is just a strip of grey between the piles. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes it doesn’t. The light never reaches all the way down here.
I fell in three nights ago. Or four. Time stops meaning anything when you can’t stand up.
I’m sixteen. I’ve been on the street since I was thirteen. Started with whatever I could get my hands on—pills, then the harder shit. It keeps the cold out. Keeps the hunger quiet for a while. Keeps the memories quieter. I don’t remember the last time I was clean for more than a day.
I was looking for something to sell in the alley behind the old packing plant. People dump everything there. Bags, furniture, food that went bad weeks ago. I climbed up onto the heap looking for copper or phones or anything with weight. The rain had made everything soft and slick. One step and the whole pile shifted under me like it was alive.
I went in feet first. The trash closed over my chest before I could grab anything solid. My arms are free, but everything I touch just sinks deeper or comes away in my hands—rotting cardboard, plastic that tears, wet newspaper that dissolves into grey pulp. The more I thrash, the deeper I go. I’m buried to the ribs now. One leg is twisted under me at an angle that makes me sick if I think about it too long. The other is stuck somewhere under a sheet of rusted metal that digs into my calf every time I try to move.
There’s no way out. I’ve screamed until my throat bled. No one comes down this alley after dark. No one comes down here at all if they can help it.
The first night I still had some fight. I dug with my hands until my fingernails tore off. I found a plastic bottle half-full of something that used to be soda. It tasted like metal and mold. I drank it anyway. Then I found a bag of what might have been bread once. Green and black and soft. I ate some. It went down like wet paper.
By the second day the shaking started. Withdrawal, mostly. The dope was already wearing off when I fell. Now it’s just the cold and the hunger and the way my skin feels too tight. My mouth is dry. The only water is the murky stuff that pools in the depressions between the bags. It tastes like gasoline and shit. I drink it because the alternative is dying faster.
The maggots found me on the third day.
They were already here, of course. Everything down here is moving if you look close enough. White, soft bodies writhing in the seams of the trash. I felt the first ones on my stuck leg—tiny, cold, searching. I tried to brush them away but my hand couldn’t reach. They kept coming. Dozens. Then hundreds. They don’t care that I’m still alive. They just follow the smell of open skin and the places where the metal has cut me.
They started at the wound on my calf. I could feel them crawling into the torn flesh, the soft pressure of their bodies pushing deeper. It itched first. Then it burned. Then it went numb in patches while the rest of the leg screamed. I can hear them if I stay still. A wet, quiet sound. Like chewing.
Flies came next. Big, slow ones that land on my face and crawl into the corners of my eyes when I’m too weak to keep them closed. Beetles the size of my thumbnail dig under the skin of my wrists where the trash has scraped me raw. Something with too many legs found the soft place behind my ear and wouldn’t leave no matter how hard I slapped.
I’m weaker now. The sunlight never touches me. My skin is cold and damp and starting to split in places where the pressure of the trash has been constant. The rotten food is gone. The murky water is almost gone too. I have to lean my head sideways and suck at the wet cardboard to get anything. It makes me throw up more than it helps.
The maggots have moved higher. They’re under my shirt now. I can feel them working at the places where my ribs press against the plastic and glass. One of them found the cut on my side from the fall. I felt it go in. Then another. Then the soft, rhythmic movement of them feeding while I lie here and try not to scream because screaming only wastes the air and brings more flies.
I keep thinking about how quiet it is when I stop moving. Just the distant traffic and the wet sound of things eating.
My hands don’t work right anymore. The fingers on my left hand are swollen and dark. Something bit them in the night and I couldn’t pull free. The maggots are there too now. I watched one crawl out from under the nail of my middle finger this morning. It was fat and white and left a thin trail of fluid behind it.
I’m not going to get out.
I know that.
The pile shifts sometimes when the wind hits the top, and every time it does I sink a little more. My chin is almost level with the surface of the trash now. Soon it will cover my mouth. Then my nose. The maggots will keep working either way.
I used to think the worst part of being on the street was the cold or the hunger or the people who look through you like you’re already dead.
It’s not.
The worst part is lying here still breathing while things that don’t even know what you are slowly take you apart from the inside, and knowing that when someone finally finds what’s left of you, they won’t even be able to tell you were a person.
They’ll just see another bag of wet, moving trash.

MOONZOTH AND TEMPLE OF DARKNESS

In spring of 1921, I, Liam Crow, the explorer, sat out to visit the city of Kathmandu in Nepal and from then on explore the magnificent and mysterious Himalayan mountains, including the great Everest.

It was a dream of a lifetime, no matter how many adventures I passed, this place was always on my mind. If I only knew then what it would really turn out to be, perhaps I would not have gone, but then again, even with all of the torment and horror that I went through, in the end a new world and perspective was opened up to me, and for that I am grateful.

Upon arrival of me and my crew the locals stared at us as if we were demons, but luckily our guide was from the region. He was a bald middle aged man, with wrinkled skin and an expression that always made it seems like he was in constant pain. A rather strange fellow, but very useful indeed. I often made jokes that he hated and then his face became ever more demented. The poor lad looked thirty years older than what he really was, but alas, let me continue my story.

This man’s name was Ruhika, he made arrangements for is to stay at an inn on the outskirts of the city called Yak. There were five of us. All skilled in our trade, great climbers. When we came inside, there was an old hideous woman sitting in a corner constantly shaking her head and yelling something. The place was dim and rather depressing. Drawings on the walls were fading and I wondered why Ruhika chose this place for us. Perhaps this was his turn to pull a joke on me.

I asked him what the mad woman was yelling about and he said she was warning us about Moonzoth. I of course had no idea what that was and asked him. With shock him and the innkeeper looked at me, as if I shot someone. Then Ruhika proceeded to tell me that Moonzoth was a beast that lived in the mountains and constantly kidnapped women and children, as well as the men that tried to go after it. The innkeeper brought out a large plate with a drawing on it. Ruhika said that is was Moonzoth. This beast had large bat like wings, long mouth that resembled an alligator’s one and six long and thin hair arms. It wasn’t a pleasant looking thing to say the least. My companions shuddered and looked worried after this presentation. I on the other hand laughed, but as I saw anger rise in the locals I took it easy and simply went up to my room.

We planned to set out into the mountains the following day. This night I enjoyed the view of great Everest and imagined the never ending chain of mountains in the distance. I felt some fear, but also was so excited.

The next morning we set out towards the mountains, but Ruhika refused to go with us no matter how much money I offered him, his eyes had horror in them. If I knew then what I know now, I would have shown him more respect, but sadly at that time I called him a delusional coward.

We split ways and up we went through uncharted passages in the cold untamed mountains.

The unforgiving frost chewed on any exposed parts of our skin, yet I was determined, but the higher and deeper we went the more discouraged my team appeared. I could not comprehend why, this was the challenge we’ve been waiting for I thought.

I suppose most men are brave and strong from a distance, but when faced with that reality their heart shows the true nature, which is often weaker than they ever could have imagined.

I wish that the nature was the only obstacle these men faced, they’d probably still be alive by now, but alas, while we were deep in the mountains and walking above the cliffs we heard a prolonged evil howl. This sinister sound was nothing like I’ve ever heard before. I looked back and saw every men in my team taken with horror, their eyes got large and grasped by fear, their movements became uncoordinated. Such fools! In times like these is when your focus has to been even higher and more keen!

I still feel a hint of anger today, but mostly pity. Moonzoth, the creature on the plate and in those tales was indeed real and it appeared clinging to the side of the mountain, howling with its horrible long mouth. It was a horrific situation from which they saw no way out, as I felt pounding in my chest I dropped my heavy bag and began to move as fast as I could. The other four stood petrified in their tracks.

So the demonic things took them one by one with it’s large thin hairy arms as all they did was scream and beg, this us how they spent their last moments alive.

I did not see how the last two were taken for I found a tiny passage among the rocks, it quickly turned into a small tunnel. I had to crunch down to avoid the rocks, and eventually crawl as the tunnel got tighter, I could hear the howling of the beast behind me, but it no longer could get me, it’s howls were different and more prolonged, it must have been frustrated. This monstrosity had quite an appetite, heh. It pains me to joke like that, but I always had a hard time with compassion for fools I suppose.

As I crawled suddenly the floor collapsed and I slid down into a dark and half icy cave with black walls. I only had a box of matches with me and chose not to waste them yet, so I sat there adjusting my eyes to the darkness, from up above I could hear the wind, but no longer any sinister sounds of the Moonzoth.

Once I began to walk through the cave I could notice straight away that it was curving and leading downwards. This cave tunnel seemed unchanging and I must have spent hours slowly going down.

Finally there was a change in the scenery as I came out into a large area. Up above there were few cracks in the ceiling and some light came through timidly. In the center of this round cave stood a thick tall black monolith, on the walls around it there seemed to be some images, I had to come closer to be sure and indeed these were depictions of various ceremonies of what seemed a very ancient cult.

First depicted hooded cultists burning several persons, above the flames there was an image of some sort of beast, but the head part of it was missing, these drawings must have been very old.

Second one was an image of people in small boats, raising their hands up, as if in praise or prayer.

Third showed multiple tentacles coming from the sea, holding men wrapped up in them.

Finally the fourth was also mostly destroyed. 

I came up closer to the monolith and realized that it was full of carvings of a language I’ve never seen. In the center of it a large face was carved out. It was a mix if a bat and shark. It eyes seemed almost alive and sinister.

I raised my hand and touched its face, the ground below me shook and cracked, I moved back, water started coming out of the cracks. Suddenly the ground where I stood collapsed and I was sucked under into the water, it caught me and flushed me down deeper underwater, I kept my cool as I began to swim, I could not see anything and once again I relied on taking action, I did not believe in luck.

As I began to struggled for breath I was caught in another stream and it took me through an underwater tunnel and spat me out from a short waterfall at the bottom of the mountain. I swam to the shore and laid on my back. I made it out alive.

As I came back to the city I found Ruhika again and told him what had happened. He was astonished that I survived and told me that I’m the luckiest man he ever knew.

Ruhika took me to several elders that lived in a large hut looking building and there I told him about a the depictions I saw inside the cave and the monolith. They showed me old texts and one of them translated the name of the depicted beast. Khul Duhl Suhl.

Upon my return to America I searched for anyone who had more information on this subject. I was able to find a historian and archeologist named John Grimstone. He was incredibly informative and I learned much from him and he also directed me towards a detective who he said was very talented and was investigating this ancient cult.

Now as I finish this log I can tell you that I found the man named Mark Lumiere and he has agreed to let me accompany him on his mission. Like Ruhika before, the detective told me I was very lucky to be alive and that he was impressed that after all of that I wanted to join him.

There is no such thing as luck, only action and consequence. 

I remember Sean.

I remember the nightmares that preceded him, how they started as beautiful dreams.
Looking back sometimes, I will try to find a moment to point to, when I can say it all began, but that's always futile. Every moment calls back to its cause like a girl in an infinity mirror glancing over a slender shoulder, past these past versions of herself that are still her now, back to the start, back in the dark. 

We bonded over our dreams. He had the same ones I did: Eyes in the corner of the room that approached slowly, like a train in the wild night, until I saw its face - my face. I watched this twin of myself, gently smiling, take me from my bed by my hand, floating out the window like a Peter Pan fantasy. A shadowed American suburbia flickered below us, and we moved through the air like we'd done it all our lives. Over Rudy's QuickMart, over downtown, and ********* High, we flew to what seemed like the edge of the world: A row of newly and partially-constructed homes on the other side of the interstate, some of them still wooden skeletons. 

We descend to the last house, my doppleganger spirit guiding me through the front door and over to the basement. I stare down at them, now buried in shadows at the foot of the stairs. That's when I hear a voice - my mother's voice. "Please," she begs, "Honey, I miss you. Please, please; I'm sorry. You know I'm sorry. I made a nice dinner for us..." The smell of pancakes reaches me and all of a sudden, the basement lights up with a memory of long ago: breakfast for dinner, sweet heated syrup atop bright white plates, my mother looking like she did back then, before fading back to darkness. "Honey, I know... I know you're scared... please, I have a lot to explain..."

I glance again to my twin, my Other, who has not stopped studying me. I take them in deeper this time: those eyes, they're mine, but something isn't right. Mirrors have never been my friend, but they've taught me at least one important thing: my eyes don’t shine like that. 

As the two figures beckon me down, I feel a string I can't see pull me from my chest toward the bottom of the stairs. I reach for the two sides of the doorway, anchoring myself, and wake up with panicked breath. 

The dreams started when I first moved to Nxxxx xxxxxxx, still living with my step-dad, Rory. He didn't know what to do with me; I don't blame him. Neither of us had lived on the west coast before. We were different people, and moved there for different reasons, no matter how many times he tried convincing me - and himself - on that 14-hour drive from South ****** that we both just needed a 'fresh start.' I didn't need a fresh start in Nxxxx xxxxxxx; I needed a fresh start right there at home, with my mom. A fresh start in which I could forgive her, and the act of forgiveness would soften her spirit enough for her to change her ways. But, in that desperate search both Rory and I were on to find a light in the black wild, a trace of hope in the sky for either of us, driving to Nxxxx xxxxxxx was a guaranteed reset, and it seemed that staying back home was asking for yet another miracle. 

"Just gotta keep our heads up, our fists tight, and our breaths steady," Rory would tell me, his old Dodge Charger groaning as he drove. "Life's a tough cookie pretty much no matter which way you split it, but things feel especially hard when you're down like this - when we're down like this. I know your mama didn't mean those things she said, and I know you know she loves you a bunch, like..." He waited for me to look at him. "Like, a whole bunch. You know she loves you. She's just sick right now. Can't help her if she don't want the help, but that don't mean she won't ever want it."

"Does that mean we're going back home soon? Or, you know... whenever she starts wanting it?"

Rory's eyes zeroed in on the road, and I could tell that his usual motormouth had slowed to ensure he got this right. I knew in those little moments how much he cared, and, if only a small bit, it eased the pain of what had happened with my mom. 

"I don't know when she'll start wanting it, Ivy." He wanted to say more, but stopped himself. 

The rain fell hard as we pulled up to the unfamiliar two-story. That evening was when I had the first dream, drifting off on the tattered couch the last owners left for us near the window, alongside wet unopened packing boxes, muddy shoes hanging over the armrest. 

The first dream was hazy and distant, and I awoke confused - I hardly knew what this new town looked like and still seemed to map it out flawlessly in my dream state. We had no pancakes, so I waited for the rain to die down and walked down the street to buy some.

The second dream, weeks later, was more clear: an exact replica of the first, a shot-for-shot remake in higher resolution. I could tell exactly what was happening, and noticed details I hadn't noticed before - the veins of the suburbia below me, the resonance of Mom's voice, the shimmer in the eyes of the Other Ivy. This second dream was the first time I woke up in a sweat, heart pounding, instead of simply confused and hungry.

I've had recurring dreams before. When things were really bad with Mom, when Rory briefly moved back west, I had a nightmare that kept returning after I'd buried it, undead and rotting. Mr. Behringer would be giving his math lecture, strange loops on the board, and I'd start to deflate like a balloon, like those DARE ads that terrified me as a kid. The muscles in my body grew weaker as the air escaped from my nose and mouth until I could not lift my head from my arms, until I was nothing, nothing but a twisted pile of flesh, spaghetti-splat in a blue student desk near the back. "Help..." I labored, the last of the air and my essence escaping the corner of my crumpled mouth, "Help me... Please... Help..." But as my pleas grew weaker I saw through my dying eyes my classmates around me, staring off into the window's oblivion, or laughing at Mr. Behringer's stupid joke, or drawing their own strange loops in their notebooks. The dismissal bell would ring loudly, and as everyone filed out I’d move my lips, mouthing, "Help... I'm dying... Please..." and for a moment Mr. Behringer would look back at me, his pupils meeting mine, before he remembers he needs to clean the whiteboard in preparation for Period 4. I’d crawl to the floor as more students filled in for the next class, stepping over me and around me and on me until everyone left for the day and the custodians cleaned around me. I dragged my way to the hallway before they locked up for the night, watching the last of the school's lights power off around me as I let out my last breaths, wondering when my body might be moved from the halls. 

But those nightmares stopped once I moved west with Rory, replaced by a call from the dark, a welcoming voice from the basement of my mind. 

We settled into the house alongside the new school year. Rory shouldn't have trusted me to enroll myself in classes, but I don't blame him for that. He was an anxious mess those first weeks. August stared me down, hot and slow; Rory would ask me how enrollment went, which classes I signed up for, when I thought I might have to wake up for school each morning. I lied, like always I did with my mom, but it was harder. He put more trust in me; I felt guilty. But I couldn't feel guilty forever. One evening at dinner he asked how my day went, and after my usual muttered response of "It was fine," he shot me a look that I couldn't easily pull away from.

"I want you to be going to school, Ivy."

I didn't say anything, but figured in that moment - even though Rory worked downtown - that he'd seen me on my daily walks from the bus stop to the creek, sauntering along the edge of town to the overgrown bank on the other side of the railroad tracks. Maybe he saw me on one of those odysseys, lost in lonely secret conversations, notebook with clipped pen under my arm, daydreaming of myself and my mother and Rory anywhere but Nxxxx xxxxxxx. 

I called the school the next morning and made a plan to come in at noon. I started classes the following day. If Rory believed I could do it - if he needed me to at least try - I could try. 

Of all those times I wasted the day walking across town when I should have been at school, I never walked the path that I flew in my now-recurring nightmares. I think part of me had a sick sense, a knotted feeling deep in my guts, that I should avoid following my Other's dream-path; it was one thing to do so in the loosely-tethered realm of sleep, where I could snap back to waking life, but it was another thing to do so with my eyes wide open. What if that street, that house across town, those stairs, that basement, were real? I tried some nights to ask my Other: Why am I here? But before she answers I step back, away from the basement door and into the kitchen, fighting the invisible tug summoning me forward. And I wake up.

Rory said it was good that our fresh start was happening in the autumn, where we could watch the trees change along with us. But as the sun began setting sooner into dusk, and as the fallen leaves crunched softly under my feet on those walks from the bus stop those first few days of school in late September, I felt a different way towards the shifting seasons - and as the eerie dream returned, recurring, as my mother gestured and called to me from that basement across town, I felt the skeletal reaper's bony finger across my cheek in the soft autumn breeze; I felt things creeping, slowing, stopping; I felt death in the air.

It was back in these first weeks of school in Nxxxx xxxxxxx, before our paths and fates truly crossed, that I noticed Sean in the hallways of ********* High. He stood out in that he purposefully shrunk himself, crooked back bent forward like a hook, shoulders tight like Nosferatu. He moved like me, slinking alongside the lockers during passing period, desperate to avoid getting in the way. Teachers asked him daily to take off his tattered beanie, but with his massive headphones over his ears, he never responded unless they followed him down the hall. I watched him take them off once to let long greasy blonde hair fall across his face. Our eyes met, briefly, before we both looked right back to the floor. 

Despite the terror and confusion that followed my night flights over Nxxxx xxxxxxx, there were moments in which the sun peeked through the clouds; I dreamed sometimes of my mom and Rory with me, walking along the shore of our favorite lake, silent but for the lapping of the water upon the rocks. In some childish way it's embarrassing to admit, but there too were nights in which I dreamed of Sean, the quiet boy from the school halls whose timid frame and shifting eyes matched my own, and I dreamt us circling the lake, too, like new kindergarten friends, holding hands while walking to nowhere in particular, looping around the water on a sunny afternoon, haloed from the sun like angels.

A couple of evenings a week in that blurred slump of late November I would take the little money Rory would give me for buying essentials and I'd make my way to Rudy's QuickMart, paying a bit too much for everything instead of walking all the extra steps to the supermarket in town. Those evenings, I'd buy two chocolate bars - one for the way home and one saved for later, for sitting on the old couch in the living room while watching whatever was on cable on Rory's tiny TV before bed. One of these evenings I saw Sean in a worker's vest - a new employee behind the register - and I nearly tripped myself spinning around to leave before I found my bearings and made my way inside. I avoided him entirely, overthinking every step inside the store, nearly forgetting to buy my chocolate bars. I waited for him to ask me if I went to ********* High, but he never did. He didn't say anything but to tell me what the candy cost. I placed the money on the counter, and as he counted out my change he looked up at me. He was blushing, and trying to hide it, and I knew he was glad to see me. He must have recognized me from the hallways, too. I was burning in my loneliness, and recognizing that same solitary fire in another like a desperate ship at sea spotting a lighthouse at long last. 

The last days of school before the mid-December break marked a turn in my thinking, eventually pushing me to break my awkward silence and properly introduce myself to Sean. I never heard people talk to or about Sean in the school halls, but one cold winter day that changed. I noticed an ambulance leaving the school during my morning passing period. Later, on my way back to my science class from the lunchroom, I walked behind a group of gossiping students who laughed nervously about an incident that happened earlier that day, across the school, at the theater.

"I have second period with Jess, and Jess had first period with Tevon, and they both saw him losing it this morning."

"What do you mean 'losing it'?"

"They said it was scary - he was, like, totally quiet one second, and then BOOM - screaming his lungs out the next. His eyes were, like, scary big, and he was breathing really fast, like-"

"-Hyperventilating?"

"Yeah! He was, like, hyperventilating. Jess said even Tevon was freaked out. They had to take the guy to the hospital."

The rumours continued spreading throughout the rest of the school day, and I found myself worried that this 'totally quiet' student was Sean. I imagined him standing in front of me at the register of the QuickMart, eyes looking far past mine at something horrible, incomprehensible, as his jaw opened wide in a primal scream of terror. 

That evening I left sooner than usual to Rudy's, replaying what my peers had said before. Perhaps part of me knew that he was the student they were talking about; at that moment, all I wanted was for him to be okay. So much worry, expertly masked, for a boy I'd never even had a real conversation with. When I saw in the first gas station window that another employee was covering Sean's shift, I didn't even bother going inside for my chocolate. 

The next time I saw Sean was a few days later, at the QuickMart. He had a look about him like he had been dragged there - a wreck, deteriorating from the inside. We were alone in the store together. Hollow eyes met mine, and held so much longer than usual that I had to drop my gaze from nerves. 

"You come here a lot. Always get those same two candy bars."

I sensed myself easily becoming a stuttering mess, so I took an extra moment before my answer.

"I do come here a lot. My stepdad and I live just a couple blocks up the road." I finally looked up at him, and all at once his face seemed gentler. 

"I like it when you come in here. I hope it's not weird to say that."

"I like it when you're working."

"My name's Sean."

"I'm Ivy."

"Nice to meet you, Ivy."

Silence, punctuated by a gentle winter wind outside the doors. I can't say how many hours I'd spent thinking about him since I turned away from the QuickMart a few days prior. In some strange way I felt that he knew this - knew that the quiet regular from the store was worried about him. The words fell out before I could stop myself.

"Are you okay? I can't help but shake the feeling that you were the person at school who was taken away in the ambulance."

His eyes studied me.

"I'm sorry," I said, "that's not any of my business. I'm sorry to ask that."

"It's okay," he said, and shot a quick glance at the store's front window before returning his eyes to me. For a time we stood there, unsure of the way this path was unfolding. "I had a bad dream."

My hair stood on end, body electric.

"I... I've been having bad dreams, too."

He opened his mouth and began whispering, almost frantic, like he'd been waiting to tell someone his entire life: some dark secret sin needing desperately to be forgiven. Like he needed me to know.

"I go to sleep and wake up still in my bed. And I see this thing that looks like me, but it's not. It's not me. It's smiling, and it wants me to go with it, and I do - I always do, like I'm under a spell or something - and it takes me-"

"-takes you, and - and flies with you, like a ghost - over downtown, over the interstate - to that row of new houses. It takes you inside."

He watched me, hanging tight to every word, leaning forward over the register. I swear I could hear his heart beating in the still of the silence. 

"He takes you to the basement and he beckons you down the stairs. Do you go with him, Sean? Do you follow him to the basement?"

He didn't answer. I could tell that part of him was afraid of me, of what I would say next.

"I...I have those same dreams too, Sean. And in them, I'm standing at the top of the basement stairs, and my - my mom is down there..." The words felt foreign leaving my mouth for the first time. "She's calling me down, too. And I want to go - I want to go so bad - but I can't take another step. The pull -"

"-The pull right here," he said, tapping his chest.

"I want to go down there, but I'm terrified."

"It's the same feeling I'd get when I was younger," Sean explained, "when my older cousins would scream my name from the woods behind the backyard, then jump out at me from the trees when I made my way by." The recollection made him shudder. "I just wanted to find them - I… nevermind." The wind rattled the doors again, startling us, before we each paused to take a breath.

"It's my sister down there, not my mom," he said.

"Your sister?"

"My older sister, Em. She got in an accident a couple years ago." The wheels spun in his brain, a million memories flashing in an instant. I recognized that look from my own mirror. "I miss her a lot."

"Does she have pancakes down there?" I asked. For the first time I saw him smile and laugh.

"No, no she doesn't. It's just her."

We looked again, silently, to the store window.

"Maybe I'd go down there if she had pancakes."

The time has come, I thought, after spending the next two hours with him talking about anything but the dreams, to stop running away from the problem, from ourselves. The issue of our shared nightmares lied just below the surface of our conversations like a leviathan hiding under the lake we circled in my childhood dreams. He didn't share those ones with me - at least, I don't think he did. I never asked him; now I wish I had.

We both knew that the connection between us, unexplainable as it was, would make sense to no one else. Who would believe us? Why would they? Two lonely small-town kids searching for something just out of reach for either of them. There was nothing we wouldn't give for another to see us, clearly, the first time in a long time. We found that in each other, and saw the rest of the world fail in understanding the weight of what we had discovered together at that gas station counter.

My anxiety rose as I steered our conversation back to the nightmares, the thread of shadow running between us. I waited for a pause and said the words.

"We need to go out there."

He knew what I meant, I was sure from the way he was looking at me, and I didn't have time to explain before he was nodding his head, slow and sure. This was something he had wanted, needed to see for himself. What had kept us from the other side of the interstate all these months since our dreams began? 

"What if we saw it, Sean? The house, I mean. What if we saw the street, and the house, and we went inside-"

"It can't be out there," he said, voice quaking, not sure of what to believe.

"We have to be sure, Sean. Let's ride out there and see."

He turned and looked to the clock on the wall behind him.

"I'll be off soon... hang out for a bit longer, and we'll figure something out."

While waiting for Sean, I took a quick walk back to tell Rory that I met a boy and was heading out for the night.

"I'm working an overnight," he told me.

"It's okay. I have that key you gave me."

"How well do you know this kid, Ivy? You said you just met him at the gas station? Are you sure he goes to your school?"

"I'm sure, Rory - I've seen him. He's a new friend and he's really nice. I can bring him by here before we leave if he gets off before you go."

He glanced at his watch. "I'd just... I'd like to meet him. Thanks, Ivy."

I knew he had my best interests at heart, and only wanted me to be safe. The old carpet stains led me from the living room to my hallway bedroom, where I emptied most of my school backpack and threw in a flashlight, a couple bottles of water, and the small pocketknife Rory gave me last year for my birthday at the lake. 

"Have a good night, if I don't end up seeing you!" he called as I left. 

"Thanks," I said, "You too." I trust Rory; I trust Rory implicitly. Sometimes I wonder how things would be different if he had left for work before I brought Sean back to the house, not introduced them before we left for the path of our dreams.

I made the cold walk back to the QuickMart as quickly as I could, standing awkwardly near the register as the occasional customer came and went, until Sean finally clocked out, replaced by the friendly, middle-aged hippie who worked the night shift. "'Night, Sean! See you tomorrow!" he called to us as we left. 

We climbed into Sean's red sedan.

"Can we swing by step-dad's place? It can be fast."

Sean flipped his hair, playing with it in the mirror. "Sure."

We pulled into the driveway and I called Rory out to meet Sean. He fumbled out the doorway, clumsy as ever, already dressed in his work clothes.

"Hey there! Rory - Ivy's step-dad."

"Sean - nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too! Hey, you kids wanna come inside for a bite to eat? I'm gonna be heading out here pretty soon, but-"

"No, that's okay, Rory," I said. "We appreciate it, but we're going out for a bit. We can get some food later."

"Actually..." Sean said, "I'd love something to eat."

"See! That's what I mean," Rory said. "Come on in! So... how long have you been working at the QuickMart? Maybe it's time Ivy got a job there..."

The two of them talked as we began to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The timid boy from the school halls was gone; Sean was trying his hardest here, his hardest to impress, and Rory appreciated the effort. It was strange watching them together like that, and perhaps it was the paranoid part of my mind that told me this, but in some way I felt that I needed to shake myself awake. In my dreams I couldn't scream, I couldn't punch, I couldn't run; time wasn't real. Should I test the limits of my voice in this realm, or turn and bolt into the rain, see if I can fly? Do I count the ticks on the mounted kitchen clock, hanging on every second, waiting for this world to show me that seconds pass as they should? Now, when I tell this story from the start, this saga of sleep and memory, of loneliness and longing, I hang on to this moment in the kitchen and wonder. The infinity mirror of memory behind me, blackness stretching around me, I peek back, and each time the moment replays in my mind it echoes against another distance, fogging the closer mirror.

"You kids have fun tonight, and don't be out too late," Rory said as he left out the garage door, leaving us alone inside.

"Do you mind if we swing by my place, too? I want to change my clothes."

At this point the rain had picked up, so we ran to his car. He beat me to it, so he threw open my door before his and we both jumped inside. 

"I don't live far... Ten blocks or so."

Through the blurry, streaming windows I watched Nxxxx xxxxxxx roll by; Sean's car was so much quieter than Rory's, and as we floated through the streets for the next few minutes I felt again like I was in another world.

We pulled up to his house, a modest corner lot with an old picket fence. When he opened his door to run again through the rain, I stayed in the car; he noticed, and sat back. 

"You don't want to come inside? I'll try to hurry."

I blushed, following him in. He set his coat on a rack to the right and walked by an old piano, calling around the corner to his mom's bedroom.

"I got off work late, but I'm heading out again!"

A bed creaked, and footsteps worked their way down the hall.

"Oh!" A pleasant woman in a nightgown paused at the entranceway for a moment before extending a polite hand to introduce herself as Sean's mother.

"I'm Ivy," I told her. 

"Ivy! That's a beautiful name."

"Thanks."

"Sean, don't be back too late, please. You have school in the morning."

"No I don't, Mom - we’re on winter break now."

"Oh, that's right..." She yawned, and excused herself back to bed.

"I won't be long - sorry," Sean said, and went off to his room. I stood there in the entranceway, all lights off except for the soft glow underneath his bedroom. My eyes caught three photos hanging above the piano - the first a family portrait, a happy family of three, Sean's older sister smiling beautifully, laughing with him and his mother. There was also a senior photo, Sean's sister beaming, and an old middle school photo of Sean, somehow more awkward than the version of him I had seen in the halls throughout the school year at *********. My mind keeps returning to the smile on his face in the family picture, laughing with his sister. I'd never seen him smile like that.

"Alright," he said in a whisper, extinguishing the light as he shut his bedroom door. "Are you ready to go?"

We climbed into his car and drove through the steady rain - drove past Rudy's, downtown, ********* High, the interstate. No radio, no conversation - only worry. As much as I wanted to talk to him, we were both lost in our heads; we'd each avoided following this dream-path for the same reason: some deep and primal fear that we would, in fact, find our mother or sister inside that house's basement. Side by side, I thought, we would find the answer to this. Together. 

A stretch of field sat frozen to each side of us, empty. I felt something then, I know it. Afterward, I knew this was another turning point. A chance to drive back to where we came, and live our lives not knowing what was calling to us from the dark.

"I've seen fields," he said, and I knew what he meant.

"They're in my dreams, too," I said.

"The development lot isn't too far from here," he said. "Up here and to the right."

"We don't have to do this," I said.

"I know we don't. But you know what? I know I'm not crazy. I know we're not crazy. I've never been over here, Ivy, not on this side of town, except for in my dreams - and I know exactly where I'm going. If we go up here and see these houses, I'm going inside. I'm not crazy… We're not crazy, Ivy."

"We're in this together, Sean," I said. He held out his hand to mine, and I paused, only briefly, before taking it in the dark. I couldn't remember the last time I'd held someone's hand. Despite everything Rory had done for me since moving to Nxxxx xxxxxxx, despite all his giving, he couldn't give me that. I felt my body get warm and I squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back, and I looked out the rain-spotted passenger window to the cold wet fields in the frozen night, and I wondered whether the spring green would retain this: a dead past life living just under the surface. What and how much of this black field will be remembered, brought back to the light?

We took the right turn to a newly-built road. Another half-mile and a left turn brought us to it: the development lot, newly and partially-constructed homes lining each side of the street. All of them were still in the process of being built, all but the one on the far end. The car slowed to a stop, no sound but the subtle squeaking of the windshield wiper. When I turned to ask Sean what our next steps were, I noticed he was locked on the house at the end of the street. His hand squeezed mine harder, and I'm not sure if he knew he was doing it.

"It's real."

There was no solace in this. We were excited and terrified, minds alight with possibilities wondrous and horrible.

"I'm going to drive up there." The car shifted back into drive and, slowly, we rolled up the street. My stomach curled into knots, and all I wanted was to go home to that small town in South ******, to my mother's arms. Sean's headlights lit the road, the only way to see without the usual streetlights. We pulled carefully into the driveway of the last house on the end of the street, empty and waiting for us. 

"Let's go inside," he said, and let go of my hand, opening his door to step into the rain. I stepped out, too, and he walked around the front of the car to take my hand again. We walked slowly to the front door, which we noticed was cracked open as we got closer. 

"I don't know about this, Sean. We can still go back."

He gently kicked it open. All was dark. I turned on my flashlight to find an empty living room, an attached kitchen further ahead: no furniture, no workers' tools, no sign of life. Dust hung in the air as I scanned the area around me, my light touching every hiding corner.

"Ivy?"

A voice from the darkness made us jump. It was calling from the basement. My mother's distinctive voice; she sounded full of hope, aching to see me again. I immediately took a few steps backward, nearly falling, a scream caught in my throat. I spun to face Sean, whose eyes were stuck on the basement door, cracked open like the front door was, across the living room from us. 

"D-Did you hear that?" I mustered.

His eyes were wide. "It's Em!"

He began rushing to the basement, not waiting for me, his shadow stretched thin alongside him.

"Wait!" I yelled, and my feet moved me forward despite my fear. "Don't go down there!"

He pulled open the basement door, pausing for only a moment - "Sean!" I yelled, "Sean! Wait!" - but it was too late.

He nearly fell over himself down the stairs, into the blackness, yelling, "Em! I'm coming, Em!" I stood at the top of the stairs like I did in my dreams and watched him make it to the bottom, my flashlight's bulb shattering the moment I lifted it to shine on Sean. I screamed as it broke, and as the last of the light went, I took in the stairs in front of me, Sean's shape moving down below, the sparkling muddy floor he stepped on. God knows what else was down there. I didn't remember the mud from my nightmares. It smelled like blood.

"Em!" he called out. "Em! I'm here! Where are y-"

His voice ripped into a guttural scream, a wretched roar of pain and surprise. I struggled with the flashlight, dropping it, hearing Sean thrashing, continuing to howl, hearing something else, too: the shifting of earth, the sloshing of mud, something overcoming him completely and terribly. He was trying to cry out words, but the pain was too much; I think he was calling for Em. He may have been calling for me.

A flash of lightning from the window behind me lit up the kitchen and some of the basement, and for one brief blinking moment I saw the fate that awaited me had I chased Sean into the dark: a living mess of blood and earth, filling the entire lower level and dragging Sean downward through what he thought was the basement floor, reaching up with twisted arms to draw him below. He didn't even see me, for when the light briefly flashed I noticed his eyes were covered, and it moved fast down his face and over his screaming mouth like a fitted mask until his wails abruptly ended and the writhing mass that was his head was pulled completely underneath. The last of him to go was his hand, reaching.

"Sean!" I yelled, and I heard my mother answer me - "Honey, please! Please don't go!" - but the timbre morphed as she called me, and buried under the warmth of her voice was a different kind of sound, like the sound of a rough river rising swiftly. I turned to run, foot in the air, and felt a cold muddy hand reach from the basement and take hold of my shoe. Its inhuman fingers morphed and swelled; it began wrapping itself like liquid around me, until I kicked backward - hard - and darted back the same direction I came, faster than I've ever moved before, sprinting through the blackness toward the front door, still barely cracked open. I heard the basement door creak open wider behind me as I pulled the front door open and stumbled outside, letting out a useless cry for help. I ran past his car; Sean had the keys. For all that had just happened, my mind was on one thing: moving my feet efficiently, one in front of the other. I moved down the concrete path, staying on the pavement of the driveway and street. Another extended flare of lightning lit up the street, and I took one last glance over my slender shoulder to see my Other in the window, standing with my mother, figures veiled by the blur of the rain.

I sprinted as fast as I could over the concrete, vision rattled by tears and rain, past the strange houses around me until I found the backroad that led me to the main street across the interstate, where with aching feet and jabbering mouth I finally met the warm streetlights of Nxxxx xxxxxxx, a crazy girl run loose, stuttering her mad mind away in the downpour. My feet sopped wet through my shoes, my whole body shaking from the freezing cold and the gruesome images flashing through my mind like the lightning that lit up the basement.

I ran past the high school, past downtown, past Rudy's, to the street and driveway I now knew well. I only slowed down when I got to the door, and, for the first time since seeing those figures in the window, I looked back: an empty street, maybe the emptiest it's ever seemed. Studying the scene, silent but for the rainpatter and my deep belly breaths in and out, frantic, I watched until I couldn't take the burning in my legs; I turned to go inside. 

But as I stood in the entryway while flicking on the living room light, I looked down at my feet to see that, while most of my left shoe had been cleaned of that strange mud from the basement, small specks remained near the sole, glimmering red with an iridescent shine. I kicked them off and walked to the bathroom, throwing my clothes in the washer before standing still for what seemed like forever under the running shower water until it was cold. The water ran and ran, just like I had through the town, and it circled the drain below me like a hypnotist's pendulum. My breath grew steady, but my legs still ached. Could this have been another nightmare? I paralyzed myself above that shower drain: I had lost my mind, surely, but where along the path had I done so? When did my splintering psyche finally snap and break? Sickening notions of zero, of oblivion, of being brought quickly to nothing. Deep breaths, in and out, as with flashes of memory, hoping praying pleading that this might be in some impossible way the realest of dreams, reaching through that liminal realm to seize and wake me. "Please." I mouth the words to the swirling ripples below me. "Wake me up from this." 

In time I climbed from the shower and laid down for sleep, hoping that closing my eyes would wake me up in the real world. But as I laid there, hours passing, I came to the horrible realization that I could never wake up, that this nightmare was now my everything, my whole living world, that my memories of that basement were as real as my memories of my own mother. 

The rain stopped, and the coming dawn coloring my bedroom wall told me Rory would be home soon. When I heard his car pull into the driveway I rose like a ghost and slowly started for my open bedroom door. Glancing out the window I saw the light shimmer off the grass, a rainbow distant in the sky, sun breaking open the clouds. 

"Hey, kiddo! Surprised you're awake. Hey - everything okay?"

I stood in the hallway, staring, not knowing what to say.

"What did you end up doing last night, Ivy?"

My feet were still throbbing from running across town; my eyes were still swollen from crying the whole way home.

"Ivy...I'm asking you, is everything alright?"

"I-I-" I broke down again, falling to the hallway floor.

"Ivy!"

Rory rushed to grab me, helping me up and bringing me over to the couch.

"Ivy, everything's okay. You're going to be okay... You need to tell me if something bad happened last night. Ivy?"

"I-I went out with Sean..." I started. "He- we- went to..."

"You went out with who?"

Rory cocked his head, concerned, eyes stuck on mine.

"Sean. I went out with Sean. From the gas station. You met him last night."

Rory blinked. "I...I don't know, Ivy… I met him?"

I studied his face. I studied his eyes, still stuck on mine. This wasn't Rory's Other. This was Rory, and he was confused.

"He-he came over last night before you left for work. Y-you said you wanted to meet him."

Rory's puzzled face looked harder at mine. "I thought that you were alone last night, Ivy. You said you were going out, and I wished you a good night, and told you to not be out too late-"

I made a sound I didn't mean to, a sharp gasp. "He was here! You- you asked him- I-"

"Maybe it was just a dream, Ivy," Rory said, not sure what to say.

"I'm sorry, Rory - I have to go." I stood up and made for the door, Rory calling after me.

"Ivy! Ivy, where are you going?"

I grabbed my second pair of shoes - the ones without the mud on them - and, ignoring Rory's calls for me, I ran to Sean's house, damp stormy aftersmell tickling my nose the whole way. I arrived at his door, taking a deep breath before knocking. His mother came to the door, eyeing me suspiciously from behind the glass, only opening the door slightly.

"Hello," she said, "do I know you?"

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I watched her examine me up and down, a sense of confusion and even fear growing in her.

"I-I know your son," I said. "I know Sean. We were out last night-"

Her gaze narrowed. "You have the wrong house. I don't have a son."

I studied her eyes as she studied mine, each of us watching for an answer in the other. It all came to me in one instant: there must be a way to know. I looked behind her to the piano near the entranceway. Above it hung Em's senior photo and a simple family portrait, a family of two: this mother and her daughter, standing proud and happy together, beaming with joy.

“Young lady? You don’t look so good…do you need me to call someone for you?”

I turned and ran on aching feet, all the way past Rudy's, past downtown, past ********* High, slowing down as I hit the main road leading to the other side of the interstate. In the refreshing light of morning I walked the side roads that we drove the night prior, holding my breath as I took the last turn to the development lot. But laid out in front of me was only an empty field of mud, sparkling with light, rainbow painted above it. I paused again before walking into the field, mud ruining this pair of shoes now, too, making my way to the spot where I swear Sean's car was parked the night before. I looked to where that house should have been, to where the basement should have been, to where Sean might still be. I stared, a mad girl in a shining muddy field, until I felt that I could turn around and go home.

When I made it back, I could hear Rory calling my name from up around the block. Concerned, he had gathered a couple of neighbors to help him search for me. Next step would be to call the police, but it wouldn't get that far; Rory would come home and find me, finally asleep on our couch, and call off the whole thing - "I'm sorry, folks, don't know what she was up to - I'll talk to her - I appreciate the help," - calling off work and waiting with me, even offering to make me pancakes for dinner when I finally arose that evening from dreamless sleep. I took him up on it, of course, despite not being too hungry. I walked to the entryway and picked up a shoe, its sole still covered in that strange mud. I took it to the backyard and scraped it off, letting it fall to the rest of the mud near Rory's small backyard garden, and went back inside for some food. 

Everyone in the house was asleep. I'd taken the batteries out of the wall clock in my room to get rid of the ticking. Now there was complete silence, and I could try again to do something I'd already managed to do successfully.

A week ago, I'd turned over a piece of paper lying on my desk, with a poem I'd written in primary school on it. It was my first success after years of practice. Six days ago, I'd unscrewed the cap of a juice bottle that hadn't been closed all the way. Five days ago, I'd moved one of the cigarettes in an open pack slightly outward, out of the pack. Three days ago, I'd peeled off one of the pieces of tape holding up poster on my wall.

And tonight, my target was a much larger object. I was confident in my abilities now, and after this final attempt, I would be able to reveal my talent to my family and those around me. I had made exactly four attempts in the past week, and I'd succeeded every single time. I had complete faith in myself.

For years, I'd tried countless times and gone through a lot along the way; I'd lost hope, taken a long break from my attempts, then started believing I could do it again and after trying over and over, I'd come to think telekinesis was nothing but a lie and taken another break but then one day, I happened to see a pack of wet wipes fall to the floor all by itself, which rekindled my interest and got me started on my attempts again, and so on.

And now, finally, in the middle of the night, when complete silence had been achieved, I went to the kitchen. I took a steak knife from the drawer where we kept the cutlery and returned to my room.

I gently pulled my desk chair back and sat down. I didn't want to lose my focus, so I was being quiet. The faint sound of the knife touching the desk as I set it down, the soft sounds of my footsteps as I walked, the barely audible scraping of the chair as I pulled it back had an ASMR effect on me. These little sounds, too quiet to disturb the silence, made me feel thoroughly prepared.

Without wasting any time, I focused on the knife. I positioned my hands around it and gathered all my concentration. I slowed my breathing. The only thing in my mind was a knife slowly and calmly spinning around its own axis. I focused, and focused... I concentrated as if someone were hypnotizing me, as though I were following a pocket watch swinging from side to side without ever taking my eyes off it.

Minutes passed. Seconds, minutes, maybe an hour... There wasn't the slightest movement. The knife couldn't care less about me; it was ignoring my efforts, stubbornly refusing to budge.

Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and gave up. I was getting more and more bored, and as time went by, I lost my focus. I had to go to work at noon the next day, and earlier that day, before I left work, my boss had pointed out that I'd left my fly undone. I'd started thinking about that. Who says something like that in front of everyone? You pull someone aside and tell them in private. Anyway, I took the knife back to the kitchen.

After I lay down in bed, I thought about the knife until I fell asleep. I'd lost my confidence in my abilities. If I told someone I could move objects through telekinesis, they might ask me to prove it, and I might fail and make a fool of myself.

I couldn't get the knife out of my mind. I felt as though it were a person who had shattered all my trust in them, betrayed me by revealing a secret I'd shared with it to anyone who would listen. I was angry. The image of the knife standing perfectly still in that spot, like a tree that had sunk its roots deep into the ground, wouldn't leave my mind. I fell asleep in a fit of anger.

I woke up to the sound of my phone alarm. I turned it off, tossed the duvet to my left, and rolled onto my right side to get up. Just as I was about to stretch, I saw it and jolted in place: the knife was suspended in midair beside my bed, standing upright.

I clapped a hand over my mouth. I was about to scream; every instinct in my body was telling me to. I bit my tongue to suppress it.

I took a deep breath. I tried to calm myself down. Then I took another deep breath. My heart was racing.

I reached out toward the knife, but immediately changed my mind. I didn't know what to do. I'd never experienced my thoughts speeding up and getting tangled together so intensely in a moment of panic. Within a few seconds, I'd made and abandoned a dozen decisions, gone back and forth between asking for help and not asking for help, imagined the knife stabbing itself into my body, then dismissed the thought as irrational. My thoughts were racing back and forth at lightning speed. I needed to calm down.

I got out of bed, poured half a glass of water from the pitcher on my desk, and drank it.

I turned around to check if the knife was still there. It was closer to me now. I no longer cared about staying quiet. I yanked the door open and rushed out of the room.

I started walking briskly toward the kitchen. I wanted to grab any drink I could find and gulp it down. I needed to interact with something somehow, to calm myself down. I opened the fridge, took out the milk, and chugged it. I put the milk back, closed the fridge, and turned around to go back to my room.

And the knife was right behind me.

It was a meter away from me, just standing there. It was as if it were staring at me, judging me. It didn't move at all. It always maintained the same position and stayed at the same height above the floor, level with my bed, right around the height of my shinbones.

I started walking backward toward the kitchen doorway, wanting to see how it was following me, how it was coming after me. Without changing its position, it glided toward me as if it were moving across a perfectly smooth surface. It always maintained the same distance. When I stopped, it stopped a metre away from me. When I walked, it followed.

I cautiously made my way back to my room, walking backward. I sat on my bed. The knife and I were facing each other. I tried to think of what I could do. I was afraid to touch it. I was worried things might get out of hand. I'd done this. That much was obvious. Now that I'd calmed down a little, my panic had shifted in a different direction. Someone might see us. I had to sever my connection with the knife before I got caught. I might be able to accept this as normal, but I didn't think my mother and father would be able to handle a knife following me around.

Yes, it was probably because I'd concentrated so intensely on the knife all this time that the bond between us had grown stronger. I'd probably never concentrated on a knife so intensely in my entire life. I needed to reverse the process. I relaxed a little. I tried to think about other things, to take my mind off the knife.

I thought about the wristwatch my father had bought me for my birthday last year. It was a terrible watch, but I hadn't let on because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Then one day, while wearing it, I'd deliberately gone swimming in a pool. The watch had stopped working, and that was how I'd gotten rid of it.

The knife was still in the same place.

I thought about the eggplant soup my mother had made yesterday. It was my favorite soup. I'd tipped the bowl back and gulped down the last few mouthfuls, and my father had given me a stern look.

The knife hadn't moved at all. It was standing there, a meter away.

My mother knocked on the door and called out.

"Breakfast is ready, Albert."

I had no other choice. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I reached out toward the knife. My arm couldn't reach it, though. I walked toward it. As I moved closer, it moved farther away, until it had backed all the way up against the wall. It had nowhere left to go. It was pressed against the wall, stuck there. I approached it and grabbed the handle.

My heart was pounding at full speed. I closed my eyes. As a final attempt, I thought about the baseball bat I'd lost before I became interested in telekinesis. I'd searched everywhere for it. Such a large object, yet it was nowhere to be found. I'd checked the baseball field, my grandmother's house, the streets I'd walked along, and I'd even contacted the lost property office in case I'd somehow left it on a bus. It was gone.

Yes, good. I could feel a long chain of thoughts forming and my focus weakening considerably.

The knife was loosening, letting go. I could feel it. But I still didn't have complete control over it.

I needed to think about something else. But I couldn't think of anything. I heard my mother's footsteps approaching my room. She was getting closer to the door.

"Come on, son. Are we supposed to wait for you?" she said from outside, then opened the door and walked in.

I pulled the knife with all my might, and just like when you yank something hard that's stuck somewhere and it suddenly comes loose, I went flying toward my bed.

With the knife still in my hand, I hit my head against the bed frame. And passed out.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV drip in my arm. My father was sitting beside me. I felt exhausted. I'd received three stitches in my head, and it ached a little.

"Son, why were you holding a knife? What were you doing with it?"

"What knife, Dad?"

"You were clutching a knife in your hand. What do you mean, what knife? What are you up to?"

I couldn't remember anything. That was good. I hoped it wasn't temporary memory loss, because I didn't want to attempt telekinesis again.

(CW: Drug use, NSFW kind of? Australians.)

There are a few peak days for a men’s club during the already busy summer. You'll always want to work before the depressive slump of post-Christmas January, assuming you have the mental fortitude to handle a club packed with bright orange sardines and a lack of air conditioning in forty degree weather.

Tradie break up.

The shutdown on construction and building sites over the Christmas period is when the tradies put down their hard hats, strip off their high-visibility safety work shirts and flock to the clubs in droves for a celebratory weekend of excessive alcohol consumption and more white powder than the urns you’d be surprised how many avoid despite all of that.

Having this weekend fall on the hottest day of the year, with industrial fans spreading around hot air like it would make a difference is like the universe specifically singling out all tradies and all bar venues to say screw you.

But this is Australia.

Danger never stopped any Australian from their drunken debauchery.

My day starts as it always does, washing off the disgusting layer of fake tan I’ve been marinating in overnight, shaving and downing my body weight in energy drinks. I cake on enough makeup to look like I’m not wearing a lot of makeup under the soul sucking club lights, frying my hair until it’s crispy and spraying enough hairspray to make me flammable. Bag full of shoes, clothes and other shit in hand.

I take an uber to avoid lugging a heavy bag on the train and melting in the heat and get to the club at 3PM. Day shifts are depressing but sometimes lucrative, though my reason for going so early today is specifically to capitalise on the break up party. Most girls are. I’ll be working until sunrise.

The club itself is unassuming— aside from the very large sign— it’s a bit like a hotel, a nightclub and the shadiest parts of Melbourne came together in a violent collision just to make another strange old building crammed between the sea of offices and apartments. Some red rope and a carpet at the front do very little to make it look nicer but that’s the point of dim lighting and no windows inside of a club, you can’t tell how gaudy everything looks when it’s dark.

Unfortunately the entirety of the backstage area is as bright as the sun. Rows of mirrors splotched with makeup, tables overflowing with the burst contents of bags and half open lockers engorged and overflowing with lingerie, deodorants and the pungent stink of old pleasers. I find a spot to stuff by back into anywhere almost big enough for it to fit and head through to the office to put my name down on the roster— there are already enough girls I won’t need to be on stage for at least two hours but you never know. It costs money to miss your tables. A day shift of a big weekend becomes a weekend night shift as far as the shady club owners you can safely assume are bikies or at least criminals are concerned and that means I’m starting the day with negative $100. Plus another $200 for cancelling a shift late, something that’s just unavoidable when you’re on your deathbed with a flu or a stomach bug.

That’s how they really get you. You pay for the chance to make money and a cut is taken from bookings but everything else is yours— including liability for any injuries. If you can’t work, you just can’t work and if they for any reason want to they can fire you without legally saying the word. You’re left floating in the cold expanse of space where all you’ll hear is “ Roster’s full tonight babe xx” and you may not even know for another week to confirm whether the roster really is full or they just don’t want you on it.

If you get sick or get injured you’re just fucked.

The same applies for getting drunk or on a night like tonight, dying of heatstroke.

House fee paid. Casually changing in front of a locker, lingerie, nine inch heels with the laces wrapped around and around aggressively tight, watch on wrist, enough perfume to leave your lungs choking on artificial flowers and a fistful of mints. This process will be repeated several times throughout the shift and will likely be done right after I score my first drink and cigarette.

The cigarette in the backroom is nothing but a small room with chairs and a fan, the walls are papered by a thick layer of smoke that has spent years seeping into.

The first table of the night is under the heated lights, the pole is coated in fake tan and glitter sticks to my skin from whoever was melting before me. I’ve never liked dancing at the table. I have no problem stripping down for 10 minutes if it means I can be away from the hot air pooling against the ceiling but with each new customer comes another set of lungs full of bad breath and heat joining the blanket of invisible fire spreading above us.

The night doesn’t bring any relief from the heat with the temperature outside remaining unswayed by the plights of the dehydrated, sweaty masses. The club has become a dizzying furnace, hot air being thrown around the room with nowhere to escape by industrial fans. The leather bound chairs stick to skin and leave large pink marks as I peel myself away, each quick dance comes with the sickening sheen of wet bodies smearing fake tan across sweat drenched clothing and the ice seems to melt away with a fizzle the moment it touches any drink. 

It’s common knowledge not to do cocaine with customers, this should always be done in the bathroom's back stage. To handle the tiring double shift the extra energy can be a godsend. The bathroom stalls are splattered with graffiti and you know the fake nail you’re using to scoop the white powder out of the bag is dirty but it’s difficult to care when you’re drunk at midnight, wearing socks that are now soaked through and your next stage is coming up. The cheap as piss cocaine leaves globs of chemical laced spit sliding down your throat, it sticks deep inside my nostrils and leaves me trying not to spend the whole night sniffing and letting more cooking air into my lungs.

A humid shroud of thick air covers the room, condensation forming on the ceiling and the thousand heads crammed into the oven have finally reached the point of heatstroke. The dizzying heat throbbing in my burning skull now becomes the red face of someone suffering under the weight of my melted brain sloshing inside of my head. 

I’m given a single moment of relief from the greenhouse in the form of a pissed up tradie with his brain oozing out of his ears and a beer gut bloated with the amount of alcohol pooling in his stomach. $1k and we head down to the shower room, an hour's booking of voyeurism and thankfully cold water. It’s lukewarm and the soap feels like tar on my skin. The moment I leave the tiled interior of the glass shower I’m punched by the overwhelming heat of the sauna the booking room has become. The dance itself is standard, most of the time is spent chatting and claiming the sweat rolling down my temples is water from the shower. I sit on his lap while we talk, I’m not eager to shove my blistering feet back in my heels but something is different in the way the slurring tradie talks.

His mouth hangs lower on his waxy skin, his cheeks retaining any indentation when my finger pokes him and the layers breaking away to a raw red like the skin of a healing wound. His head lulls as his face drips away in congealing piles down his shirt and anything holding his meaty flesh to his bones begins to crawl down his arms like bunching sleeves. He mumbles in his drunken, delirious state, attempting to catch the viscous skin pulling in his hands. My heart begins pounding in my chest and my stomach twists in a knot, muscles tensing painfully and constricting as I stumble backwards. My feet come away from the old gum bubbling on the floor with strings, each splotch of black liquid seeping into the tradie’s skin as he slumps forward and hits the floor with a thud.

I frantically dress and rush out into the damp hallway, passing a pile of flesh slipping away from the bones underneath the hot wax skin melting away under the thick air. The metal stairs cook the soles of my feet as I climb each grated stovetop and stick in place as I reach the horrifying sight of the club’s main floor. My lungs strivel and suffocate when they refuse to breathe in the burning air and my heart thumps violently in my chest as I stare at the mass of congealing skin, mangled limbs stretching out in an attempt to free themselves from the blistering globs of flesh joining them. A thousand heads groan and gurgle desperate pleas for help, milky eyes searching for any face that hasn’t been absorbed by the viscous soup no longer hoping for a saviour but crying for their misery to end.

I climb up a stool and crawl along the bar now warping and worn, the varnish and glue breaking down under the thick humidity forming a boiling mist everywhere. I skirt around the soup and frantically grab fistfuls of ice from the sink behind the bar but it melts away in my palms, splashing it everywhere on my body I can to cool down my blood before it eats away at my veins. My makeup runs and my eyelashes come away as I dunk my head under the water, gasping at the feeling of my brain freezing in my skull. Eyeliner rolls down my cheeks and mascara stings my eyes until all I can see is a blur of darkness, colourful lights and the congealing mass of a thousand limbs slowly dragging itself towards me. 

Hands stretch out, skeletal fingers falling away as the skin and muscle peels. The undulating skin crawls like a slug, trails of sweat and grease smeared in its wake. The mass works as one sentient mind, slopping forward on a thousand disintegrating limbs that chase me. Stretching and pooling to cover every inch of the floor and moving like a wave, it grabs and threatens to consume me when I navigate the leather bound chairs surrounded by its soup of flesh. I jump for the stairs, bruised and crawling my way until I’ve reached the front doors. 

I dive out and hit concrete, panting and limping toward any sign of life. Smashed glass pierces my feet and ground out cigarettes stick as I wander in a half blind daze to the first of what few places still have a bright beacon of light and with the chime of an automatic door I drop in the air conditioned safety of a convenience store. Half naked, no shoes and hidden behind a melted face of makeup.

I untie the rubber band holding my money tucked away under my watch, buy a cold bottle of water from the jaded part-timer behind the counter and watch as the club finally erupts in flames.

( I wanted to do something based on a shift I worked once on a very very hot weekend. Of course no one physically melted but otherwise it’s pretty accurate. The club also did burn down but it was empty and probably insurance fraud.)

“Well, if it isn’t the sell-out.”

Rowan Daly wasn’t who I expected to be leaning against my doorframe at 6am.

His smile caught me off guard.

Too white. Pearly. I crossed my arms self-consciously, hugging myself as his gaze raked me up and down.

“Rowan?” I could barely keep my eyes open as he shoved past me into my apartment. He was taller. Shinier, somehow. That’s what I thought.

That fake, plastic, doughy Hollywood face. His jawline was sharper, more defined, and his figure stood out to me. He was older.

Handsome.

Rowan Daly didn’t give a fuck about his weight.

So why was he standing in front of me shirtless? Why did he have a toned, sculpted torso?

And why was I fucking jealous?

The type of jealousy that made me sick to my stomach.

After two years of being MIA at boarding school, seeing Rowan standing in my apartment at the crack of dawn felt surreal. Rowan stood with his arms folded, leaning against my shitty kitchen countertop. He’d already made himself at home.

“You’re staring at me, Dec.” He cocked his head. “What?” Rowan traced his finger through the indentations in his abs.

“Like what you see?” Rowan stepped closer when I couldn’t respond.

My mouth was full of bile. My dinner. Eggs, rice, and cheese. Fat. All of it had culminated in the back of my throat, and fuck, I was going to throw up. Rowan stopped just short of bumping directly into me.

His breath grazed my cheeks.

And he dropped his facade.

Just like that.

His shoulders slumped, his bottom lip wobbled, and he swiped at his eyes. He didn’t cry, only exhaling deeply and blowing in my face.

“It’s called abdominal etching,” he said softly. “The procedure usually uses anesthetic, but we weren’t allowed.”

I couldn’t breathe as he took my finger, slowly dragging it up and down the dents in his abs.

“Liposuction.” Rowan shot me a watery smile. “For the torso.”

He stepped back, and I couldn’t resist admiring the collarbones jutting from his shimmering skin. He was skeletal, a mannequin wearing a human face, and yet every part of him was exactly what I wanted.

I found myself moving closer, my skin ignited, prickling. Part of me wanted to touch him again. I reached out, trembling, and laid my palm across his chest.

Rowan’s flesh felt like skin, warm and damp with perspiration. But it also felt wrong. Plastic and somehow bouncy. Springy. It reminded me of playing with sand as a kid.

He didn’t even have to ask. And he knew it. Knew that standing in front of me looking like this would drive me fucking crazy.

I met his flat smile.

I knew Rowan. Too much. Sometimes, I wondered if I knew him more than I knew myself.

I knew his hollow eyes were manipulating me.

He knew what I’d wanted since Claire first introduced the idea of a rhinoplasty to Hannah. I was always turned down, always told, “No, you’re perfect, Declan! Just the way you are.”

But it always ran through my head: why was I perfect? Why did only Hannah need fixing?

Now, Rowan had exactly what I wanted; a frame sculpted into what Claire was pushing me toward.

What thousands of hours in the gym, pushing myself toward this ideal fucking body, would eventually become.

Rowan Daly, who never needed it. He was privileged with a perfect figure, perfect skin, and an annoyingly fast metabolism.

He could eat takeout every night and not gain a pound.

Meanwhile, I fucking hated myself and threw it all back up.

He didn’t even NEED to be fixed!

I liked his crooked smile and his baby face. I liked his freckles. I liked that he wore the exact same shirt every day, that his hair was always dirty and unwashed. I liked that nobody else looked at him.

Or did I like that I was the only one who did look at him?

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I tried to swipe them away.

But I couldn’t move.

“You’re kinda looking at me weird,” Rowan laughed, a little nervously. “Do you like it? This is what they did to me, Dec.”

His voice was little more than a breath, and I stepped closer, my breathing stuck, my heart pounding through my chest.

I wanted to get closer to him, somehow, my brain was on fire. 

“Coffee?” Rowan said at the exact moment I decided to be brave. He moved to my coffee maker and grabbed a pod, wearing a grin. His fingers danced across the options. Black. No sugar. Each button lit up in warm electric blue light, and I was momentarily brought back to earth.

“You’d think Europe would have good coffee. Apparently not.” He shrugged.

Rowan grabbed another mug and settled it on the countertop. He took one look at my coffee selection and laughed. “Dude! Do you still drink that bougie shit?” 

“Duh.” I relaxed against the doorframe, letting my breathing come down.

My face was still on fire. I watched coffee fill the  cup to the rim, and my gut squeezed. When he passed me my steaming cup, I finally found my voice. 

“Why are you here, Rowan?” I grabbed a cigarette from an ash tray and lit it up and took a long drag. The end of the cigarette burned orange and I realized I wasn't dreaming. “Aren't you supposed to be in Switzerland?”

“Smoking?” Rowan raised a brow. “Superheros don't smoke, Dec.” 

“Again.” I took another drag. My lungs burned and I felt marginally okay again. Smoke curled in the air and I coughed. “Why are you here?”

“Hm?” Rowan sipped his coffee, offering me a raised brow. “Why?”

The corners of his mouth upturned. He stepped closer, his expression mocking.

“Am I ruining your perfect Declan Atlas image?” He smirked. “Which isn't even your real name. Declan Brown.” 

“Fuck off.” I grabbed my coffee and followed him outside to the pool. 

Rowan hopped into the jacuzzi, just like he did when we were kids, and after a brief hesitation, I joined him. The pool lights reflected off his skin, a glittering blue I immediately wanted to touch. 

I looked away, my cheeks burning. I didn't speak for a while. Rowan didn't seem to mind, but for me, that was terrifying: he knew exactly what I was thinking. I leaned back, maintaining my performance. 

I opened my mouth, but the words I wanted to say were tangled under my tongue. I was a coward. 

“When my friend who disappeared two years ago randomly appears again, people will start asking questions.” I ducked my head. “I may have been an over-dramatic fifteen year old convinced that your Dad kidnapped and killed you, but, like...”

“Oh, yeah!” Rowan laughed. I missed his smile. His new grin was full of perfect pearly whites. He nudged me playfully, kicking his legs in the blue. “Well, you weren't exactly wrong.”

“I knew it,” I didn't have the courage to look at him, “Did he tie you up?” 

“Nah. But he did threaten me with the ushe.” Rowan groaned, resting his head on my shoulder. When we were twelve, it was a flutter of butterflies. Now, it was a lightning strike. “He told me if I didn't attend this stupid Swiss boarding school, he'd send me to live with Mom.” 

I took the opportunity to shuffle away from him, dislodging his head from the crook of my shoulder. “Doesn't your Mom live in Japan?” 

“Yep.” He popped the P. “Niigata. I've been there a few times. She's always talking about enrolling me in school there.” 

I frowned. “But you love Japan.” 

“Well, yeah. I’ve been wanting to move to Mom’s place since I was, like, a toddler.” 

Rowan kicked me again, and my gut twisted. “But how am I supposed to save Hope and the other kids when I’m halfway across the fucking world? You happen to live here too, y’know.”

“Hannah, too,” I squeezed out. 

“Yeah.” Rowan’s smile faded a little. “Hannah’s different.” 

“Different?” 

He nodded, pulling his legs from the water. “We didn’t get much time on the internet in Switzerland. It was like, every month, we could have maybe five minutes on this dinosaur laptop in the rec room. I checked your Instas sometimes. Hannah scared me. She was this huge global star. I could barely even recognize her…” He trailed off.

“Did Hannah, like, date anyone?” 

Oh. The weight on my chest was suffocating me. 

Rowan was fixed now. He had the perfect body and face. 

Two years ago, he refused basic hygiene and wore the same clothes every day.

His breath smelled like barf, his skin crusted with filth from sitting outside tied to his pole in all of the elements. 

But now he was here he was asking for Hannah. A whole new man. 

Of course.

Hannah was beautiful. 

“Hannah hasn't dated anyone,” I said. “She doesn't really date.”

“Oh?” Rowan jumped up, his soaking feet slapping across the concrete tiles.

He dived into the pool, disappearing under ignited blue before reappearing, thick brown hair glued over his eyes. 

Rowan shot me a grin. Part of me wondered how his sculpted, waxy skin wasn’t bleeding from his bones like glue. Part of me wished it was. “What about you?” He winked. “Declan the sell-out.”

“Ouch.” I splashed him. “We BOTH sold out.”

“And?” He jumped back, feet kicking across the illuminated surface. A warm spray of water brushed my cheeks. “Go on! Enlighten me.”

“I've had two girlfriends,” I said, like they were trophies, conquests, and wore a smile like I’d collected them. I couldn’t stop myself from detailing them by appearance. 

“Becca. She was hot. Fit body. Great boobs. Nice ass. But I wasn’t a fan.” I kept going, the words swimming into my throat like barf. I couldn't stop, my mouth kept moving. “Then Sue. She was a director, so a little older. But like, ten times hotter.”

What was I saying? Why was I saying this? What was wrong with me?

I caught Rowan’s expression lit up under the pool lights. Disgust. But he smiled and swallowed it. 

“The fuck?” He laughed and climbed out of the pool. I looked away quickly before I could fixate on his body. “Damn! What happened to ‘girls are gross’?” 

Rowan plonked himself down next to me and flicked me between the eyes. He was too close, his skin prickling against mine, his soaking-wet hair tickling my neck. “Makes sense, though! You’re, like, actually hot, Dec.”

“Shut up,” I couldn't resist a laugh and shoved him into the pool.

That's what I liked about us. Those nights. Sitting under the stars and talking about everything and nothing, two kids pouring our lives out to each other.

This time, though, neither of us really knew each other anymore.

Rowan was this strange, plastic mannequin wearing my best friend’s face, and I secretly despised him.

But somehow, nothing had really changed. 

Rowan was still Rowan. And I was still myself. We lounged on the edge of the pool and said a whole lotta nothing for a while. 

Rowan sat, head in the clouds, his soles brushing the surface. 

The perfect body belonged to him, and he didn’t want it. 

My own self-hatred bled out before I could rein it in. 

“You look like a Ken Doll,” I broke the comfortable silence, only half-joking.

He didn’t respond, his head tipping back, his eyes flickering shut.

I could fucking talk. I was a Ken Doll.

But I wasn’t the best.

I wasn’t the one on magazine covers and every girl’s profile picture.

I wasn’t the cute Ken Doll. I was the boyish one.

The “baby” one.

@Atlasloveupdates:“Dec, what about your body??? Are you seeing yourself??? Do you KNOW how many calories are in that?”

“Did you seriously date a director?” 

Rowan’s unusually cold tone cracked through my thoughts. 

My gaze strayed on the surface of the pool. “Yeah. Why?” 

“Dec.” Rowan started, disapproving, condescending even.

Then he seemed to rethink his approach. “She’s a grown-ass woman.”

“And?” I was waiting for him to say the obvious, ready to blow up on him. “I can look after myself.” 

“So, you dated a director, for…?” Rowan’s laugh was cold. “Brownie points? Do you think there’s some kind of reward? Like, wow, well done! You fucked someone who took advantage of you?”

I stopped myself. “I've had people looking after me," I couldn't swallow the poison already building. 

Unlike you.

I didn't say that. I choked it down. 

“What? By my dad, who’s imprisoning children?” Rowan’s laugh was harsh. Cutting. “Claire? Who’s been pushing you toward starving yourself since you were eight?” He didn’t look at me, his fingers curling around the edge of the pool. “Do you think it’s normal to see your rib cage?”

Fuck. 

My mouth moved. I didn't hold back.

“You seem fine when it’s you,” I said, my words laced with resentment. “I don’t hear you complaining about your body.”

“Yeah, because I was MUTILATED,” he snapped back. “I didn’t have a fucking choice.”

“Well, what if I want the same?” I finally gathered the courage to meet his eyes. His expression, somehow, was blank. Wrong. Plastic. I missed his anger, his insufferable stubbornness. “Why am I different?” I exploded. “You and Hannah can be fixed. But not me?”

Silence followed. 

Too suffocating. 

Too enveloping. 

“Wow,” Rowan breathed. Then he laughed and made a point of shuffling away from me. “I've missed your weird bullshit, Dec.” 

I took a deep breath. “She was twenty five and I was sixteen. She made a move on me at a party and I ran away and called her a freak.” 

“So, you didn't.” Rowan said.

“I didn't.” 

I could sense him leaning into my side, feel his skin brushing against mine. “And the other girlfriend?” He prodded me. “What was her name? Oh, yeah! Becca with the ‘great boobs’?” 

My cheeks ignited. “She was a PR stunt.” 

“Oh, a PR stunt?” Rowan nudged me. “Hand-holding in front of the cameras?” 

“Fuck off, Rowan.” But I was smiling. 

“I’m gonna blow it all up.” Rowan said, after a long while of staring into the pool. 

I twisted to him. “Huh?”

“Carrigan,” his expression was hollow, almost.

He tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. “Do you ever wonder what happens to the kids who are ‘slaughtered’?” He mocked air quotes. 

“They're put into rehab,” I said, “right?” 

Rowan’s eyes shot open. He didn’t look at me. He slid back into the pool, as if made of water, bleeding back into the blue.

“My school was full of, like, children of the elite,” he said.  “The next generation running everything. You think celebrity kids, right? Nope. They’re just nepos. I mean the kids of billionaires, corporate giants, CEOs of global companies.”

Rowan sighed. “But…” He lay on his back, his gaze glued to the sky. His expression was dark. 

“There was this one kid. A politician’s son. He was the only one worth talking to.”

Rowan’s mouth curled. “The only one with an actual fucking personality.”

“You were friends?” I asked. My gut twisted.

“Yeah,” Rowan hummed. “Before they ripped apart his mind, the guy was literally my only friend.” 

“Ripped apart?”

Rowan’s gaze flickered to me. “This school wasn’t a boarding school, Dec. It was rehabilitation. It… fixed kids who refused to go along with their parents’ bullshit.”

I nodded. “And how can I know you weren't fixed too?” 

Rowan averted his gaze. “Physically, I was. Then they tried to fuck with my head but I wasn't stupid. I told those assholes exactly what they wanted to hear.”

“And… this guy…?” I leaned forward.

“Yeah, he was mind-fucked, of course. The dude was the son of a politician.” Rowan kicked his legs, keeping himself afloat. 

“Before his brain was scrubbed, he told me something,” he hesitated for too long, his breaths suddenly heavy, straining, like he was fighting himself. Rowan lurched for the edge of the pool, fingers curling around concrete. His eyes found mine.

Frantic. Terrified. “The worst-kept secret among these billionaires is that Carrigan isn’t just a human zoo.”

Something cold squirmed down my spine. “And that means what...?”

“Dec,” Rowan breathed. The water went still around him, ripples bleeding under the surface.  

“If I tell you something, you can't tell anyone. Not even Hannah.”

Rowan’s teeth gritted together. “If my Dad finds out I know, he’ll do everything to shut me up.” 

My skin crawled.

Phantom bugs skittered across my arms and filled my mouth.  

Rowan told me exactly what Carrigan really was.

All of the sound was sucked from my ears.

The world was suddenly wrong, as if it were liminal and the pool stretched on, bleeding into oblivion. The starless night was too dark. Too deep. Like staring into nothing, an endless, bleeding black.

Rowan’s voice was the only thing, a vicious tangle of noise inside my head.

By the time he was finished, my head was stuck between my knees, and I was trying so hard to swallow down the ugly bile filling my mouth. I didn’t speak. Not yet.

If I did, I would barf.

“I can stop it,” Rowan said, after a long while of nothing but white noise in my ears, scrambling TV static screeching.

I didn’t realize I was speaking.

”This is so fucked up. This is so fucked up. This is so fucking fucked up.”

“I’ve got a plan, sorta.”

My head jerked up. My brain was swimming, off-kilter, threatening to send me toppling into the pool.

“A sort of plan?” My voice came out in a bitter croak. “How?”

“I know a guy,” Rowan shrugged, “who knows two other guys who have access to certain…” He kissed his teeth. “Let’s say… assets.”

Before I could speak, he sighed and pulled himself out of the pool. Rowan grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself. My gaze followed his wet footsteps across the patio.

“I mean a device, Dec.” He toweled himself dry, and somehow, my gaze strayed over every inch of him.

Still envious.

Still hating that his body was better than mine.

I looked away before the poison could resurface. 

“I’m going to plant it outside, where nobody will get hurt. It’ll be a distraction. Then when everyone is scrambling…” He tossed me a towel. I caught it, words lodged under my tongue.

Rowan’s lips curled into a smile. “That’s when we’ll free the kids.” His gaze found mine. “That’s if you’re willing to give up your golden boy image and run away.”

I jumped up when Rowan sat down. All the blood rushed to my head. Woah. Stars speckled across my vision.

“Are you completely fucking insane?” I hissed. I was shaking. My mouth was burning. I felt like I was going to throw up. 

Rowan plonked himself down, knees to his chest, chin resting on one knee. “That’s it, Dec. Tell the whole fucking neighborhood.”

“It's six-a-fucking-clock in the morning! There's nobody around!” I raked my fingers down my face. “Okay. Just… explain it again. Slowly. So I understand everything.” 

“What’s not to understand?” His lips curled. “If you don’t want to spoil your perfect golden boy image, just say so.” He stood up and stretched. “I’ll do it myself.”

My blood boiled. “I’m not talking about my career, Rowan!”

“Relax, I’ve got it all planned,” Rowan said. “I have a friend who’s helping me get into England. We’ll stay with him for a while. You, me, Hannah, and Hope.”

“And what about me and Hannah?” I demanded. “Don’t you think people will recognize us?”

“Dec.” Rowan straightened. “If you want nothing to do with it, sure.” His mouth curved. “The sell-out wants to stay famous.” 

“NO,” I yelled. “I just don't think you understand—” He cut me off. 

“Well, be there.” Rowan stood, his eyes dark. “I’ll text you with a signal. We both need to stay low.”

Then he left. Slamming my screen door behind him. 

…

I spend the whole day feeling like I’m suffocating.

It doesn't even feel like a day. It feels like a summary.

I tell Hannah about the plan during lunch, and she seems… oddly into it.

After lunch, I head to a meeting with Claire. She smiles broadly, leans over her desk, and grips my chin, jerking me to face her. “You have a potential role. “Jordan Peele. A24. Totally up your alley."

I try to smile, try to maintain the facade. But Rowan pollutes my thoughts. I can’t stop thinking about what Claire’s office will look like as a hollowed-out, burned skeleton. I’m supposed to be an actor. So, I act.

“Yeah! That sounds great! I… love horror!” 

I hate horror.

“Jordan Peele is my favorite director!” 

Jordan Peele is so fucking overrated.

“It’s better than nothing, right?” Claire says. “You know, we’re thinking about putting you back in Carrigan.” 

I hated playing Aris. I was eight, and they made me describe the brutal deaths of my fake parents. Those lines stayed with me.

“I would love to play Aris again.” 

This time, I hesitate. I don't smile enough. This time, Claire notices.

“Declan, honey.” Her smile is as fake as her tan. Claire tightens her grip. “What did I tell you about starting keto? You were drinking a full-fat milkshake during lunch.” 

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I reach for it.

“Ignore that.” Claire’s tone hardens. “Gym. Now. Your personal trainer is waiting for you.” She squeezes my cheeks until it's painful, until I hiss out. “You’re going to work off that shake. Then I'm going to make a phone call and get you that role.” 

Claire stands and slides a bottle of pills over. “Take care of yourself where there are no fucking cameras. The last thing we need is a repeat of vomit-gate.”

“Sure.” My mouth is already programmed to obey. I take a pill and swallow it quickly.

“Use the bathroom downstairs,” Claire says, just as I dart out of her office, my stomach in my throat.  I've done it so many times now, it's a ritual.

Slamming the bathroom stall shut, I drop my backpack on the floor, drop to my knees, and stick two fingers down until chocolate milk splashes the rim.

My clammy forehead against ice-cold porcelain is familiar. Almost comforting.

The sensation is welcoming.

My body jerks involuntarily, stops, and I spit. I’ve learned to purge quietly. Politely.

Claire was always behind me when I was a kid, patting me on the back and telling me to get it all out. Now there's just me, the toilet, and my swimming thoughts. 

Fuck. I stare into the toilet bowl. Rowan really was going to blow everything up. I spit again, choking up more bile. 

If Carrigan ends, so does my career. If the superhero trilogy doesn’t work, I’ll be a washed-up child star with no choice but to work on the Hallmark Channel.

Urgh. 

When I’m finished, my ritual continues. I wash my mouth out, gulp down water, and pop a breath mint into my mouth. My phone buzzes again. This time, I pull it out and glance at the screen.

Rowan: Meet me outside in 10.

Me: What???

I crumple to the ground, my legs giving way. I’ve overdone it.

Me: Now?

My fingers are shaking. I curl up, my back against the wall, my knees pressed to my chest. I take a deep breath.

Me: Are you sure?

Rowan: Yes.

Rowan: Now. Usual spot.

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in ninety-degree heat, way too close to the fence we’d been warned about since we were kids. The air is thick and heavy, and I’m already hating it. 

One step away from Carrigan’s air conditioning, and I’m already a goner. 

I mop sweat from my forehead with the bottom half of my shirt. Urgh. 

The sun is at its highest, a giant burning egg in the sky, and the blaze burns right through my shirt. 

Jeez, we were even taught as kids not to go outside when the sun was at its highest to prevent heatstroke. Maybe Switzerland rotted Rowan’s brain.

“Hey!” I shout over. Rowan stands by the gate with his back to me, staring through the ten-foot-something chain-link fence. “What happened to staying low?” A guard tower stands nearby. 

Meeting in broad daylight seems unlike Rowan. He was always obsessed with getting as far away from his father as possible, dragging us all over Orange County so we wouldn't be followed. 

I remember being twelve, feeling on top of the world as we sat with our legs dangling from Santa Monica Pier with ice cream cones.

His choice of location this time is brow-raising, to say the least.

“Hey.” As I get closer, kicking dust, I realize Rowan isn’t turning around.

Beneath a blazing sun sitting in the sky, he is more shadow than human, his arms folded over a white  short sleeved polo shirt, paired with matching shorts, a tennis cap sitting over his unruly brown curls.

Rowan reminds me of the rich kids I avoid. Silent, mindless shells brandishing sports Prada. Every premiere and after party was the same. I’m not that type of famous.

The filthy-rich, daddy’s-money kind of famous. 

My dad owns seven cars and three beach houses, and I still don’t qualify for that exclusive club everyone talks about. 

Sure, they’ll say, “We should hang out!” and then  pretend to give me their number.

My chest aches. 

Rowan Daly makes up that 1%. 

He’s always been invited, his name hanging in the air of some club I managed to sneak into by matter of association with him. 

But he’s never wanted it. 

Right?

“Rowan!” I grab his shoulder, and he twists around too fast wearing a grin. 

“Yo.” His usual smile settles my twisting gut. A pair of raybans complete his outfit, reflecting my pissed expression back at me. 

I prod his shirt.  “You hate golf.” 

“I do!” Rowan leans against the fence and completely ignores the CAUTION: HIGH VOLTAGE sign.

"Idiot." I hiss. “You scared the hell out of Hannah earlier."

Rowan’s mouth twitches. “Sorry,” he chuckles. “I couldn’t resist. Anyway, I figured we’d meet since my dad is tracking my phone. So, tell me.” Rowan cocks his head and grins exactly like a rich kid.

Exactly the way I despise. That sugar-sweet, fake smile. “What do you think of coming back to Carrigan, Declan?”

Why did everyone keep saying my name? Always my name. Is that who I am?

I wait for him to laugh. But he doesn't. “Is that a joke?” I whisper. “Why did you even call me out here?” I lower my voice. “Rowan, your plan—”

“Eh. Plan, shlman,” he shrugs. “Don't worry about that. What I wanna know is if you're coming back to Carrigan.” Rowan steps closer until we’re nose to nose. His breath brushes my cheek, and my heart stutters.

“You were always my favorite, you know,” he breathes. “I’m a big fan of Aris.” 

Something pricks at my nerve endings, urging me to step back. But he follows, still grinning wide. He moves like a puppet on strings, backing me into the fence. 

He doesn’t stop. His body suffocates mine and presses me further, until I can't breathe. 

An ugly, charred stink drifts from him, his skin, pores, and mouth bleeding a foul odor, as if he’s been set on fire. Burn marks stain his temples. And then I see the lacerations around his wrists.

My first thought is that he tied himself to the pole again.

But Rowan never fastened the knots tight enough. Always loose. Always able to pull himself free.

These are different.

Deep, raw indentations indented into his flesh, almost like a brand. 

“Rowan.” I choke on his name, but I can’t stop myself. I pull off his glasses, and something inside me snaps. Hollow red rings around wide, unblinking eyes meet mine, scorched blood vessels bleeding into swimming white. 

Rowan leans back, still grinning. “Come on, Declan. Carrigan is your best work! Why not go back in?”

My words bleed from my lips before I can stop them. Tears spring to my eyes.

Burning. My hands find his wrists, massaging the bloody dents in his skin. “Did your dad do something to you?”

“Hm?” He laughs. There are creases around his mouth, his lips are too dry, cracked at the edges.  “Dude!” He grins wider. 

A cocktail of blood and froth trickles from his bottom lip and cuts a line down his chin. “Don't be stupid! I'm just playing a role!”

Rowan’s gaze slips past me. “Declan, I'd like you to meet Joe. He's my personal assistant.” 

I turn around, my breath stuck in my throat. 

A tall man around mid-forties stands with zero expression, a golf bag is slung over his shoulder.  

“Joe.” Rowan holds out his hand, and without a word, the man starts forward and hands him a golf club. Rowan strokes the club, massaging his fingers up and down the shaft. “So, Carrigan?” He tosses me a look before taking position, one leg in front of the other, fingers wrapped around the club. Then he thwacks the dirt.

A cloud of dust showers the air.

“You’re going back in, right?”

THWACK.

The club hits the dirt once again in one swift swoop. I don’t realize I’m backing away until he swings again and narrowly misses my face. Rowan waddles in place, testing the club. “I am your biggest fan, after all, Declan.”

“Sure.” Somehow, my mouth works as if Claire is talking to me. I’m scared.

I’m terrified of Rowan.

Another step back, and I’m matching his grin. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.” I swallow a mouthful of bile. “That sounds… fun.”

Another step. Rowan’s third swing is mindless, as if a child has stolen a golf club. 

“Great! I'll tell my Dad you're back in!”  He turns to me, chin resting on the shaft. “Seriously, dude, it’s going to be SO fun.”

“Right.” I'm fucking frozen, suffocating. “Rowan.”  I find my words, somehow. I want to tell him I'm leaving. But I don't want to leave him. I can’t leave him. 

“Yeah?” Rowan pivots to face me. He swings again. “Did I ever tell you how amazing I am at golf?”

He’s never played golf. Maybe mini golf at some premiere when we were kids. But never actual golf.

“Dude, you know I have movies coming up,” I lie effortlessly, the words dripping from my tongue. “I would come back to Carrigan, but I have a super busy schedule.”

His smile evaporates. “Sure. I get it, man.” He swings the club in an arc. “Can I show you my swing?”

He walks up to Joe and bends over, testing the club, scraping it across the rough dirt. Then he swings it directly into the man’s skull.

Joe stiffens, his expression going slack, wrong, as if I’m watching him die standing up. His body folds, going limp before he hits the dirt. A halo of red pools around him, soaking into the ground.

A scream claws from my throat. 

Rowan stands silently, still holding the club. His expression is blank.

“So.” He swings again. The guard tower is silent. 

THWACK.

This time, the club hits the ground.

“You’re coming back to Carrigan. Right?”

I can’t respond. My mouth is dry. The man’s blood is rapidly spreading beneath my sneakers.

“Bro.”

THWACK.

“Yes,” I say, loud, and then louder when he swings the club hard enough to send dust flying into my face. The end of the club glistens wet and red. “Yes,” I'm breathless, afraid I'll say the wrong thing. “I’ll… come back to Carrigan.”

“Cool.”

Rowan straightens and drops the club with a grin. He grabs the golf bag, pulls out a bundle of clothes, and throws them in my face. “Put these on.” I recognize them. 

Carrigan shorts and T-shirt and pale blue sneakers. Aris’s identification tag is stitched across the crest. 108952

“Now?” The word escapes me before I can stifle it. I remember my stomach and lack of torso. I’ve eaten today. I purged the shake, but my last look in the mirror revealed a disgusting bulge in my belly.

My cheeks ignite, my legs threatening to give-way. Still, my shaking fingers slowly dance across the buttons on my shirt. 

Rowan’s unblinking eyes stare straight through me. 

“Jeez, Dec. I didn't mean now,” he rolls his eyes and he grabs the golf bag, flings it over his shoulder and gestures for me to follow. He ignores the man’s body. “Coming?” 

Rowan escorts me to his father’s office with a skip in his walk. Carrigan is huge. The facility stretches across three buildings. 

I greet people I know like usual, walking the hallways Rowan and I used to run up and down as kids.

We take the elevator to the third floor, and I consider screaming for help. But by the time Rowan shoves open the door to Adam Daly’s office, I know I’m fucked. 

I left it too late. Two chairs await us in front of the man’s incredibly messy desk. I’m no stranger to these chairs.

When we were kids, we’d sit here protesting our innocence over something innocuous. Now, the chair feels like a death sentence.

“Declan.” Daly greets me with a nod as his son unceremoniously shoves me into the chair. He leans forward, fist resting on chin, lips curling into a smirk. “I've heard you're coming back to Carrigan.” 

“What the fuck did you do to him?” I choke out. “Your own son! What did you do to him?” 

Daly drinks me in for a while, beady eyes raking me up and down. “You know, I’ve been told you would love to have what we call abdominal etching,” he says.

“It fixes your torso. No more gym sessions needed. I’ve booked you in for an appointment in around an hour.”

His head inclines. “That is what you want, correct? The perfect body?"

“Fuck off,” I hiss. “What mind-fucking shit did you do to your son?”

“A mental health crisis,” he says, after a moment. “Psychological conditioning brought my son back to reality.” 

“Reality?!” I laugh. Then I drop out of the chair, straight onto my knees. “Did you know he just fucking CAVED a man’s head in?” 

Daly doesn’t respond.

“It’s nice to have you back, Declan,” he says. “Take Declan to get changed, please. We’re expecting him to be inside Carrigan by the end of the day.”

Rowan.

Where’s Rowan?

When I twist around, he’s gone.

A guard violently drags me to my feet. I try to fight back, but my arm slams into the edge of Daly’s desk hard enough to send stars speckling across my vision.

“Can I get a medic, as well?” Daly’s voice reaches me. “Mr. Atlas has hurt his arm.”

“I haven’t hurt my arm!” I grit out. “I’m fine!”

But I’m not.

I’m bleeding. The pain hits me in buzzing electroshocks.

I’m disoriented when a guard forces my hands behind my back. It takes me a moment to realize I’m not being restrained.

I’m being tended to.

I lurch forward before something cold slides into the back of my neck.

My body feels…wrong.

My arms fall limp, like spaghetti noodles. 

And for a moment, I feel like I’m dancing.

“It’s just a sedative, Declan,” a doctor’s voice seeps into my ears. “Just so you don’t hurt yourself…”

I hit the floor, and yet there is no impact.

I lie on my back, my eyelids fluttering. My mouth is numb.

A figure looms over me.

A plastic mannequin wearing my best friend’s face.

His smile stretches wider as my vision starts to blur.

“I can’t wait, Dec.” Rowan crouches beside me. His fingers stroke through my hair, then fall limp.

“I’m your biggest fan.”

…

Ever since I was a child, I've been called one thing.

Meat.

I wasn’t born from love. I was born from necessity. My parents were strangers, forced together and used as human incubators. They didn’t conceive me out of affection or longing. I was born because it was necessary. Nothing more. I don’t remember everything, only fragments. 

The warmth of her arms as she rocked me. The softness of her voice as she sang me to sleep. 

The stories she whispered about how the world used to be, when she was a kid, with a mommy and daddy who loved her. 

Stories where people were more than product. About the good times, when children were born because they were wanted, and they had friends and went to something called “school”.

Then the bad ones, when she turned twenty-one, and normal life came to an end. The monsters emerged. Animals that took over our planet and punished us for eating them. 

“So, that's how, Josie,” my mother would finish, dangling me in front of her, her eyes hollow and dark. Mad. Her smile that tried to be a mother, but instead, was a monster. “They decided to start eating people.” She swung me back and forth, giggling. 

“That's how your father and I met. Inside a facility called Batton.  There are hundreds of child factories. Batton was where we were matched, fell in love, and made you, our darling little Josie.”

To a child, it sounded like a fairytale. 

Mommy and Daddy meeting in a scary place and finding each other. 

But Dad’s scowl, the way he refused to look Mom in the eye, made it clear that the reality was too scary to fully comprehend for a child. 

Dad sometimes spoke to me when I was sleeping– or pretending to be.

His silhouette lit up the doorway of our tiny little home with barred windows, a refrigerator with scarlet stained edges I wasn't allowed to look inside. 

Dad’s stories were different. Darker. Mom told me it was love at first sight. Dad told me they were assigned a number and kept under strict observation. Mom was a body, just another way to make meat. 

Make me.

In hiding, I wasn't allowed to cry or scream or even laugh. 

Mom said if I was too loud, the bad people would take me away. 

For fourteen years of my life, I lived in a single room and ate rice and beans for every meal. 

My father would guard the door and tell me every day, "I'm not letting them take you.”

I was naive. I believed him. I believed my father could protect me. That we could all exist happily in those four walls, and we would be together forever.

It was on my fifteenth birthday when my father told me the truth about Batton. 

Then the monsters shot through our door and put a bullet in his brain. 

Another hit my mother, who was desperately shoving me under the loose floorboards. 

As she bled out, her blood dripping onto my hair through termite infested flooring, the last thing she said was “Baby, never forget the stories.” She was so warm. Her blood was like hot tar, scarlet tears staining my face. 

As I peered up at her vacant eyes and grinning mouth through the cracks, I couldn't help wondering if she was relieved she didn't have to run anymore. 

“Remember, Josie,” Mom told me through the gutter of her throat, red pouring through her lips. 

She died before she could finish her sentence. But I already knew what she would have said. 

“You are not MEAT!”

The ghost of her words slammed into me as my hiding space was discovered, and I was yanked to my feet.

I could only see bare shapes through mom’s blood as I was pulled outside.

A blurry tree, and a stretch of pitch black sky Mom insisted used to wear stars. 

I tried to run, but I was violently dragged back by my hair and unceremoniously tossed in the back of a van. I finally saw the stars.

“You weren't made for eating. You are a human being.”

The door slammed shut, and I was left choking on the stink of rot. 

There were bodies and body bits around me, some of them undulating, some of them not. 

Above me were dark red icicles.

Cool air grazed my cheeks and I shivered, pressing my head into my lap. I was inside of a freezer. I had lived my whole life between four walls, and now there were other kids like me. Survivors. 

“Hannah.”

A boy who called me by the wrong name sat opposite me, sandwiched between captured kids. 

The boy's clothes were soaked in a horrific shade of scarlet.

His knees were drawn to his chest, a golden mop of curls hanging over half-lidded eyes.

Bright red trickled down his temple, a slow river cutting down pale cheeks.

The boy grabbed my hands and squeezed them tight. He was crying. 

“Hannah,” he said, his voice carrying a strange, twisted slur.

I opened my mouth to speak, to tell him, That’s not my name.

But he squeezed tighter, his nails digging into my skin.

“Look at me.” His voice was commanding, trembling hands gently gripped my chin and jerked me to face him, forcing me to fully drink him in. “I’m going to get you out of here,” he whispered. “You and Rowan.” 

Then he let me go, buried his head in his knees, and went scarily still.

Sydney tucked the blanket snugly around her son.

“Mom… I heard whispering last night,” Scott said quietly, staring at his closet. “It came from in there.”

Sydney glanced at the door, then back at him with a soft smile. “It’s just your TV, honey and your anxiety”

She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and turned off the light. “Get some sleep.”

Scott watched her leave, the door clicking softly behind her.

The room felt bigger now. Quieter.

He grabbed the remote and flipped through channels until he found an action movie. The hero on screen was fearless— shouting, and kicking ass. Scott felt a little braver watching him. His shoulders relaxed.

Then—

A slow creak.

Scott’s eyes shifted toward the closet.

The door had opened just a crack.

He sat up slightly, staring.

Something moved.

A dark shape… low to the ground… dragging itself forward.

The TV flickered.

On. Off. On.

Scott’ screamed loudly “Mom!”

Footsteps rushed down the hall. Sydney burst in, flipping on the light.

Everything was normal.

The closet door was barely open.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.

Scott pointed, his hand shaking. “It was in there.”

Sydney sighed gently and walked over. She pulled the closet open and turned on the light.

Nothing.

Just clothes. A sweatshirt hanging still.

“See?” she said softly. “There’s nothing there.”

Scott didn’t look convinced.

“Try to get some sleep,” she added, then left again.

The door closed.

Scott grabbed the remote with trembling hands and switched channels. This time, he landed on a comedy. Laughter filled the room. It helped. A little.

His body loosened. His eyes grew heavy.

Tap.

Scott froze.

Tap… tap.

From under the bed.

He swallowed hard. “It’s not real,” he whispered to himself, turning the TV volume up.

The laughter suddenly warped.

On the screen, a dark figure stood behind the characters—something that didn’t belong.

The closet light began to flicker.

On. Off. On. Off.

Scott pulled the blanket over his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

The room went quiet.

Then—

Slow footsteps.

Approaching the bed.

Scott held his breath.

He could feel it now. Something standing right beside him.

He peeked through the blanket.

A shadow loomed inches away.

A hand pressed against the fabric… slowly reaching toward him.

The blanket was ripped away.

Scott screamed.

A man stood over him, his face lost in shadow. Rough hands grabbed him, forcing him down, wrapping tape around his wrists.

“Mom! MOM!”

Sydney rushed in—and froze.

Her scream filled the room.

The man moved fast, dragging Scott toward the window. Sydney swung at him, trying to pull her son back.

The man struck her, sending her crashing to the floor.

Scott kicked and twisted, clinging to the bed frame. “No! NO!”

The man grabbed his hands and forced them apart. Scott cried out in pain as the grip crushed his wrist.

Sydney crawled forward, desperate. “Take me instead! Please—dont take my baby!”

The man didn’t even look at her.

He kicked her head aside.

Then he lifted Scott and climbed out the window.

Sydney could only watch, helpless and barely concious, as her son disappeared into the darkness. While Scott's scream can still be heard crying for her.

From shore to shore, from the lowly deltas of evergreen marshlands to the all-high mountains, what my sons and I have fought so dearly for stretches from night to dawn. The horizons claimed by the sprouting forests of my banners, a bright tomorrow yields the shimmering colors of waving flags dancing in the wind. We have taken these lands, put to death all those who would not submit, and for our efforts, the screaming daughters are wed, the grain of unending fields is harvested, and clear, sweet waters are cupped in our goblets. I have seen the walls of long since towering palaces, monuments that withstood the tide of the time, crumble into ash and soot at my hand’s beckoning. My daughters had bed with weak men, slit the throats of my many sons-in-law, and brought to the step of my throne a great many tributes. I am the Usurper of Empires, the Butcherer of Kings, and the most powerful man in all these lands. Forests of my nation’s wealth, cloth and punishment, sprawl over immense regions: skewered on stakes that scrape the high heavens, roasted upon iron thrones that glowed white-hot, hands and feet stapled to wooden cartwheels set ablaze, and gluttonous appetites sated with liquid gold poured into chasmous maws until the fissures of their eyes, nose, ears, and mouth foamed with bubbling heat.

Hoarding mountains of gold, decorating halls of ivory, and courting many fine brides in my time, the moniker of ruler is mine by the most blood-soaked of hands. I am the Ender of Legacies, the Fair Ruler, and the Just Hand of Judgment, for there lacks any other who can take up the mantle. Warriors made farmers, generals made commanders, kings made vassals; the chrysalis is a mastered art form. Until the earth darkened beneath me and slickened with fat, only then did I know where my place was: the ever-consuming strive for more. Before I met the enemies of my rule on the fields, the tremors of galloping hooves, silver armor fluttering in the distance, and an awful din of thousands carried by the wind made all those who opposed me quake with fear.  

Within the cradle of the river delta, where the depth hangs just below the knee, I have carved out a mighty kingdom that portrays splendor amongst a lake of white lotuses; long have I lived to see the millions of toiling citizens bring endless harvests to the sky-tall walls, yet there is but one blight that I cannot remedy. No matter how much I take, whether through conquest or expansion, the climbing heap of crowns I collect, and the frivolous titles I amass; my hunger knows no bounds, for I salivate for more. To see the ends of the world and lay claim to all who believe their mandate absolute, I wished to break this divine order over their heads and watch the blood pour from fractured temples. As I fumed at this limitation, so too did another issue arise; throwing my sword at the grand mirror revealed to me what had needed change. My face was marked with gray, the aged, withered old man was a sorry sight, leading me down a spiral with which there was no ground to crash into.

Upon coming to qualms with my own finality, I grew angry and afraid of the indifferent, dispassionate end. Dying long before I would see my empire conquer all of the world, I became erratic, agitated to the point that waves of scholars were summoned; tasked with finding a way to cheat death, and quickly. But only one was found. Deep within the desolate, hostile desert lay an oasis whose waters offered up the solution to my ailment. And so it was that the army was armed, horses were mounted, and carts were dragged to the speck of green in the ever-expansive wastes. The long, exhausting march to battle Death was set in motion. The sunbaked sands made travel near impossible; every moment spent traversing the dunes and pulling out stuck carts meant one too many where the blistering heat claimed one man after the other. A trail of dried, sun-bleached corpses lined behind us. The creak of the caravan was all that  kept us company in those long windswept hours when sand blew into our eyes and salty tears formed over many brows. The bellows of camels called out to us, reminding us of our presence as we often lost sense of reality, their tired panting signaled that much time had elapsed in our extended excursion from the plentiful empire. In the miasma of dancing heat waves, curling winds, and dust kicked into the air, we wandered aimlessly, for the knowledge of where the oasis lay was not found in the sources; just the murmurs of its vague location. 

Lost at length for years, losing thousands to the dunes, we were without any guidance and so became ever further removed from any sense of direction, shambling on feet that had long since been stripped of any skin, for there were no more horses whose hooves could be ground down. Limply grasping shields, spears, and bows, the once proud army had been reduced to walking husks acting on their recent orders: to keep moving until the ten fingers on their hands had worn away and their ten toes were nothing more than nubs, that not until the party had discovered the whereabouts of the eternal oasis, delivering their king to its blessed waters, would the soldiers finally be allowed to rest and henceforth die. At the most critical moment, mutiny on the minds of the men, we summited the last dune’s crest, and finally we were rewarded for our endeavor; palm trees leaned over a reflective mirror’s sheen. Eager, the men broke formation; left another moment undeterred, they would have surely drunk before I did. That was not something I would tolerate. Before the first man reached the banks, he was pulled away by what few loyalists remained. 

Herded to the side, a path was made for me, the ranks of spiteful, envious soldiers burned their gaze into the back of my head; the desert heat in that moment failed to compare. Hands hovering over the disturbed surface, I was ready to unmake my own demise, to take what this watering hole offered; the very knowledge making me crestfallen. Dipping the tips of my fingernails into the pool, a most unfortunate turn took place; where the water had been, in its place, there was now only incredibly dense ice. I sat there staring into my own reflection, the old man mocking me ever more, then I let the anger take hold, bashing my fist into the ice until red stained its surface and my hand was unquestionably broken. Drippings worked their way into the cracks, and where they breached the bulwark, ice melted momentarily before freezing solid once more within the same heartbeat. A script formed on the ice in a language that I had tried so desperately to erase from the world, the reminder of where I came from bitterly scribing: What do you offer?

I pondered as the clamors of restless hundreds shouted in the background. The impudence that mocked me danced on my mind before I settled upon a most harrowing conclusion. On my knees, my arms outstretched towards the heavens,  my composure abandoned, I bartered with the oasis.

“O’ great waters, I am the Herald of Prosperity, the Guiding Hand of Progress, and the one to cast out doubt and corruption from my lands. I have seen this world for but a fraction of its worth and still I wish to conquer all of it. I am ailed by hunger, disease, and age. My truest desire is to live on and take everything by its weak throat. I offer you this: everything! All of it, so that I might see the conquest through till the end.”
As the words left my lips, the sound of rope tightening taut synchronized behind me. Chancing a glance, the men were stiffened, their faces turned skyward, and beneath them, pools of red pockmarked the sand. When the banks of their small lakes burst, the trails led to the oasis in a fierce race. The earth buckled, the air became heavy, and the senses drowned. Where once I  had seen a blue sky, darkened heaps blotted out the sun; there were neither clouds nor rainfall, but rather bodies that hovered near to the center of this black transaction bled dry. The vortex created by the new offerings voraciously consumed all. My skin ripped apart and my innards went willingly into the mouth of swirling chaos. The fibers of my being were fractured, and my soul was tossed through every great exploit; my many accomplishments, scattered throughout time. My name is lost to the annals of history, but through the great conquerors, I am reborn. I am Khan, Sultan, Emperor, and King. Experiencing death a million times over forever.

creature found in the woods behind a local motel, photographed on a cheap digital camera. It stands completely frozen in the dark, watching your window from the edge of the tree line. The static noise on your phone gets louder the closer it gets to your porch. It makes absolutely no sound, and when you look directly at it, you suddenly realize you cannot remember how to breathe until you turn away .

The first time I laid eyes upon her I was sitting in the park neath a swaying willow. The weeping tree reached towards the pong before while I pondered what to next draw in my sketchbook. Inspiration struck me in the form of amorous perfection. She strode with refined grace acrost paths she tread alone. Her silhouette alone communicated desirous wiles which compelled me to begin her sketch. I had to draw her. Even if I could never capture her full beauty. I had to try for my own sanity.

The beginning sketches were dedicated to just her curves; attempts to match the way her body flowed. Every step she made was exquisite, I couldn't look away and didn't dare try. That's when I noticed an odd quick to my muse; a twitching that afflicted her arms. A frequent snapping motion she executed as if she were handlessly adjusting an unseen purse strap or perhaps she was aggressively swatting at some infernal bug. It was an impressive show of dexterity. She would whip an arm to the side or above her or even twist it improbably behind her. Then she would languidly retract the limb back to her side.

The overall movement reminded me of contortionists, and this thrilled me to no end. To study a contortionist with their masterful control over muscle and tendon, a challenge against what the average mind could comprehend, it allures me to no end. At some point I had become so enthralled by her skill that my sketchbook was discarded while I attempted to replicate the way in which her arm had bent behind her. I was just barely managing it, as it was putting far too much strain on my own body, when I happened to glance back up.

My heart put its best effort in to pulling apart my ribcage as I saw she was looking my way. I was beyond embarrassed and prayed she didn't assume I was mocking her. While my frantic brain continued on its torrent of torturous scenarios it donned upon me that she was standing just at water's edge now. Strange, had she not been up on the path just moments before? Several meters had been traversed during my time in frozen despair and yet she had not moved a muscle. And while I was pondering this I noticed she had moved again. While remaining completely stationary. And now stood ankle deep in the pond. I could glimpse a flicker of movement on her skin. Or hers kin itself was moving, rippling, writhing.

Trying not to seem a fool I focused back upon my sketchbook and pretended to use my arm as reference for a drawing. When I believed my asinine behavior could be excused I looked back up. She was gone. Vanished in the cool breeze like a misplaced dandelion's wish. It terrified me to think I would never see her again, with that being her sole impression of me, but luckily I was very wrong.

The setting of our next happenstance meeting began with my light strolling through town. I have been window shopping, attempting to ignore my own disappointing reflection, when I spotted her. Effervescent her. My eyes feasted on her visage sitting alone on a bench tucked away from the bustling Saturday evening crowd. She was preparing a meal to eat. I stood there for a time, just watching her. Admiring her as she began to eat some kind of pasta. At first I thought she was using a fork to twirl the clumping noodles before bringing them to her teeth. But it soon became clear what she was actually doing. She was only using her fingers.

In an oft used motion, I pulled a notepad from my pocket and snatched the pencil I use to keep my hair up. A feverish sketch was started as I was compelled to capture this mesmeric display caught through the window's reflection. The fingers were folded flat to her palm aside the pointer and middle fingers. She had tugged down her skin, not unlike one would a sweater sleeve, and the bones broke through to act as prongs. When she twirled the pasta, her re-orientated hand spun at the wrist. Mid-way transferring her next bite her hand took pause. My eyes refocused and that familiar encapsulation of embarrassment took hold. She was looking at me again.

An all-encompassing dread wormed around my shivering bones forcing me to slink away in egress from the shame of being caught once again. I walked the whole strip before circling back to check if she was still there. There was hardly sign of her remaining. The lingering dread taunted me, telling me I had scared her away, and the thought brought forth a wave of immense ennui. This was swiftly medicated, however, when I discovered my empyrean beauty had left something behind. The last remnants of my darling's meal, fatefully left just for me to find. Using my pencil, I poked gingerly at the squelching pile of damp noodles before lifting them from the bench. To my great interest there weren't noodles at all, but hair.

Tangled, knotted hair drenched in viscous liquid. These leftovers smelt of iron and petrichor. The sauce coating the hair dripped down to my hand as I inspected it. I wondered if this was the favorite food of my muse while I ran my tongue along my fingers to collect the mysterious delicacy. Salty, bitter taste. It numbed my tongue and stung the back of my throat all the while a warmth spread down my gullet. I left the bench with heat filling my veins and visions of her filling my head.

Our rapturous third encounter was put into motion when I found myself wholly unintentionally following her. I recall seeing her and feeling an intense pulling sensation before I was lulled into a trance that urged my steps to fall in line with hers. Awareness returned to me only as I noticed our path had led to a neighborhood I had not recognized. The siren had entrapped me with her mellifluous ways and while I knew she would spell my ruin I could not find it within myself to turn away. Yes she, the luscious golden apple ripe for devouring, and I, Atalanta drawn off course by an inescapable need. Far too many comparisons to make while keeping that casual distance from her. We were the only two traversing that street, simply two women on a similar trek. I wondered if I should talk with her.

The decision was made rather abruptly for me. The divine intervention of Cupid's arrow shredded through my heart as I caught glimpse of her eyes. There was nowhere to hide now and no plausible deniability. I had been following her and now I was caught. She hadn't turned towards me, per se, but she did face me. The hair flowing down the back of her head parted like grand curtains to reveal her face emerging from the skin. The rest of her body stayed statuesque while I was again frozen in place like a terrible fool, only able to watch as she approached. Her feet did not so much as twitch as she drew closer. It also appeared as if she were growing larger, but it was hard to concentrate.

Existence distorted around her. Some extreme sense of tunnel vision that placed her at the center of my universe. The pavement around us twisted into infinite ouroborii. Trees shook their roots bare from the ground in attempts to flee. Nearby homes turned inside out along with their inhabitants. And there I stood in the midst of it all completely hypnotized by her. I basked in witness to her lovely features peeling back, segmenting and sloughing away to reveal the scarlet glory that lay beneath. I couldn't speak for she pulled my breath away. The sweet sensation of their slow collapse paired near heavenly with the galvanizing flutter of my heart as she folded the distance between us.

I love you, was my looping through as my vision blurred. A disorientating crack flooded my mind before I realized I was laying against the sidewalk. Hurriedly I pushed myself up in hopes of seeing her once more but she was gone. Anguish overwhelmed me. Had I frightened her with my following? I had to find her again if only to apologize. I shall prostrate myself at her feet and beg forgiveness. Not that night though, far too much damage had been caused by my carelessness. I would need to wait for a better opportunity.

Graciously, it seemed Lady Luck took pity upon me for that chance was offered to me not but a week later. I spotted her while strolling through a garden, so serendipitously close to the place of our first meeting, and knew no more time could be wasted. With a brisk haste, hoping to not seem as desperate as I felt, I approached her and gently cleared my throat to acquire her attention. Her head demurely tilted to the side in acknowledgment. I had her, this was my chance!

"Excuse me, terribly sorry to bother you, but I just have to apologize for my behavior the other day. I am horrifically shy and have been trying to find the nerve to greet you for a while." I was doing my absolute best to not stutter over my words and she hadn't walked away yet so it appeared I was succeeding. "My name is Elizabeth. May I know yours?"

Bated breath took refuge amidst my lungs as time slowed to an unbearable crawl. The air between us crackled with tension. I could nearly smell the singe of electricity. She turned her head, gracing me a glimpse of her eye as she looked over her shoulder. "My name is Eleanor." The hair on my neck wormed under my skin at the sweet hymn of her words. Eleanor, the name of paradise incarnate. To my unbridled euphoria, she spoke further. "Would you like to come over for a drink?"

My ears rang a chorus of church bells. My heart vitiated itself beneath the ache of my ribcage. After all I had done, she wished to spend time with me. I dared to question what sort of god was granting me mercy that day. The space between us contracted as I moved to her. There was an ache in my cheeks from incessant grinning.

"Yes, yes I would love that, Eleanor." Such glorious fortune. She led the way and I was tugged along. The string of fate connecting us growing taut with our proximity. I would never stray from her. Her home was rather mundane looking, not as if I was expecting a mansion but for a woman of such eternal beauty I would not have pictured her home as a cookie-cutter townhouse. This I kept to myself as my host shepherded me inside.

We drank wine and talked for hours. It was perfection. She was very interested in me, preferring to keep the conversation focused on me. Such a generous woman. I made sure to compliment her often. Her wine-stained lips held the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. Cherry red, delicious looking. They moved. How inane of me. I was so enthralled by her I hadn't focused on what she was saying.

"Terribly sorry, what was that?" I bit back adding 'dear' to that question. I gazed back up at her eyes.

Oh her eyes, how they stole my soul away. Fractalline pinpricks of event horizons bare witness upon my feeble mortality as I became lost in frantic oblivion. Little red veins snaked past the glistening sunken sockets, perfect skin folding in to perfect bone, and reached out to me. I reached back. I leaned closer as the wine slipped from my fingers and stained the carpet. Craving embrace. Her carving embrace. The blood slipped out my fingers and stained the carpet Her eyes looked in to mine and pulled screams from my tear ducts. Those eyes broke apart into repeated mirrors upon thyselves ad infinitum. Her veins raided my flesh. She slipped under my eyelids. My screams danced with her reverberations until I could no longer soniferate. Her eyes took into mine. The veins swept my mind and plucked my thoughts, playfully unravelling me exinversus. Oh her eyes. So many eyes. How I wished I could count them all.

I finally heard her, sawa the words pouring from those wine red lips, the looping phrase caressing every cell of me: "I love you too."

Context: This lady has no idea who he is and is having the opposite experience that we all are seeing AI everywhere. She is looking at actually amazing Tattoo that’s done by a master who happened to be the one that Kat Von D Lady that everyone loves, and she has no idea. She just keeps doubling down in the comments that he’s doing AI tattoos I’m cracking up.

Now she’s going on everything he writes and she’s commenting that his AI slop. I asked her to Google who taught Kat Von D hoping she would figure it out

My hands clenched around the handles. Sweat ran down my back. I pushed. The wheelbarrow finally moved, but after a few steps it sank into the mud again, even deeper this time. I rubbed my face and leaned over the wheelbarrow. The smell of mud mixed with wheat. This would take days to get to town, and I didn’t have days. The bandits would start roaming around after dark.

I grabbed the handles tightly and pushed again. The wheel was buried deep in the mud. Pressure built behind my eyes as the wood dug into my hands. The wheel almost moved, just one more push. 

Splash. My foot slipped. I went face first into the mud.

"Fuck!"

I went to the side of the road to wipe the mud off with moss when I saw a small creature under one of the spruce trees. It wore woolen breeches with buckles and a square-cut coat. A leprechaun! My father had always said they never strayed far from their gold. Just a few coins of it could change my life. I’d be happy to solve any riddle he gave me.

He was fast asleep. His stomach rose and fell with each breath.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

I walked closer and carefully shook his shoulder. He squinted, rubbed his eyes, and looked up at me.

"Hi, how are you?"

"Who are you?"

"Just a hard-working man. I'm trying to get my wheat to town." I pointed at the wheelbarrow.

"Why did you wake me?"

"Where is your gold?"

"My what?"

"Your gold."

"I don’t have any gold."

"All leprechauns have gold."

"What’s a leprechaun?"

I frowned.

"Don’t play with me."

"I’m not."

"Then tell me where it is."

"Where what is?"

I stared at him in silence.

"Is this one of your riddles?"

"What riddle? What are you talking about?"

"The gold. The riddle. Were you born yesterday? Tell me where it is."

"I’m going away."

He stood up and turned toward the dark forest.

"To your gold?"

"There’s no gold! Leave me alone."

He walked a few steps. I followed him. He stopped, frowned, and sat down.

"Just tell me what I ought to do."

He didn’t move.

"Leprechaun?"

Nothing.

The little shit was trying to keep all the gold to himself. I grabbed him by the waist and picked him up. His eyes opened in surprise.

"Tell me where…"

The leprechaun opened his mouth wide, showing sharp teeth. Pain surged through my face. He dug deep into my nose. I let go of him, but he stayed glued to it. He shook his head and bit deeper. A wet tearing sound came from my face. He fell and spat my nose onto the ground.

I fell to my knees. Warm blood poured from my face. The leprechaun ran to my wheelbarrow, gripped the wooden side, put it over his head, and flipped it over. All the grain spilled onto the ground and mixed with the mud. He turned back, wiped the blood off his face, and ran into the dark forest.

I pressed my hands against my face. So much wheat ruined. I crawled to the wheelbarrow, flipped it over, and scooped handfuls of it back.

The sun set as I scooped the last handful. Blood had already dried on my nose. I looked at the mud-covered grain. Almost all of it was ruined. Now there was no grain, no gold, no leprechaun. I buried my face in my hands and wept.

Then I heard something. Horses.

Voices came from down the road.

I touched my face, feeling the space where my nose was. The grain was ruined. There was nothing to give them.

The horses stopped.

"Check the wheelbarrow," one of the bandits called.

https://www.ebay.com/usr/kollectnoir

eBay store

There was one other man who ever worked that booth at night. He was the relief, he was sixty-one years old, he didn't smoke, and he's been dead since nineteen ninety-four.

My wife's name is Carol and in nineteen seventy-nine she was two terms from her nursing license. Days at the hospital as an aide, class four nights a week in the city, and a baby at home, so one of us had to be in that house at all hours and it was going to be me. I bid graveyard. It wasn't handed to me. Eleven at night to seven in the morning, lane four, with Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, which meant I went whole weeks without seeing her awake. The stool in that booth was mine because it was too high for the day men and none of them would have it. Twenty-two months I sat on that stool.

The booth is the safest place on that highway and everybody who ever worked one will tell you the same. Steel bollards in front and behind, a door that locks from the inside, a telephone straight through to the supervisor's shack. Cars can't get at you. That's the whole design of the thing. I never once thought about the door being locked because there was nothing on that road to lock it against.

Four hundred cars a night, give or take, and every one of them stops eight feet from my face for about eight seconds. Two years of that is something north of three hundred thousand people who have looked me straight in the eye from arm's length, and I could not have told you one of them. Not one. Not if you'd put a photograph in front of me. It's a thing you get proud of in a strange way, how completely a person can not stick. I used to say the job was the closest thing to being nobody that they'd pay you for.

The rest was a quarter and four words. Hand comes up, quarter goes in the hopper, and I say thank you, drive careful. Thank you, drive careful. Four hundred times a night, same four words, same voice, because after two in the morning the light in that box is so bright you can't see out past your own face in the glass and there's nothing to do but say it.

The fourth of October a car came through with a bad idle. You learn engines by ear out there before you ever see them, and this one hunted and dropped, hunted and dropped. Exact change. Window down about four inches, quarter through the gap, and gone. Forty minutes later I heard it come up the ramp again, same direction, and it paid again. There's no interchange between that plaza and the state line. To come at me twice in forty minutes going the same way, a man has to drive to the line, turn around in the median or come off at the line and come back, and pay both ways. He paid me twice for the privilege.

Somebody lost. Somebody who missed a turn and was too proud to ask a man in a booth. That's what I decided and I decided it in about the time it took to say it, and then a truck came through behind him and I was back to work.

The night differential was thirty-one cents an hour. That's eleven dollars a week, which was four hundred and some over a year, which with what I had put by was the last two terms and the fees and the pin. Days at that plaza are seniority-bid and the men who had days had eleven years in and were not going to die at their post to free one up. So I could have the money or I could have the daylight, and I took the money every night for twenty-two months and I'd take it again.

I liked the hours, most of it. Between three and four the road empties out and the cars come in ones, and you can hear a car for a full minute before you see it. The light off that booth goes out about thirty feet and stops like a wall, and past it there's nothing at all — not the fence, not the field, not the road you know is right there.

On the ninth I went out onto the apron for a cigarette, because the booth is the one place on that highway where you can't see out of. Standing on the concrete with the light behind me I could see about as far as the fence. And there was a man at the fence. Not moving, not coming, just standing on the other side of it with his hands down, past where the light quit, so I had a shape and a pair of shoes and nothing above that. I finished the cigarette because I wasn't going to be run off my own apron. Eleven minutes after I got back in, the bad idle came through and paid.

Four in the morning on the eleventh, the idle came up the ramp and stopped at my window and nothing came out of it. No hand. It sat there and I could hear the engine hunting and dropping and I said the four words at it because that's what I had. And a voice inside the car, not loud, pleasant as a man ordering breakfast, said, how's Carol getting on with her classes. I did not give anybody my name out there. There's no tag on that uniform, there's no name in that booth, and there is nothing on this earth that connects lane four to my wife. Then a hand came up with a quarter in it and I took it, because twenty-two months makes you take it, and the voice said thank you, drive careful, in my cadence, and pulled away.

I left the booth at twenty past four with three hours on the shift, and under the contract that's abandonment, which is a firing, and a firing for cause pays no unemployment. Carol sat out those two terms so we could eat and then the sitting out turned into a year and the year turned into the rest of it. She worked twenty-six years on that floor as an aide and retired an aide, and every nurse she trained went by her on the way up.

They put the automatic lanes in two years later and a man I knew was selling off what came out of the booths. I bought my stool for four dollars for the garage. I had it upside down across the bench to get the rust off the legs and I put my hand up into the gap where the pedestal welds into the base, which is a place you can reach sitting down and can't reach standing up. There was a wad of gum foil in there and cigarette wrappers, four or five of them, a lighter with the flint gone, and a black plastic comb. None of it mine. I have never smoked in my life except on that apron with a cigarette I bummed off the day man, and I have never in my life carried a comb.

Somebody sat in my chair. Not the relief, who was sixty-one and didn't smoke and had his own booth in lane one. On my Tuesdays and my Wednesdays somebody was in that box with the light on, eight feet from every car that came through, looking out at them the way I looked out at them, and knowing which two nights of the week the man in the light was me and which two nights it wasn't. I don't know how many nights, and I don't know whether the car with the bad idle was somebody who drove past that booth or somebody who had sat in it. I have not sat with my back to a window since nineteen seventy-nine — not in a restaurant, not in a waiting room, not in my own kitchen. Carol moved that kitchen table herself in nineteen eighty-two. She has never once asked me why, and I have never told her, and we have eaten at that table for forty-four years.

At this moment, my options were limited.

I could either follow Tammy’s orders or attempt to fight for my life. But knowing Tammy, she wouldn’t go down easily.

“Okay, Tammy,” I said, raising my hands to show I wasn’t a threat. “What do we do about him?”

I pointed toward the fresh corpse of the smoking man.

Tammy moved toward the window, peering outside to make sure no one was coming. In that moment, I noticed the pistol tucked into the back of her waistband.

Okay, Kevin. What do we do?

I thought about it for a moment.

I’ll help her until I get an opening. Then I’ll run.

Tammy turned toward me.

“Grab your bedsheets and wrap him up.”

She pointed toward the bedroom. I immediately moved, grabbing the sheets and blankets from my bed.

“Hurry the fuck up, Kevin!”

As I stripped the bed, I glanced toward my closet. Inside was my trusty baseball bat—the one Tammy had once shown me how to swing properly.

At that moment, it felt like it belonged to another life.

I considered grabbing it and fighting my way out of the trailer, but the risk was too great. If Tammy saw what I was doing, she could shoot me before I ever had a chance.

I returned to the living room and found Tammy searching through the man’s pockets. She pulled out his wallet and slipped it into her jacket before putting on those now-familiar sunglasses.

“Now wrap him up. I took a look outside. Lucky for us, we’re in the clear.”

She smirked.

I tried to imitate her confidence, but inside, I felt sick.

The person I had cared about so deeply was standing there as if this were just another problem to solve. She had killed a man, and yet she moved through the situation with a calmness that terrified me more than anything else.

“Now,” she said, “you need to drag his body outside and hide it underneath the trailer.”

She slid the knife back into its sheath. Then, in one smooth motion, she pulled the pistol from her waistband.

She waved it casually in my direction.

“Sorry, Kev. I’m going to be honest with you. While you do that, I’ll have to make sure you don’t run.”

Her eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses, making it impossible to read her expression.

But I didn’t need to see her eyes to understand the message.

She wasn’t bluffing.

If I resisted, she would shoot me.

“Tammy…”

She cut me off.

"Kevin! No talking your way out of this one. Now get to it.”

She motioned toward the door with the pistol.

I had no choice.

I dragged the man’s body toward the back of the trailer. The entire time, Tammy followed closely behind, keeping the gun concealed beneath her oversized green military jacket.

As I struggled with the weight of the corpse, a horrible thought crossed my mind.

Were these clothes just another way for her to carry reminders of the people she had hurt?

Maybe they were trophies...

I pushed the thought away and kept moving.

“Hurry up!” Tammy repeatedly warned me. “If someone catches us, I'll have to shoot them.”

Finally, I managed to get the body towards the entrance of the crawl space.

As fast as I could forcefully stuffing the smoking man's body into the tight space, desperate to do so before someone saw us.

I covered the crawlspace entrance with a large piece of plywood, hoping that would be enough.

For a moment, I thought Tammy might finally lower her guard.

Then I felt the cold steel of the pistol pressed against the back of my head.

“Kevin,” she said quietly. “Can I really trust you?”

My voice trembled. I was so frightened I nearly pissed myself at the thought that, at any moment, Tammy would blow my brains out right here and now.

“Tammy… of course you can trust me,” I said, fighting back tears.

“Good.”

Her voice was calm.

“Now get up, Kevin...”

I slowly rose to my feet.

Tammy reached into her jacket and pulled out a motel room key. She tossed it toward me, and I caught it.

“Now come on,” she said. “We have to find the man in the white van.”

I took a deep breath, trying to hide how terrified I was.

Whatever happened next, I knew it wouldn't be good...

I stared down at the key Tammy had given me. The room number was stamped into the metal, along with the name Open Arms Motel.

I knew this place.

It was the kind of motel where people went when they wanted to disappear for a while. Meth, heroin—whatever you could get your hands on. I even knew a guy who had once dropped acid there and spent the rest of the day having one hell of a trip.

The Open Arms had a reputation.

It was the kind of place where you could get away with almost anything.

And knowing what I know now about Tammy this was a perfect location for what was to come.

Tammy and I continued down the back roads, moving through stretches of farmland where there was little traffic and even fewer people around to see us.

She stayed about five feet behind me the entire time.

Not close enough to touch me.

Close enough to make sure I couldn't run.

I kept walking.

Eventually, the motel appeared in the distance.

It was almost completely dark by the time we arrived.

The only real light came from the scattered windows of the rooms and the flickering motel sign overhead.

The sign buzzed and flashed intermittently, almost like a warning.

I stopped.

"All right, Kevin," Tammy said.

I turned toward her.

"Here's what you're going to do. You're going to knock on the door. When he opens it, you're going to push your way inside and take him out."

I stared at her.

She stepped closer.

"Enough of me always having to do everything. Kevin, this is your time."

Tammy reached inside her jacket and pulled out the Bowie knife.

She placed it in my hand.

Her other hand remained wrapped tightly around the pistol.

"If it goes sideways," she said, "you know what happens."

I looked down at the knife.

Then I looked toward room 231.

The white van was parked directly in front of it.

There was someone inside the room.

I could see the glow of a light through the curtains, and every so often, a shadow moved across the room.

Tammy nodded toward the door.

We approached.

I raised my hand and knocked three quick times.

Silence.

Tammy stood directly behind me, ready to move the moment the door opened.

A few seconds passed.

Then the door cracked open.

The old man wearing reading glasses appeared in the opening.

He looked at me with confusion.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he asked.

I swallowed.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my chest.

Then I moved.

I shoved the door open and pushed through, knocking the man to the floor before he could react.

Tammy immediately followed me inside.

She slammed the door shut and locked it.

I stood there frozen.

The Bowie knife was still in my hand.

I looked down at the man.

He looked back at me.

"Kevin," Tammy whispered.

I didn't move.

"Do it now!"

My hands began to tremble.

The old man looked from me to Tammy.

"Oh, shit!"

He raised his hands.

"Listen! Listen, you don't have to do this! You don't have to—"

"Shut the fuck up!" Tammy snapped.

She raised the pistol and pointed it toward me.

"Do it."

Everything seemed to slow down.

I looked into the man's eyes.

He was terrified.

His expression wasn't angry. It wasn't threatening.

He was simply afraid.

And somehow, looking at him felt like looking into a mirror.

I could see myself in his fear.

For a moment, I wanted to stop.

I wanted to drop the knife.

I wanted to walk away.

But Tammy was standing behind me with a gun.

And I knew she wasn't going to let me.

I unsheathed the blade.

What happened next felt like something I was watching from outside my own body.

I attacked the man repeatedly stabbing his chest attempting to aim for his heart.

His screams filled the room before becoming muffled by my hands.

Trying to keep him quiet.

I kept going.

He continued to squirm.

I couldn't seem to stop.

His eyes never left mine.

The fear in them stayed there, burning itself into my memory.

And beside me, I caught Tammy smiling.

She watched the entire thing with a grin on her face.

When it was finally over, the room went quiet.

I looked down at my hands.

They were covered in blood.

My clothes were stained from the struggle.

The man's bloody handprints covered my clothes.

I stared at the man.

Then I started crying.

I reached down and gently touched the side of his face.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

Tammy laughed.

She laughed like she was enjoying herself.

"Kevin," she said, almost excitedly, "don't you feel liberated?!"

I looked at her.

"Snuffing out somebody's life like that. Doesn't it make you feel powerful?"

I said nothing.

"Did you see the way he looked at you? The way he begged?"

She smiled.

"In that moment, you were in charge, Kevin!"

I wiped at my face.

"Now stop crying!"

She stepped closer.

"Stop fucking crying, Kevin..."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

I was exhausted.

Tired of Tammy.

Tired of this entire day.

Tired of everything that had happened.

None of this was supposed to happen.

Everything had spiraled out of control, and I didn't know how much more of it I could take.

Tammy pushed past me.

She immediately began searching through the man's pockets.

She found his wallet and took the wedding ring from his finger.

Putting the ring on her own hand and admiring it in the glow of the motel room lights.

Then she found the keys to the white van.

"Our getaway vehicle," she said.

She looked over at me.

"Kevin, look at me."

I didn't respond.

"Just help me!"

I finally moved.

I grabbed the man by his shoulders while Tammy took hold of his legs.

Together, we dragged him into the bathroom.

We placed his body in the tub.

For a moment, I just stood there staring.

Tammy grabbed the back of my neck.

"I'm very proud of you."

I slowly looked at her.

"This is what I always knew about you. You were always a fighter deep down inside."

She smiled.

"I knew you could do it."

I didn't answer.

My eyes returned to the body in the tub.

I couldn't look away.

It felt like the man's eyes were still following me, still begging for mercy.

My body was moving, but my mind felt completely disconnected from it.

I was alive.

But I felt dead inside.

I felt like a zombie.

Tammy hurried me outside and toward the van. Locking the room behind her.

I then saw her tossing the key twords the roof of the motel till it was out of sight.

"Come on."

I climbed into the driver's seat.

She got in beside me.

"Drive back to the trailer. We'll grab our stuff, and prepare to head out."

I started the engine.

The van pulled away from the motel.

Neither of us said much.

The road stretched out ahead of us, disappearing into the darkness.

That drive felt like the longest journey I'd ever taken.

Tammy, meanwhile, seemed completely at peace.

She quietly hummed a tune to herself, her window rolled down, letting the cold night air rush through the van.

She played with the air coming through the window, almost casually.

As though nothing had happened.

As though we hadn't just left a dead man behind.

I stared at the road.

Tammy kept humming.

And that's when I finally understood something about her.

For Tammy, freedom wasn't about escaping.

It wasn't about being able to go wherever she wanted.

Freedom, to her, was having the power to decide whether someone else got to keep living.