Sweat dripped into Fredrick Carlisle’s eyes as he slashed at the tangle of green vines in front of him. They had been trekking through the jungle for most of the day now, and Fredrick’s arms were beginning to ache from swinging the machete.

            “Master Carlisle!” one of the guides called.

            Fredrick stopped and rubbed his shoulder. “What is it?”

            “The men- they are tired, and the sun goes away. Gone far enough for day.”

            Fredrick nodded, trying to hide his relief.

            As the other natives began to make camp, Fredrick looked around. The jungle all looked the same to him and he couldn’t see very far into the distance.

            “You know, Fredrick, if you squint like that all the time, your eyes may never fully open again.”

            Fredrick spun to see Veronica standing behind him with a mischievous grin on her face.

            “Don’t be silly. And besides, that’s easy for you to say because you’re wearing a hat.”

            “You have a hat; you just don’t wear it,” Veronica pointed out.

            Fredrick opened his mouth to say something, but then sighed. Despite being seven years younger than him, she always seemed to get the best of him. Knowing this, Veronica smiled as she undid the tulle around her neck and took off her hat.

            “Enjoying the trip, brother?” she asked as Fredrick eased his aching body onto the ground.

            He glared at Veronica. “I’m not supposed to be ‘enjoying’ this. The only reason we’re out here in this god-forsaken heat is because Lord Hammond promised us thirty percent of the profits from this treasure.” Fredrick irritably swatted away flies. “I should have asked for more.” He glanced at Veronica and was annoyed to see her hiding a smile. “What?” he asked.

            “You never can see the adventure in things, Fredrick. Why don’t you stop thinking about the money and instead think about all the new things we’ve seen?”

            Fredrick sighed. “I can try, but honestly, don’t you mind this heat? I mean, it’s cold in Russia, right?”

            Veronica shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve lived almost all my life in the ‘perfect weather of the beautiful English countryside’!”

She was mimicking Mistress Orth, a very proud neighbor of the Carlisles.

            Fredrick had to laugh; Veronica was very good at doing impressions. But as she smiled and went to help the natives, Fredrick chastised himself for making the comment about Russia. He knew perfectly well that she wouldn’t be able to remember Russia because she had been a baby when she’d arrived in England. His seven year old’s memory remembered the event well. Now he was twenty-four and he still couldn’t forget the tugging on his heart when he’d first seen her. That had served him well after his father had died five years ago, when Veronica had been only twelve. His last words to his father had been a promise to look after her. Was he doing that now, he wondered, by dragging a seventeen year old girl into the jungles of Thailand? But looking back, he knew that if he had tried to leave her at home, she would have put up such a fuss that it would have been the easier option to take her along as he had ended up doing anyway. His first instinct was to protect her and leaving her in the company of all the gossiping women who made up the social circle of their community would not accomplish that.

            As Fredrick watched the natives, he realized that they seemed on edge. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. Veronica came up and handed him a tin plate of food.

            “Somehow I almost prefer it out here,” she remarked thoughtfully, sitting down beside him.

            Fredrick looked at his sister in surprise. “What? Why?”

            “Out here, no one cares where you’re from, or what your last name is. Everything is so simple and honest too.”

            “But what about fine dresses and concerts and dances?”

            Veronica was quiet for a minute. “Fredrick, don’t you ever see it? The looks and the whispers? Forced politeness to my face and gossip behind my back. They don’t accept me, and they never will. Even your mother didn’t. I just- I don’t feel as if I belong there.”

            Fredrick’s mind again flashed back to his younger self. He had been ten when his mother had told him that Veronica was not a charity case, but his half-sister. Fredrick recalled the anger in his mother’s voice when she spoke of how his father had had a passionate affair with the beautiful daughter of a Russian nobleman, who had then died shortly after Veronica’s birth. “Your father didn’t have enough self-respect to leave that child in the frozen wasteland where it belonged.” His mother’s exact words. But Fredrick knew it hadn’t been lack of self-respect that had caused his father to bring Veronica home. It had been compassion. He too, shared that.

            He put his arm around her shoulders. “You belong with me, Veronica. I’m your big brother-” he smiled fondly “-and I’m going to take care of you.”

            Veronica smiled up at him. She rarely complained and even now the sadness vanished from her face. “I know,” she said.

Fredrick awoke, feeling damp, and muttered in disgust. For the purpose of traveling light, they had brought only one tent, which meant he had to sleep in his clothes. Every morning, he woke up drenched in sweat. He almost considered sleeping outside, but he didn’t want to leave Veronica alone. But something about this morning was different. Fredrick listened to the hum of insects and realized what it was. There was no indication that the natives were up and preparing the morning meal as they usually did. Careful not to wake Veronica, he opened the tent flap and stepped outside. And was promptly horrified. The camp was strewn about and all of the packs were gone. Their personal packs were stored inside the tent, but otherwise they had been left with nothing. Fear wound itself around Fredrick’s heart, squeezing tighter and tighter-

“Fredrick?”

Fredrick spun around to face his sister.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He moved slightly and she gasped.

“What –what happened?”

“They all just ran off it looks like,” Fredrick said grimly, inwardly cursing himself. “I shouldn’t have trusted Lord Hammond. The bastard.”

Veronica didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she came up beside him and laid her hand on his arm.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said quietly.

“It’s my fault that I brought you out here,” he retorted, ashamed.

Veronica shook her head. “No. We cannot blame ourselves for the choices of another.”

She met his eyes and he knew that she was talking about more than just their current predicament.

Fredrick heaved a sigh. “My guess is that he wants the treasure all to himself and leaving us out here to die relieves him of having to give us thirty percent of it.”

A gleam entered Veronica’s eye. “And if we find it first, would we not get to keep it all?”

“I suppose, but there’s no way-” Fredrick stopped as Veronica raised her eyebrows at him. “You’re not serious? You’re suggesting that we go traipsing through the jungle with no food or water to find a treasure we don’t even know the location of.”

Veronica smiled tightly. “Yes.”

Fredrick stared at his sister. “You’re crazy.”

Veronica folded her arms stubbornly. “Fredrick. You’re not even going to try? You’re just going to let Lord Hammond do this to us?”

Fredrick sat down and put his head in his hands. “I can’t do what you’re suggesting, Veronica. I have to get you safely home.”

“I don’t want to go home, Fredrick.” Veronica’s voice was soft, but there was a hardness to her words. “Please.” The hardness vanished with that word.

Fredrick lifted his head and looked at his sister’s face. Something twisted inside him.

“All right,” he said finally. After a pause, he mused, “I think the guides stopped us because we were getting too close to the treasure’s location. We’ll keep going in the same direction then.”

Veronica nodded.

Fredrick gritted his teeth and stepped forward to slash at the first tangle of vines. It was going to be a long day. Night found them exhausted in their tent. The jungle hummed noisily as Veronica and Fredrick lay side by side. Tired as he was, Fredrick kept tossing and turning, unable to go to sleep.

Finally, he whispered, “Veronica?”

“Yes?” she responded.  

“Do you really not mind it out here?”

There was a pause and then she answered, “No, I don’t.”

Fredrick hoped she would say more, but only silence followed and eventually he rolled over and fell asleep.

Around noon two days later, judging from the light filtering through the trees overhead, Fredrick heard something that gave him a faint bit of hope.

“Veronica, listen,” he said excitedly.

His sister stopped. Then a smile slowly spread across her tired face. “It’s a waterfall,” she exclaimed.

Filled with new energy, Fredrick grabbed Veronica’s hand and began slashing wildly at the vines in the direction of the sound. A waterfall had been their only clue to the treasure’s location. They stumbled blindly in the same direction day after day, knowing that eventually their strength would give out and they would die just as Lord Hammond wanted them to –lost and forgotten. Their supplies dwindled away until they were gone. They continued on slowly, only being able to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The sound of the waterfall became almost deafening, but Fredrick wondered what good the treasure would be if they died right after they found it. The leaves became wet and Fredrick and Veronica desperately dripped the tiny amount of water into their mouths. And then finally, after a number of days that Fredrick couldn’t remember to count, the jungle suddenly opened up before them and a spray of mist drenched them. Fredrick tried to shout with joy, but his dry throat only produced a hoarse cough. Fredrick’s joy was short-lived, however, as he watched Veronica collapse to the ground. He stumbled over to her and sank down beside her. He knew that since he was down, he would never get up. They had failed.

Fredrick’s eyes slowly opened to see an unfamiliar face leaning over him. When his eyes opened fully, the face smiled. “He awake!” it yelled. As Fredrick rolled his head to the side in the direction of the sound of footsteps, he saw his sister enter.

“Veronica,” he croaked.

Her face appeared above him. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

Fredrick eased into a sitting position. There were three other people in the room besides his sister –two men and a woman. His brain started to roll away its fog and remember.

“Veronica,” he said carefully, knowing that at least one of the natives knew English, “who are these people?”

“Our saviors,” she said quietly.

Fredrick noticed the younger of the two men, the one who had entered with Veronica, inching closer.

“Can we talk alone?” Fredrick asked his sister.

Veronica turned to the young man and repeated the question. The young man gestured at the other two natives and said something in his own language. They left. Then the young man said something low to Veronica –something Fredrick couldn’t hear –and her face changed. After she nodded, the young man squeezed her hand before leaving.  

“Who is he?” Fredrick asked, a suspicion forming in his mind.

“His name is Mabitrai,” Veronica answered, and a slight flush on her cheek and glow in her eyes confirming Fredrick’s suspicion. “He convinced the others to care for us, knowing full well that we were most likely treasure hunters. We’re not the first outsiders they’ve encountered.”  

Fredrick frowned. “Would it matter if we were treasure hunters or not? Would not the fact that we are white be reason enough to kill us?”

Veronica’s eyes flashed. “They are not savages, Fredrick,” she replied angrily. “Mabitrai told his people they had a duty to help us as fellow men.”

Fredrick’s pride stung and suddenly he wanted to get as far away from here as possible. “When can we leave?”

Veronica’s eyes went to the ground and she shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t need to.”

“Don’t need to? We have to find that treasure!” Fredrick felt his voice rise.

“Fredrick, it’s here,” Veronica said quietly.

Fredrick stared at his sister. “Here,” he finally managed to say.

Veronica nodded.

Another moment passed before he said flatly, “That means we’re not getting it, right? They’re not giving it up.”

Veronica shook her head.

Fredrick grabbed a bowl from the table beside him and smashed it on the ground. “Everything we endured was for nothing!” he shouted. “We were going to live together and be rich!”

“Fredrick,” Veronica said, laying her trembling hand on his arm.

Fredrick looked at her to see tears in her eyes. He calmed himself.

Veronica swallowed. “The only reason I wanted the treasure was because it would enable us to go away from where I did not belong, but I have realized now that that situation would only serve to remind me every day that I did not belong. Here, I can belong. They simply accept me for who I am.” Veronica’s voice broke. “That’s all I really want.”

Fredrick rubbed his hands over his face. “And Mabitrai?” he asked, stumbling over the pronunciation. “Do you love him?”

Veronica grew shy. “I-I think I could.”

Fredrick stared long and hard at the ground and then sighed. “Does this mean you want me to leave you here?”

Veronica’s lips trembled. “I cannot ask you to stay. You don’t belong here, as much as I wish you did.”  

Fredrick’s chest heaved. “And what will I tell everyone back home?”

Veronica smiled slightly. “The truth will make for good gossip.”

Then her arms were wrapped around Fredrick’s neck, her tears wetting the collar of his shirt. “Will you come visit someday?” she whispered.

He nodded into her shoulder, not trusting himself to speak.

When the two of them emerged from the hut sometime later, Fredrick was holding his sister’s hand. He walked determinedly towards Mabitrai.

“Hold out your hand,” he said.

The young man did so hesitantly. Fredrick placed Veronica’s hand in Mabitrai’s.

“Take good care of my sister,” he said huskily.

A smile spread across the young native’s face as he brought Veronica’s hand to his chest. With his other hand, he indicated the waterfall. “Not treasure out there that important, but in heart that is.” He brought the hand to his chest.

Both Fredrick’s and Veronica’s eyes were wet as they met each other’s gaze and whispered, “Love.”

Fredrick left the native village feeling strangely more complete. True, he didn’t belong there because unlike his sister, he was an English aristocrat, but he knew now that he actually did have a treasure –a treasure in his heart.

When I was young, my grandfather owned a farm. I only remember it vaguely. I don’t know if he kept livestock or grew crops, or if he just wanted all that land so he didn’t have to be around people. Most of my memory has been whittled down with age, and what little I recall is of sweltering summer days in the fields, mowed down to dirt and stubble, and running around in a sunlit kitchen as deer wander up to the deck outside. We didn't go up to see my grandfather very often, a necessity if we wanted to maintain our tentative peace, but I look back at the few times we did very fondly (I personally place the blame for my restlessness on those summers that I spent out there. Acres and acres of land for a grubby little five, six, seven year old to explore, my first experience of the kind-- of course I would be exhilarated by the freedom I found).

This would be easier to write if I had photos, but despite searching for a few days I came up empty-handed. I wasn’t really surprised. I have photos from dozens of different places, but not many from childhood. Sometimes the farm doesn’t even feel real, like it was maybe something I’d read about instead of a memory that was mine. As such, you’ll have to take my word for it as I describe the place. I have little hope of it being incredibly accurate.

What I can tell you is that there was a farmhouse, and in that farmhouse lived my grandmother, grandfather, and my grandfather’s big dog. The lawn was unkempt, dead in patches, wild in the way that is usually only found in the country. To the side of the house, about twenty paces away, was the barn. When I’d first wandered inside, I hadn’t found horses or cows, but instead a herd of tractors and machines. I’d run my fingers across the metal, poking into crevices, opening hatches. I earned myself dozens of small scratches on my arms and tears in my cargo shorts from all the sharp, rusted edges. A few times I’d even driven some of the tractors around the fields. The weather was always nice when we went there. Sometimes it became cold, the wind biting through your clothes, but the air remained clear and fresh in my lungs. Guarding the back of the farm was the forest, a long line of trees that stood straight and tall like soldiers. Most of my ventures ended where those woods began.  

Back towards that treeline, where the fields turned into taller grass, there was a handmade fire pit.

“Don’t go back there, now,” my grandfather warned us, waving one of his few remaining fingers at us. “There’s snakes back there.”

Which, of course, my sister and I totally disregarded every time we came. We loved the fire pit, for some strange reason that I can’t quite figure out anymore. It made sense to the mind of a child. It was dug shallowly into the ground and filled with sand and pebbles. Along the edge it was ringed with heavy stones. I would jump from one to the other, attempting to balance on top of them. The stones were layered thick, all different shapes and sizes, but each one grayed and weathered and worn. It was like a fairy circle for fire.

My sister and I were out there one day, screwing around at the fire pit and making up fantastical stories about witches in the woods and pixies in the cupboards when the wind kicked up suddenly and I started to feel raindrops on my face.

“Huh,” I said, wiping at the wetness with my sleeve. It hardly ever rained at the farm. At home, my dad and I would sit out on the porch with popcorn to watch the rain, just for the love of watching nature at work.

Over at the house, the doorwall leading to the kitchen slid open. “Come on in, kids. It’s about to storm,” my grandmother called out.

My sister looked at me and shrugged. We had no problem playing in the rain, but our grandmother had been making cake before we’d gone outside. There were worse fates. We took off running at the kind of breakneck speed only kids seem to manage. I can’t remember who won. Probably my sister.

The rain had truly started by the time we’d made it to the safety of the kitchen. Within minutes it’d become a downpour, the storm as abrupt as a missed step on the stairs. The rain lashed against the glass, angry that we’d escaped inside.

“These summer storms can happen just like that. No warning at all.” My grandmother bustled my sister further into the kitchen, casting a glance over her shoulder as the wind roared, audible even through the walls of the house.

I didn’t follow her. I should’ve, since my teeth were chattering and my clothes were drenched and there was a towel somewhere in the closet with my name on it, but I didn’t. The storm was getting worse with each second I stood there. I wanted to watch.

“You should get away from the window, hon,” my grandmother called.

“Sure,” I said, not nearly loud enough for her to hear. Can’t be lying if no one’s listening. A crack of thunder, louder than a gunshot, made me startle. I stumbled back, running into the dinner table.

My sister was talking, asking about our parents and when they’d be back from town, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore. I lowered myself to the floor, the tiles wet from where I’d been dripping all over them. The rain turned to hail and back again, as though the storm couldn’t make up its mind.   

The thunder rolled and this time I felt it in my bones, rattling me from the inside while it shook the foundation of the world beneath me. It sounded like a war cry, like the shouting of gods, louder than anything I’d heard before. It filled me up, striking a chord somewhere deep inside me, resounding like I’d banged it against a tuning fork. I was bigger than my body, part of something I had no way to describe. The world got darker and darker as the clouds fully blotted out the sun. I pressed up against the glass, wanting to be out there, craving the feel of wind in my hair and rain on my skin. I looked up beyond the violent clash of the trees to the sky, a muddy green, like it was itching for a twister. Hell, maybe I was, too. I hadn’t felt that kind of wild emptiness before, and I have yet to again.

The lightning flashed bright enough that my vision spun with white and purple and blue. We were collateral damage in a battle of the elements, electrocuted and then washed away in the aftermath.

It was brutal. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I wanted to throw open the door and embrace it, scream with the same reckless abandon that it did, let it sweep me away.

My grandmother tossed a towel over my head.

“Dry off, kiddo, and then come help me frost the cake,” she instructed. I blinked up at her.

“Okay.”

After that summer, we never went up to the farm again. My grandfather sold it. It took too much time to take care of it, he said. He didn’t want to be spending that kind of money. He lives down in the suburbs again with his wife and his dog (a different one this time), and I hardly ever see him.

Sometimes I think I got cursed with something while I was up there. Maybe it was that summer storm that did it, instilling me with a sense of longing for something I can never find. I can feel it, this slot in my chest, empty and waiting to be filled again. I’ve searched for it in the Redwood Forests, where the trees stretch towards the sun. I’ve searched for it, nameless, faceless, in Mumbai, Rio, and Sicily. I haven’t found it yet in the oceans, wide and open and deep enough to drown me, nor in the mountains, be it the Appalachians, the Alps, or the Andes. I haven’t found it yet in the hundreds of summer storms I’ve run through, with the wind at my back and the thunder above me and the rain coursing down my sun-browned skin.

I wonder if I ever will.  

I write this letter to you on my friend’s old and rusty 1926 typewriter sitting here in his private study on yet another rainy afternoon, hoping you won’t get bored of the complexity of my tale. I still recall the footsteps of a old man that used to shutter me with wonder on rainy afternoons like these. Every now and then I could hear him typing a few words in his typewriter for about an hour. He would type all throughout the day when there was nothing to do but sit inside and keep yourself dry from the sheets of rain. I still can recall the good old days when I was just a little kid who sat in this very room listening to the old man pressing his fingers against the keys of this typewriter and writing something for hours. It wasn’t until one April afternoon when I had discovered a deep and mysterious secret about this typewriter…

**35 Years Ago

On a cold and dark April afternoon, I sat in my grandfather’s study reading a book. This book was so intriguing that I read it all throughout the storm. My mom was sitting in our living room putting her finishing touches on a scarf she was crafting. My dad was out of town on an important business meeting in Texas where the weather was warm and delightful. Oh, how I wish I was there right now! To my surprise, the sun had rose up quicker than I had expected. I saw a rainbow emerge on the side of my front window and I immediately dropped my book and raced outside to witness the naturally compelling beauty. I sat on my porch and took out my camera to take pictures of the rainbow. As I was about to take a second click at the rainbow a shadowy figure crossed my camera and walked quickly to his house. I dropped my camera and yelled loudly to him:

“Mister! How would you like to join our family for dinner tonight?” 

The man simply gave a groan and opened the door to his house. I saw him carry in a brand new typewriter which looked as spotless and clean which was as bright as the rainbow in front of me. I yelled out something else:

“Do you need a hand on that typewriter?” I asked him.

The old man nodded his head and walked into his house. I sat on my porch for a bit involved in the quiet ambience of nature when it was disrupted by clicking noises that came from my neighbor’s house. I heard even more click noises and I wondered what the old man was up to in his house. I decided to walk there and peek through his window to get a sight at what he was doing so loudly and disturbingly. 

I stood up from my porch and walked over to his house. I peeked through the old man’s window and saw him at his study desk typing something on his new typewriter. His old hands slid the paper across the typewriter. I saw him write his words very slowly finding each key one at a time. Each time the old man had written a few words he would put his hands on his head like he was imagining something. I decided to leave the old man alone to his crazy passions and walked down the sidewalk and into my house. My mom was in the kitchen and called me over for some dinner. The picture of the old man placing his hands on his head couldn’t leave my mind. 

It was stuck there like super glue and I was so curious to know what he was doing that right after dinner I raced to his house and knocked on the door. The old man opened the door and saw me at the door and gave a groan. He rubbed his forehead in confusion and finally opened the door wider indicating that he wanted me to come in.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir. I was wondering what were you typing earlier today on your new typewriter.” I asked him.

The old man pointed at the typewriter and I smiled nodding my head in approval, wanting to know what he had to say. The old man just stared at me with his dark blue eyes and said nothing. I asked him the question again, but still no response. The old man took my hand with him and brought me to the typewriter. He wrote the words:

“I will tell you a secret.” I cannot speak or see you but certainly I can answer your question.” 

I was taken aback. I had no idea that the man was unable to speak or see and I felt very sorry for him.

The man sat on his chair and pulled a chair for me to sit on. He wrote a few words on the typewriter. “To learn this secret, type any word you wish to learn more about and hold your hands against your head.” 

I reached over to the typewriter and typed the word: “Love.” I held my hands at my head just like he told me to do, although it looked unusual and made me want to laugh. Before I could, I felt something within myself and I saw a vision in front of me. I saw all the things I loved to do from reading to fishing to me and my mom. The visions suddenly disappeared and I fell back in my chair in shock. The old man smiled at me and wrote:

Do you now believe?

I nodded my head and got out of my chair and headed straight for the door struck by the craziness of what I had just seen. The man stopped me and handed me the typewriter writing the words:

I am in no need of this typewriter. It only belongs to the person who can actually feel what it has to say. You are that person, neighbor. I may look a little overaged and creepy but this typewriter is to now be passed to the next generation.

 I took the typewriter still in shock from its power and went straight out the door back to my house and straight into the study. I invited my friends over to tell them all about the typewriter. They all tried to type words such as: Baseball, Fear, Hatred, Jackie Robinson but they saw nothing but blank visions. I soon realized the secret of this mysterious typewriter. Even if my neighbor couldn’t see what he was typing, he could feel the words come alive and that’s what made this typewriter unique and special different from any other typewriter.

Since that April afternoon, I have kept this typewriter safe in my study for the last thirty five years. I still remember the old dark blue eyes of the man and the sounds of him clicking on his typewriter every now and then.

 It has been years since I have went to his house. I have grown into an old man and in a few days of time the typewriter that once sat in the hands of its creator will be passed on to another generation. I have lost my sight but that doesn’t take away my feelings of happiness and hope. I am unable to stand on my feet but that doesn’t put me down on the ground. A small object that is old and rusty just like the rest of the other ones, holds value more than just price. 

I wrap up my letter, as now the sun is out again. 

    I am not careless. I try very hard to keep track of my things. In reality, I've been cursed. How is it my fault that everything I own conspires to run away from me? Or that the odds are never in my favor? Is the work of a curse the fault of the cursed? Of course not.

  I place things exactly where they should go. Where they go when I leave the room, or where someone else decided to put them is none of my fault. I'm really just a poor victim.

     Unfortunately, my mother doesn't agree with my sad condition. So you'll understand why I couldn't appeal for her pity the afternoon of January 15.

"Alexandra, get downstairs this minute! You're going to be late, and you don't even have lunch!"

"I'm coming mom! I'm leaving my room right now." I lied. My alarm clock hadn't woken me up at 6:00, and I was running thirty minutes late, with twenty to go before school started. I grabbed my phone and shoved it into my pocket, and ran down the stairs.

"Do you have a lunch," my mother interrogated me on my way to the car.

"Yep."

"Homework done?"

"Yep."

"Phone charged?"

"Your house key?"

I closed the car door.

"Sure." I frenetically search my cluttered backpack for my purple polka dot key. I thought I had put it in here yesterday. It must have fallen to the bottom. But it's too late anyway to go back and get it.

"The news says it's going to snow later today so I need you to have it in case there's an early dismissal. I have to work late today so I won't be able to pick you up. I called Emily and her parents to give you a ride."

     Story of my life. Both of my parents work, and they usually work late, so driving anywhere is always a lot of trouble. My mom doesn't have time to stress about me, which is why I can't let her worry about everything I do. The last time I lost my key, I was reamed out for an hour with threat of punishment. Which is probably why I said something I would regret later on.

" Okay Mom, I'll be fine." I looked out the window to see the first flakes of snow.

...

     English Class. This year we were learning great American literary periods, and today we had begun to discuss naturalism. Well, Ms. Hartford had begun to drone on about naturalism to a crowd of sleepy eyed students at 8:00 a.m.

"These writers didn't believe in free will, but that man was powerless to nature, fate, and the forces of his environment. Against these, he would always fail-"

Interrupted by the even more disturbing static from the intercom, Ms. Hartford stops speaking.

"Because of the impending snow storm, London High will have an early dismissal at 1:00."

The whole class wakes up and rejoices with shouts. A snow day!

"Settle down, settle down everyone!" Ms. Hartford cries as she tries to regain control of her class. "Now we won't have time to finish our work, so I need you to read To Build a Fire by Friday. I'll postpone the quiz."

         I take a quick look out the window. The snow is only one inch high. It doesn't seem too bad. I open my backpack and start taking books of the my backpack. I place my had and dig around in my backpack. Still no key.

      I check my folders, pencil pouch, and even open my books. No key. When school ends 3 hours later, I run and check my locker, and then my coat pockets. I grab my phone and text my mom, and pray that she was just joking earlier and she can pick me up. Nothing. It's at this terrible realization that sweet, sweet Emily has walked her way to my locker, ready to give me my ride home. I am, in all senses of the word, screwed.

 ...

"How was your day Alexandra? Glad you got out early today?" Emily's mom asks as I get into the back of her car.

 "Oh I'm fine Ms. Jameson. How's your day going?" I have a plan. Emily just lives ten minutes away from me. I can just stay at her house till my mom comes home, and tell my mom the Jamesons begged me to come over. I start to calm down. Sometimes it helps to think on your feet.

"Actually I'm having a pretty good day. I was able to get everything packed and ready for our vacation this weekend-"

"Vacation?"

" Oh Yes! Emily's dad is taking everyone to a ski lodge this weekend. It's been a long time since Mr. Jameson took a break from work, and he loves skiing. The whole family is going! We were supposed to leave tonight, but it's a long drive, especially with the snow. So we'll be leaving as soon as I drop you at home."

      As we drive past a church, I let out a sigh. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? I just can't get a break. I can't force them to wait for me. I'd have to tell them why I couldn't get in my house, and then they would think I'm careless, and Mrs. Jameson would tell my mom, who would later proceed to murder me. And I do not feel like dying today or hearing a lecture of my irresponsibility. I'll take my chances with the snow.

     Mrs. Jameson pulls up to my house and stops. " Well this is our stop," she says.  The Jameson's are so nice. So clean cut and simple. If only they knew the trouble I had gotten myself into. That's when I remember. I have a little sister! Marci's coming home on the bus. So I just have to wait for her. In the snow. Which is now over a foot high, and counting. For who knows how long. Simple. If you have a death wish.

"Thank you," I replied. I have to think on my feet. "I'm just going to go inside from the back."

      And with that, I slush through the snow to the backyard porch. The sliding doors are locked, and they don't seem to be opening. I know I once did this in the summer. It should be working! I wiggle and jiggle door to no avail. Then I hear the sound of an engine, the sound of the Jamesons driving off. It is at this moment that I realize just how much of a mess I am. I look like a burglar. No one's outside, and I can't just wait here. I check my watch. It's 1:20. I call my sister.

"Hello?"

"Hey Marci. Are you coming home on the bus?" I bite my lip.

"Yes."

"Do you have the key?" I pray in desperation.

"Yeah." Finally, something's going right. As pitiful as it is for a high school student to be relying on her 12 year old sister, I don't care.

"That's great! Look, I didn't bring mine, and Emily is driving me home. When will you be home?

"We just left school a couple minutes ago," Crap. Her stop is last. "But like no one's on here. So I'll be home soon. Are you almost home?"

"No, not yet," I mumble, too embarrassed to share the truth. "Just text me when you get here."

      Seven minutes later, she's nowhere in sight, and I'm starting to lose feeling in my toes. I wait five more minutes before I realize that I can't stay out here any longer I need to find shelter fast. And I know where. The Dunkin Donuts down the street.

     I pick up my backpack, tie my scarf, walk down the sidewalk. The snow is two feet high by this point, and it's still coming down.

     As I try to salvage my frozen toes and fingers, I ponder how it all led up to this. If someone told me this had happened to them, I probably would've laughed. I mean, I'm a walking joke, a live action cautionary tale. I'm a travesty. Who would rather risk frostbite then telling the truth? Then I realize the worst thing of all. My mother was right. I am careless, and I should have listened to her.

     Everything has been against me today. Why did the Jameson's chose today of all days to go skiing, why couldn't my sister have come come earlier? Why couldn't I have found my key? Why did it have to snow today?

     I decide to call my sister again to see if she already got home. My phone doesn't turn on. I   forgot to charge it.

     I trudge on against the harsh elements, trying to keep warm. My fluffy pink mittens do little to keep my fingers warm, and my leather boat shoes are soaked. I hope I don't catch a cold, or even worse, the flu. What if I got pneumonia? Wouldn't that just be the perfect ending to this tragedy. What if I died? My whole family would laugh at my funeral. I'd laugh at my funeral. I  couldn't imagine a more pitiful way to die. I could see my tombstone right now. Death by Stupidity.

     I could not let that happen. I would not give my mother that satisfaction of knowing she was right. I was just a block away from shelter. I could make it.

     I struggled with the heavy weight on my backpack, and made my way through the ice and snow. Trying not to look at the cars driving past, or fearing what would happen if I slipped on ice, I marched forward. Finally, the bright lights of the sign came into view. Within a few minutes I could see the building. I was going to survive.

    I was greeted by warm air and the smell of coffee. Soaking wet, I took off my coat and ran to the bathroom. I used the hand dryers to warm my hands, and after I dry my shoes, I walk back out. Famished, I buy some tea and two jelly donuts. Actually, it was probably three. Near death experiences make one very hungry. I think the cashier felt sad for me.

    Thirty minutes later, my sister finally texts me that she's home. Her bus got held up in traffic. Oddly enough, I actually feel proud I made it all the way over here. This whole day has made me realize that being more responsible saves a lot of trouble. I almost don't want to leave, thinking of all the walking I'll have to do to get back home. I put my jacket back on, and take my change to put in my coin purse. As I drop in 35 cents, I spot something purple.

<MESSAGE DOWNLOADED: LOG, CAPTAIN KELLEY, 2390/12/2.> Thirty years ago, as we all know, the United Space Agency ship Inspire was lost, assumed to be caught in a sudden flare of heavy-duty radiation from the star of an unstable solar system. The interference scrambled all but their first, primitive radio distress call, a leftover of a bygone era, so slow it only reached us a few days ago. Our away team… three of our bravest, reached the ship last night, and have since surprised us with happy messages of survivors and their reactions to news from home. We’ve had images of the Inspire crew, video reactions that have already gone viral. My crew, of course, is itching to go join them for a well-deserved break, now that our sensors are clear of leftover radiation and our first scans of the old ship are coming through. Now, my only question… how do I tell them there are no signs of life onboard?

Woof. That’s all I, as a dog, can say, right? Wrong. Day after day, month after month, year after year, each stupid human believes me and my dogginess to be a dingbat, saying only that one stupid word. Woof. But I can say much more than that. Have you furless idiots ever thought that maybe it’s not me not speaking, but you not hearing? If you opened those squishy pieces of bald skin you call ears once in awhile, you would hear the things I have to say. And I do have a lot to say.

My name doesn’t matter. You humans label yourselves, but us dogs, we choose to sense each other. The smells and feelings bodies emit is enough to know who is who. My whos, the beings I know, are very special people. I love my family endlessly, but sometimes I get fed up with humans. Dogs don’t always like other dogs, but we don’t bicker the way you glabrous beings do. For the six lightrees, or maybe I should say ‘Christmases’ I have seen on this planet, I have had to share only one with another dog.

He is a little white thing they call Rory, and he is supposed to make me less hyper, and he has succeeded to the point of making me melancholy. He annoys me to no end, however, I am teaching him. I know that I will not be around forever. So he must learn his duties. As a dog, he must protect and help our family. He will always be there, but never be needy. I have faith in him. He is a quick learner. When I am gone, I know he will support them, just as I supported them after they lost the big one. His smell still lingers, even though I never met him. In fact, I believe our lives never overlapped. You know who loved that yellow dog? Daddy. You know who I love? Daddy. You know who I never can love? Daddy.

Us dogs don’t have a very good sense of time, but I know it has been a very long time since Daddy moved out. Longer than it takes for my people to open the door, longer than it takes for my hard pellets of food to hit my bowl, even longer than it takes for them to come home every day. You don’t know how scary it is, day after day, for humans to leave us all alone. Imagine if you were locked up in a bedroom all by yourself for… well, I don’t know, but a long time! It’s awful! But something even more awful? The man who named you, raised you, and loved you just leaves. Goodbye forever, with no warning. My Daddy is my protector, and I am his. I will never feel full again. It’s like I’m breaking inside.

I felt the tension before they did. Us dogs can sense that. We feel things, things that aren’t even there. I think maybe humans used to feel them too, but much like the thing they call evolution in which they pride themselves for creating dogs, they breed the ability to have compassion out of themselves. I am not as clueless as they think I am. I know what’s going on. They call it a divorce, but I call it broken. If our little group was a piece of glass, we were thrown on the gray and brown linoleum many a dog has peed on, and shattered. But that doesn’t mean my life sucks, exactly. I still have Girl and Mom and Boy.

I do like Girl quite a bit. We are perfect together. Her small frame fits perfectly curved around my back. It’s like we were made for each other. I love her so much, but lately I feel as if she is starting to forget about me. I suppose compared to a puppy she calls anything but, her nicknames for him ranging from Porky to Squirrelly, I could be boring. All she likes to do is point at him with her glowey speak box and cuddle him. I just wish she saved some of her time to adore for me. Now all I get is a quick pat on the head and “my sweet prince”. For once, I would like to be “cuddle bug” or “cutie pie” with an intense hug instead of the pup.

At least Boy likes me more than that despicable little biting thing. He appreciates me. He thinks the pup is awful because of his little bites and scratches, just as he despised me when I was just a wee thing. I love the affection, but sometimes it can be a bit smothering. I just want a happy medium. The boy, he needs to learn to love the small one. One day, that terrible little white ball of fur will be all he has. I can’t let them, all of them, become lonely. A family doesn’t just have a dog. They are a dog family. There were dogs before me, and there will be dogs after me.

Humans, the big ones especially, seem to think that we dogs don’t know anything. They think we just eat, sleep, poop (and eat it) and ruin furniture. We are very intelligent. In fact, we do a lot of things. We can talk, but we can also listen. We hear your words. We just don’t choose to listen. Your words our sharp and harsh, like a slick razor-sharp block of steel. Ours are, well, softer, like a warm cozy blanket or, better yet, a warm cozy pot of beefy stew. They create different ways of talking to separate them as a species into groups based on the color of their naked skin. They try to dominate over each other, a never ending cycle of who’s alpha. The pale ones especially try to be better than the others, a nonexistent superiority only they believe in. Their words are the sharpest of them all, like a small whip that cracks on the back of whoever they choose to squeal at. They use the beauty of words to hurt instead of help. They play a game, one only they find fun, where they see who can shout the loudest. Their voices overlap into a tightly woven scratchy wool blanket, but to them it’s made of soft silk.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we were one lifeform? No divide between species’, or more obviously, no divide within species. My wish is that one day, everyone will learn to love each other. It’s not really that hard. We dogs are known for our ability to care for everything no matter who or what it is. You just look past the appearance, the clothes and the hair, the crusty outer edge of cruelty that you depilated creatures love about yourselves, you will see something deep inside. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s called emotion. If you feel unloved, look deep within yourself and find it. Show it off. Embrace it. Find it in others. Ponder it. Complement it, even.  Most importantly, just love.

The paint in my office room is starting to chip. Maybe it’s because I stare at it so hard, deep into the dark hours of my restless nights. I only unlock my eyes from the wall after Austin is tucked into bed and Melissa turns off her light because she is too tired to keep reading Project: Happily Ever After. This is my nightly routine. Maybe I’ll watch long enough that I’ll lose myself somewhere in the crevasses dripping down from the ceiling. Maybe it will bring me back, before the cracks were pulling me apart.

My eyes budge from the mesmerization, and I step out of the room to walk down the hall. These walls watch.. They indent where we used to press up against them, filled with distant memories. As I walk through, the walls seem to press towards each other, trying to hold onto me. They want to feel my pressure on them again. They want to feel the passion that filled this hall. They want us back. But the past is the past. I don’t stop walking and only give them a glance.

The door to Austin’s room creaks open and a warm force pulls me in. My steps fill the room in a symmetrical rhythm, but his sleep doesn’t seem to be disturbed.  My frozen heart thaws with just the thought of resting my tired eyes on him. His face forms a beautiful mix between my nose and his mother’s cheek bones. He still has some of his baby fat, which gives him the cutest dimples when he smiles. It is still fascinating that he could come out of Melissa and me and become a such a wonder that’s changing our lives, even if we hadn’t known he was coming. I put my scrambled thoughts aside, and I kiss him goodnight. I step back out into the hallway.

I follow the rest of the hallway to our room. Damn, I hate our door. The white paint  now has the undertone of a nasty, almost yellow, hue. The edges are starting to wear off because the frame doesn’t fit the door. I can’t stop looking for something bad to see but, whatever. I step through the doorway anyways.

I take my time to get into bed. Usually, I’ll take a shower and stare at the walls in there. Then when I’m done standing under the running water, I’ll use the old towels we have and scrape off the water still clinging to my skin. But tonight I’m too exhausted for any of that. Getting into bed is bittersweet. The sheets on my cleansed skin feel like honey dripping down from the heavens, giving me a taste from up above, but I have to get in too carefully so I won’t wake up Melissa. She usually sleeps with her back towards the wall, but she feels my movements with absurd accuracy. I stare up at the ceiling for just a bit before I close my eyes, but I’m scared that if I stare too long, the paint will start cracking there too and fall on me when I’m sleeping. Sometimes I’ll stare at Melissa’s back, but just for a quick second. I would never want to see her beautiful skin begin to crack. There’s already too much of that in this house.

There’s some chipping on the wall that Melissa is facing. Does she also stare through these walls like I do?

I try to forget my thoughts as I’m finally able to shut down for the day. I’m starting to lose feeling in my toes, my legs, my arms, my torso and then finally my head. My final worries of the day slip away as my consciousness goes with them too.

In the morning, when I’m ready to go off to my 9 to 5, I always look back into the kitchen. Melissa is finishing up, getting Austin ready. God, they look so gorgeous together.

“Melissa,” I call to her.

She looks up from what she’s doing and looks at me with wide eyes.

“You look beautiful today,” I say to my own surprise.

“Ha, thank-you,” she murmurs as she smiles with what seems to be a bit of remorse. She puts Austin down and is moving closer to me. She reads my thoughts, just like the book on her nightstand.

“I love you Jesse,” she manages to say before she leans in to kiss me.

There's something different in the way our lips touched that I hadn’t felt in weeks. Maybe she does actually still love me, like I love her. I look in her eyes. I remember all the times I looked in and saw the stars swirling. Back when we would meet up by Venus as two cosmic energies and fly with the stars and…

I have to catch myself from floating away like I always do.

“I have to get going,” I say as a give her a last squeeze to make sure she is still there. “I'm gonna be late.”

“Have a good day!” She looks into the horizon clinging onto Austin as I pulled out of the driveway.

I seem to shut down from all my messy thinking at work because all I hear are orders and distractions to get stuff done. This has been my routine for the past few years, but I can sense some cracking starting to build up inside me. While I start to lose interest with my task at hand, I trip into a trance at my desk and begin looking into my deepest thoughts. As I keep free falling through this rabbit hole of mine, a flood of old memories start to pour right back into my mind. I’ve forgotten so much. There’s so much missing in my life. And just as I start diving deeper, I hit a white wall infested with the same creeping cracks that were everywhere.

“Jesse!”

“Uh, yeah,” I subconsciously mumble as I pull myself from my trance. “Sorry.”

“Did you get those reports done yet?” My boss Janet, a skinny woman with a deathly stare, fumed.

“Uhm…” I stared at her like an idiot.

“The ones I asked you to have done yesterday? How could you forget that?”

“Oh, I just finished them. I’ll have them on your desk in five minutes.”

“You better,” she said as she stormed off to lurk around other parts of the office.

I finished those reports a while ago, but I’m not sure why I haven’t given them to her yet. I must've forgotten. That’s been happening a lot lately.

I print out the reports right away and put them neatly on her desk just like she asked. As I walk out of her office and down the hallway I start to get a regurgitative feeling that I haven’t felt in years. Is everyone staring at me? Am I doing something wrong? Are the walls closing in on me? I can’t breathe and I start to stumble towards the bathroom. I swing the door open and the smell of acidic soap hits my nostrils, but it’s better than those eyes staring at me. I look into the mirror as I try to splash water onto my face. It looks like I’m just dripping in sweat, but I can’t feel a drop on my body. I just feel my body temperature rising.

“Am I having a heart attack?” I question aloud as I make attempts of an inner cleansing, hoping I can wash away this awful feeling that appeared from out of thin air.

Then I feel vomit rising through my stomach into my throat like molten lava ready to burst from an active volcano that was once believed to be extinct. I move to the toilet just in time. I let go of everything. Mixes of greens, dirty yellows and old browns come together as they spew and break the surface of the water. The grotesque smell masks the nice smell of cleanliness and then water begins to obscure my vision.

After seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, and hours become days, I can finally breathe again and this episode starts to slip away. I clean up the area with the thin, cheap paper towels that we keep in the bathrooms, wash my mouth and face as well as I can, and pull out my comb to push down on my thinning hair. Nothing seems the same, but I open the door from the bathroom and step out of this unworldly portal back to the office space. Everything is untouched and in order, just like I left it.

I walk back to my desk with my head hung low, while maintaining my gaze a few steps ahead of where my foot is being planted. I ignore the walls around me and I get to my desk quickly.

I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. It had to be when I was very young. Memories of cold fevers and haunting nights go hand in hand with even my fondest memories from my callow years.  I thought I was over that. I thought I had buried those old sweat filled bed sheets and rusty thermometers. I thought I had grown into myself and my wings had learned how to fly out of the hospital beds and white dull hallways.

My thoughts fly straight to Austin. The hands on my watch shift to 5, I dash out as fast as I can without talking to anyone and trying to leave behind what had just happened. I turn on my car and head out to pick up Austin from his daycare.

I pull into the daycare and I find myself more relaxed then I have been in a while. Walking in and seeing those white daisies growing by the front door always puts a smile on my face, and when I walk into Austin’s classroom and see him playing with the other kids, I feel like everything is how it should be.

“How was Austin today?” I ask his teacher.

“He’s doing better even though he still hasn’t spoken a word,” Mrs. Evelyn responds with a cute and wrinkled smile. “He is new here, but he seems to be getting along with everyone.”

“I’m glad.” My eyes return to Austin.

“Austin!” Mrs. Evelyn calls out. “Look who’s here for you.”

He looks up and a wide grin takes over his face. He puts down his red fire truck a bit reluctantly and crawls as fast as his little limbs can go towards us. I bend down and swing him up. Kissing his cute chubby cheeks I grab his stuff that Mrs.Evelyn hands me and we head out the door.

I always have trouble buckling him into his car seat and the more I struggle with his belt the more he laughs at me, but today something seemed different. To be fair it had been a rough and odd day so far and he must be feeling it. He still smiles a bit when I tried buckling him in, but as I look back into his face, all he can do is stare back at me with those big eyes full of wonder. We lock our gazes for a bit and I try to memorize every angle and shape built into his complexion, and he seems to do the same. I give him a little peck on his forehead and get into the driver's seat. I pull out of the parking lot and head home.

 As I pull into our driveway I check my phone to see a text from Melissa.

I'm going to be home late today. Don't forget to put Austin in the pajamas that he really likes. Sorry, I'll see you tonight.

Not this again. I think it's been the third time this month, right? A small feeling in my insides comes back from earlier in the day, but I beat it down hard as I unbuckle Austin from his car seat.

I bring Austin into the house and the rest of the night is a blur. Nothing makes sense or maybe is it that everything is making sense. I'm not really sure. All I can make out was that I put Austin to bed. As he starts to doze off, old memories from my childhood fevers and AiWS come back and I remember someone saying it was genetic. I can’t really recall exactly if it was true, but I would rather have it again, instead of having Austin experience even a tiny sliver of what I went through. I pick him up and hold him tightly. Whenever I do this, the cracks seem to disappear, but I can’t hold onto him forever. He is finally fast asleep and I put him under his cozy cover.  

I walk out of the room into the hallway, while staring at the walls that always seem to stare back. I move quickly and I go into my office pretending to do some work that probably didn't have to be finished. I take up time until Melissa comes back home.

A car pulls up to the garage. The same car that had dropped off Melissa the last few times she had had to stay late for work. I try to see into the car. Melissa and the figure behind the wheel are talking. Something about the situation felt surreal. I had to keep my eyes on the car.

They had not stopped talking. It reminded me of the younger Melissa I had met so many years ago. Then she leaned in towards the figure. My stomach churned again and this time more rigorously than before, but I swallowed all my feelings back down. I was a white wall of emotionlessness. Did they kiss? Obviously I wouldn’t know because I never looked out my office window. I just kept on staring at my wall as the pain slowly chipped away.

It started with a tray of steamed kale. Xochi had put off eating anything green until this moment, even looking offended at her roommate’s offer of a green M&M but her sister texted. The longest she had sent in a while now, a detailed description of her latest sitting on the porcelain throne, a stream of consciousness as she was defecating. Xochi realized she hadn’t had a good stool of her own in a while now, so she picked up the tongs and piled the kale onto her plate. Seated at a table, she was trapped by the amount of people having pulled up chairs, definitely to capacity, and she was too lazy anyways to excuse herself. Within swallowing her first bite, she realized she hadn’t needed a swig of gatorade, the cherry flavored kind that had already stained her tongue and the edges of her lips, giving them the color of kisses. Nevertheless, she didn’t need salt or artificially colored energy drink and kale wasn’t as much of a struggle as regular salad, so she stayed, chatting about long distance running and other dinnertime topics and ate her kale, wondering if this meant she had finally grown up.

It was calling for me. My best friend and my worst enemy. I’m tired of struggling. I’m tired of losing the impulsive and self destructive battles with it. I couldn’t handle it screaming my name. “Trevor, Trevor, TREVOR!” It finds me almost every night when I am alone and  and most vulnerable.

 Every single ounce of my body is wanting to run to it. To cave in, to give up and, to feed it. How couldn’t I give into it’s power? I love it. The tears start creeping into my eyes and begin to distort my vision. I could only see the faint outline of the objects in front of me. But I knew where it was, I did not need to see to it to find it. I am connected  to it and it controls me. It was near, how could such a tiny object have so much power?

 As I moved my history book, I saw the faint silver rectangle. When I was reaching for it, a tear rolled down my cheek. I stopped myself but only for a second then continued to my addiction. I picked it up and held in my hands. I held it so tight and close, I couldn’t let go. I knew I should’ve put it down but in that moment all I could think about was how much I needed it and how much it needed me.  

 I felt like I was set on autopilot, I'd been here so many times before and I knew exactly what it wanted me to do.  With every step I took while holding the blade I sensed the soft carpet under my feet. The longer I held my enemy in my hand the less I could control my rational thoughts.  I was numb I couldn't feel anything and then I knew it was time.  

 ‘Click’ went my bathroom light switch. At that point tears were rolling down my cheeks and I still didn’t given my situation a second thought. My eyes didn’t even react to the brightness of the lights. I was too focused on my own self destruction, I was driven by its force. I did not want to do this; I really didn’t, but I did because I needed too.  When I stared in my bathroom mirror, I saw a broken, unlovable boy who was captivated by a tiny but dominant blade. At that very moment I looked away, I hated seeing him, I was disgusted and disappointed in him once again.

I instantly went into robot-mode, my neck tilted downward looking at left arm and my right hand closed tightly in a fist that was supporting the blade. Once again I glanced at him in the mirror but this time it was only for reassurance. I knew what he was feeling. I knew what he would’ve said to me. Why didn’t I listen? I could only hear the silver rectangle yelling at me. I quickly looked away from him and then I slowly opened my right hand exposing my master of self destruction. The blade shifted in between my thumb and my index finger. Holding my breath I held it to my left forearm. Applying pressure, I dragged for the same amount of time as I exhaled. Feeling my skin pop and split open from side to side. For a moment I saw a thick white rut in my arm. Blood came rushing in, overflowing the deep gash. ‘Drip’ ‘Drop’ ‘Drip’ the blood dripping into my sink. My gash stings, but I can’t complain because I did this to myself. Oh how I have missed this feeling. This relief of sensation, almost as if I were high on drugs. It felt as big as if an was elephant being lifted off of my shoulders.  I craved more, I wanted more,  I needed more.

This became my obsession, the only thing I could focus on. My mind became a tunnel, with every gash the closer I got to the light at the end. Deeper, longer, wider and more blood.  Again I took a long over exaggerated breathe. I stopped for a moment  to prepare myself and to savor the feeling. I pushed down hard and exhaled for as long as possible, because I needed as much as possible. I dropped the blade, ‘ching’, it hit the floor. Blood came rushing to the forefront and began dripping off my arm into my sink ‘drip’ ‘drop’ drip’. I looked up and  stared at that broken, unlovable boy again. This time he was even more broken. Every time I cave in, every time I give in, and every  time I let it control me he breaks a little more. I could not apologize to the broken boy because he was me and I was him. Realizing what I had done my knees buckled and I collapsed to my floor. I was not focused on the blood profusely running down my arm, instead I became indulged by guilt. All I could do was cry and soon my cries turned into screams. Covering my eyes with both hands the blood became diluted by my own tears. Both dripping on to the floor. When I finally got my uncontrollable wailing under control I uncovered my eyes and slowly rose from my bathroom floor. Still looking at the blood on the floor I wiped the tears from my cheeks; sniffling like when a kid scraps their knee but can’t cry. I turned to my left so I could see the mirror and there was the broken, unlovable boy again. Right where I saw him last. This time he was a little more broken, I knew what did this to him. Not the self destructive behaviors he performed on himself but what the self destruction brought upon him. I could see it in his eyes. His swollen, watery, bloodshot brown eyes. I could see the guilt and shame in his eyes. I look down at his wrist and stared at it for awhile. I wasn’t shocked because I had the same red stained wrist as him. The guilt started to consume me. The shame started to devour my sanity. I collapsed and laid down on my back staring at the ceiling. Still crying, the lukewarm liquid running from my forearm did not intrigue me anymore. The high was gone and so was its control over me. The gashes still stung but did not sting as bad as the shame I felt on the inside.

I have to keep going, keep moving, don’t give up. There has to be a way.  There has to be. Don’t trip, even though I can’t see. Keep walking, keep walking. My feet are wet. Blood. They are bleeding. I can’t even feel it. The agony is too strong. Can’t walk. Got to rest. Got to…. Get up. Keep walking, keep walking, find the light, find it. Look harder, it has to be there. Look harder. Look….. Who is that? They’re holding a lantern with light inside. What are they saying? What is that sound? My name. It has to be. Find them. Find them. Find them….

My eyes open. Everything is white. The sheets on the bed I’m in, the faces of the concerned nurses around the bed, and the walls around me. One of the nurses says my name. “Not many ever wake up from such severe injuries,” she says.

Something is wrong. I know it. They see it, but too late. The white clouds my vision. I see stars as the hospital fades from view for the last time.

I’ve found it. Finally, the agony is gone. Everything is bright. Finally, I can see.