Light sat in the same spot of his bed for what had felt like hours. The t.v continued to glow a dim grey light in a portion of his dark room. Buzzing with the t.v static you usually see once it doesn’t have signal. The quiet droning sound was bombarded by the shouting of his mother. He was taken out of his gaze the second time she yelled. Stumbling, he got off of his unmade bed to reach the kitchen where his mom stood frowning.

“Your grades seem to lower every quarter,” she stated without emotion.  There was really no point telling him as wouldn’t be able to defend himself with words. “F in english, C in maths.. I’m not surprised though..”

Well, she shouldn’t be, his grades since primary school remained C and under. That’s how it was. Light stood there as his mother grew bored of the one-sided conversation, but that sight had soon disappeared as he was let free of the repetitive lecture that caused a small headache. He gathered his large white duvet into a bundle and watched his show that never seemed to have an ending. The the small black and white dots vibrated as always until he fell asleep.

He woke up to an uncomfortable state, a stream of blinding pale sunlight and him being on the verge of hitting his head on the floor. With his confusion he ended up flailing off his bed onto the hardwood with a thud. Just another thing to make his day even worse.

He hated school. Not the homework or teachers, but just the fact that it was absolutely impossible to make friends when he couldn't even face someone without the word “freak” being shouted his direction. He wasn’t particularly unattractive or odd socially, but the non existent words that left his mouth sure gave something for the kids around him to tease. He couldn’t help that he was mute: it was a curse he was given.

Once he arrived to 1st hour he was greeted by an unexpected person that seemed to be sitting in the seat right next to his. He caught himself staring which wouldn’t make much of an impression. Light sat down next to the new boy that was reading a large chapter book. The boy seemed very interested in the book, so much that he didn’t even realize Light had sat down. The light tapping of heels had filled the students ears and they all quieted down knowing if they didn’t they would all be lectured of the rules for the hundredth time.

“Good morning students, if you hadn’t already noticed, we have a new student!”

For the first time the boy raised his head knowing the new kid was him.

           “Aren’t you going to come up here and introduce yourself?” He wasn’t planning on it, but she had cleared her throat for the enough times making him feel like he had no choice. Stumbling off a chair and tripping slightly over the leg of it, he finally found himself front and center of a whole new group of people.  

          “I’m Howell.” he said while soon being interrupted by the chatty teacher.

“Tell us about yourself, Howell.”

“I don’t do anything.” he stated.

“No sports? Any talents or interests?”

“I, um, no? I don’t think so I-”

“No surprise, go ahead and sit down, you’ll be sitting by Light.”

Howell shuffled to his seat across the room greeted by a large chapter book that he read already. It felt like only seconds went by until the hour was over and he was stood with an overly detailed schedule that made absolutely no sense. Light had noticed, but being as non talkative as him would make it difficult to help. It was too late to deny though as he was already walking unsteadily towards him.

          “Hi, um, could you explain this to me at all?”

Light stood there in panic. He grabbed his notebook without context and wrote down “I lost my voice, but I could show you to some of your classes.” He smiled and nodded.

They have the same classes, that made it pretty easy to show the new boy around.

                                                             *Howell’s POV*

My only friend continued to be the silent boy that people seemed to make fun of on a daily basis. The girls were pretty interested in talking to me until Light showed himself in my perimeter. They scattered away in an instant. I didn’t really mind though, I wasn’t someone that wanted attention nonstop. The classes I’ve gone through so far were easy to me and somewhat enjoyable as Light was in all of them. I didn’t know someone could lose their voice for a whole five hours, but i wasn’t going to ask him about it.

    Next was science, my best subject. It was no surprise that i was seated next to Light that hour, just like the rest. He was drawing. I don’t know what it was, but he seemed to be very concentrated. He welcomed me by writing “Hi” in the corner of his lined notebook paper. I smiled and slid it in front of me to write “Hello :)”. Smiling at the word, he started a new sentence until the teacher had walked into the classroom whilst yelling at the kids that hadn’t stopped talking. Light crumbled their notes to each other and looked straight ahead. Mr. Pentland was his name. He had made it clear he was not very happy. Light grabbed another piece of paper and wrote “With his mood I doubt he’ll want to deal with anyone this hour.” I read it until the teacher had raised his voice.

    “There will be no work given out today. Please remain quiet, I have a terrible headache.”

With that, the only noise was the slight whispering from random places. I tried to pull out my book from my binder until someone had taped my shoulder. I looked over at a girl who seemed to be really concerned.

    “Had it touched you??” she said as her finger pointed to Light. I remained confused not knowing what the problem was. Why were people so mean to him?

    “Why does it matter? It’s not like he’s toxic or anything.”

    “Sure he is. He can’t speak for crying out loud, and that hairstyle, it’s-” she stopped mid sentence to look straight at me.

    “I feel really bad for you. He seems to be around you all the time.” That’s what made me angry. If I didn’t like him I would ask him to leave me alone, and what is she on about? He just lost his voice, he couldn’t help it.

    “I like being around him.” I said simply.

    “But he’s mute and flings his arms around like he’s trying to communicate. How could you enjoy being around a boy like him?”

Oh. He was mute, there was nothing wrong with that though. Just another special feature. They were just making fun of him because he was different.

           The day went on and I went home soon enough. While being alone I was able to realize that Light really did need a friend and I was able to provide that. All these ignorant people at school didn’t seem to understand that everyone's different. Maybe I could buy a book on sign language tomorrow so I’d be able to talk to him more easily.  It was hard to sleep that night with my mind wandering elsewhere.

          A new day. I woke up at 6:45am like always, but this time I was incredibly tired. The sun shined way too bright through my smudged window due to the fact I only moved here a week ago, I had no curtains still. After being shouted at for the 5th time for not getting up straight away I removed myself from my sheetless bed and traveled to the kitchen. Made cereal was placed on the counter in front of a chair for me. I ate quickly, brushed my teeth, and got dressed.

         Today I was going to become best friends with Light.

          Bus 09 arrived at the corner of my street and Grandé Avenue. It wasn’t the worst, but it truly was not the best. Swear words, fighting, and irrelevant rap music blasting from multiple speakers. I don’t mind it, it’s a lot more fun than being stuck in the car with my mom that continuously complained about her coworkers and how ungrateful they could be.

         After at least four more stops we had arrived to the school. Still, I needed to get the book.

Rushing, I finally made it to a store. Looking all around I was unable to find the  book i was looking for. I walked up to the clerk who seemed to hate her job. Getting her attention, she was able to escort me to a sign language book at the back of the store with the help of her manager.

        I made it to school with my surprise in hand. Homeroom was first.

        “Hello Light!” I stated as I sat down next to him. He looked up from his drawing. I don’t think he was planning on telling me he was mute because he showed panic in his expression.

       “Hey, it’s alright, I know you can’t speak. I don’t think of you any different than I did yesterday. I actually wanted to be your friend.” I could tell he was shocked that I knew but soon fixed his face with a smile. “I guess we’re friends then.” He wrote in the corner of paper. I smiled and reached for the book I had put on my desk.

       “I got this before school, I want to be able to communicate with you better.” Light grinned bigger than ever. “I can’t wait, I’ll help you as well!” he wrote in his notebook.

From then on out no one really made fun of Light anymore, and he and I were unable to leave each other’s side, and I learned quite a lot of sign language too.

Pitcher in the Rain

The cacophonous noise of our car trunk slamming down rung throughout the sedan. It was a raw Sunday morning. Shades of salmon and peach trickled down into the abyss of the horizon; making room for a faint shade of blue to consume its nothingness. I quickly hopped out of the car and bent down towards the concrete. Fresh dew still lay recumbently on the grass. I placed my lens down carefully, and focused on a dewdrop, the colors of the alluring sky concealed within the water.

“Meg, I’m sure that’s a wonderful picture,” my mother said from the driver’s seat, “but we must get a move on. Hendrich is five hours away.”

“It was just a picture,” I replied as I made my way up from the ground, “besides, I already packed up early. You still have to get Ollivander from the laundry room.”

“That damn cat!” she yelled, realizing Ollie had completely slipped her mind, “I’ll get him. You get in the car. Joel is expecting us at 4:30, and I can’t be late to my own engagement announcement!”

“Of course. I’ll get in”

She disappeared back into the house. It’s semblance seemed stiff. Almost lifeless. The window that was once home to my room bared nothing but the seafoam walls my father had painted all those years ago. It seemed like all the joy that once lived there had been murdered, and now, the lifeless corpse of a once elated home sat stiff on the ground, awaiting a new life after our departure. I couldn’t even imagine it, a new family living in this house. New pictures on the mantel. New flowers in the gardens. New sleepovers being held in the living room. Somehow, it just didn’t seem equitable.

“I got him!” my mother yelled, holding a cat carrier in her right hand, and her left one behind her back, “and look what I found when I was doing a final sweep!”

She set the carrier down mildly and opened the car door. She held a baseball bat in her palm.

“Remember this? Rob bought you this all those years ago,” she paused briefly, “when you were going through a softball stage.”

As she set Olivander in the back, I grabbed the bat and held in my lap. It was a craggy old thing. Dents covered its frame and the grip had peeled off. I hate commemorating things like this. Mementos left behind from when I had my father at my hip, when he was still with us. He purchased this for me on my eighth birthday. He offered to take me to Clicker Stadium the following day. Clicker was the only place in this lowbrow town where baseball could be played. It usually consisted of baseball teams run by enthusiast dads, cheesy team names like the “Clicker Bats” or even worse the “Clicker Crickets”, middle aged moms with 12 oz. Diet Cokes on standby, and grown people arguing over whether a toddler sliding into home was safe or not. My dad and I despised that place.

“You good to go?” she asked me as she placed the keys in the ignition.

I looked down at the bat, then out at the sky. It was starting to rain.

“Almost” I replied in almost a whisper

“Have you said goodbye to Callie?”

“Several times”

“Jennifer?”

“Twice already”

“Grandma?”

“she couldn’t remember my name,” I confessed, “both times”

“So what’s holding you back, kiddo?”

I glanced at her morosely, then returned my gaze to the bat lying in my lap.

“Can we stop at Clicker on our way out? You know, the stadium?”

She huffed, “but we need to be at Joel’s at-”

“4:30. I know,” I broke her sentence and continued with mine, “It will only take a couple minutes.”

“But it’s starting to rain!”

“Precisely,” I choked a bit, “it’s just a few minutes. Won’t be over five.”

“Fine. We’ll go. But five is it!”

She started to back up. I cracked open the window a bit, and I could already feel the winds of change infiltrate my senses as we pulled out of the driveway. The rain carefully formed a sonata on my pane. Clicking and clanking gently, one after the other. Creating a lamented melody.

The day after my birthday, it started to rain. I felt morbid that morning. I had my cleats tied up and my uniform on, prepared for a day in the sun. I heard my father and mother discussing in the kitchen about how the precipitation was only going to greater throughout the week. That’s when my father marched through the doorway, umpire outfit strapped onto his body, and told me we were going to go play some baseball. I probably replied with something along the lines of “but it’s raining!”. He didn’t care. He took me out to Clicker, the field was idle. Not a Diet coke can stirred in the pouring rain. We slid all over the bronze gravel. We hit home runs and lost the ball in all the boundless puddles, and not a single person could tell us that we struck out. It was illustrious. Just my dad and I. Sliding into bases in the bleak rain.

The car shifted into a halt. I hadn’t thought we were already here. Clicker was drowned with water. Puddles pooled on the evanescent bleachers and the white streaks that marked the boundaries were as pale as a ghost.

“Go on, now,” she mellowly said, “and no more than five minutes”

I could say yes, but I couldn’t even find words. I just nodded. I grabbed the baseball bat carefully, not wanting to afflict it with my emotional grip, and walked out of the car. Rain fell on my shoulders like bricks. The blue dye from my hair leaked onto my white shorts. I didn’t mind. I didn’t even like them anyhow. My feet carry my body closer and closer to the field. Water squished and squealed from inside my Converse sneakers. When I finally landed my trudging feet on the turf, I felt my lips quiver. Not in fear, in sadness. I’ve tried too hard to be the one who smiles through everything. To look upon life as if it was just one planned event after the other. I dragged the bat with me to home plate and stared out into the nebulous void.

“I know you’re there, Dad. At least your spirit,” I say out to the vacant field, “so this is me, taking one last pitch with you. Taking one last pitch with Hertfordshire. Taking one last pitch with this life that I’ve known, and starting a new inning tomorrow.”

My feet sank into the ground. The gravel was staining my shoes. I pulled a baseball out of my pocket. It was old:used. The red stitches were soft from years of fading, and dirt carved itself into the thin crevices marking the ball. My chin raised up again, and I stared back onto the field.

“Remember when I was little, Dad?” I chuckled a bit, “and you took me out to the field when it was raining? For once, this crowded little cranny of a stadium was empty. Just you and me. And when I was tired, you carry me on your back all the way home.”

I began to pace slowly. My hands began to toss the ball back and forth, I didn’t even need to command them to. “We missed you; Mom and I. We watched your story on the county news that morning. We couldn’t believe it,” I gripped the baseball even harder, “how someone you love-someone who’s ran through hell with you-could just be gone because some idiot ran a stop sign?”

The ball made its way up to my torso. The tough texture sat on my hip.

“So,” I turned towards the field again, “here’s my last throw. This ball is my past. I’m letting it go, Dad, I’m letting it go.” I held the ball in front my chest, and then, the silence of Clicker stadium filled my ears. The roars of crowds, the laughing of children, the gossip of mothers all ceased to exist. I opened my eyes slowly, afraid to disturb the peace. “And Meg Felton steps up to bat,” I yell into the vast downpour, trying my best to mimic my father’s cordial voice, “she carries a Louisville Slugger; blue with white accents. Unfortunately, her pitcher couldn’t make it. He’s caught up in traffic Meg will pitch it herself.” Then, in that moment, I threw Hertfordshire up into the air, and everything in it. Every cast list that didn't contain my name, every boy who broke my heart, every friend who left me in the dirt, every birthday, every tear streaked down my face, and every stop sign. It was all being thrown into the misty air. I've never heard silence quite so loud before the bat made contact with the ball. It was incredible. My whole life flew across the field. Just as it had all those years ago, when he'd take me out here. It landed somewhere, I didn't know and I didn't care. I arched the bat on my back and stared towards the car. Clicker Stadium began to vanish behind me. I would miss Hertfordshire, not going to lie, but somehow I feel as if the heavy weights that burdened my shoulders had been lifted. My head was clear. I gazed back into the misty void. As the car began to slowly accelerate, I closed my eyes and imagined my pitcher in the rain. Covering me from the rain as we exited the field. Kissing me on the forehead as I fell asleep to the sweet sonata of rain tapping on my ears. I leaned back into my seat and tapped Ollivander's nose.

“Everything is going to be fine, Ollie,” I say to him as the stadium disappears from the corner of my eye, “we’ll be okay”.

He waited patiently, silently. Looking down at the scene before him. He was not condescending, he was just watching. The hands of the people below him were stained in blood, but he looked back at his own pair of withering hands and saw that they were clean. He knew he had seen more war, and blood then the people below him had encountered all together. Which made him pondered the likeness of his own existence to the people he was studying.  The frightening depiction of their own sorrowful eyes was a burden on their conscience, and dying triumphantly now seemed liked the more cowardly thing to do when faced with a life and death situation. Grasping onto life like grasping onto smoke seemed to be human nature, but not on this night, when the air was cool and the sky shimmered, he said to himself. Looking back upon at himself he realised he was not so different after all from these people.

However, this was not enough for him. He knew he was different. It was not innocence that made him different.  After all, that would make him no different than a five-year-old. It was not the time that made him different.  To bear the feelings of another being is the one distinguishing characteristic, he thought to himself. Then he looked back at the people, and realized this was not true. Does having an enemy serve the same purpose of having a friend? He asked himself.

He then began to wonder about the war. Why does Hitler and the Germans have the right to just take what they want? I suppose it’s because, they are in charge, they have the power. Why? He asked himself. Although he had seen humans grow and evolve for hundreds of years, he never completely understood them. They let Hitler take charge, but they would not just let any old man rule. He thought about this for a second. They would let a man with all the answers take over. They would let a man who would show no mercy rule them in the hopes of finally getting rid of all the problems in the universe. It all just started with a few words, a plan, fear, and an unrealistic goal, that would achieve an unrealistic outcome. That's how faith is born, give them what they want, give them a fairytale. He just now realised how vulnerable and receptive they were. One thing puzzled him though. Not anyone could just walk up and give them a fantasy. He look back at the people in search of clarification. They were fighting with such passion and vindictiveness, but when he looked a little closer he saw quivering hands, and unused guns. This hatred and fear was already existent to begin with, the rest was easy to do when you have everyone's attention I suppose.

    He started to laugh. Chuckling to himself as if they were nothing compared to him. Chuckling at their small existence on their tiny little planet.  The tiny little planet that he was bound to. Laughing at the people that he hid from every day. Each and everyone of them had thought about him, but it never occurred to them that he had thought about every single one of them as well. Still laughing, he went down to the people.

Now walking among these people he ambled away from their gunshots and came to a small house with an old couple.  “There is a war going on, and this old woman just died utterly of old age.” He said out loud, but of course he was just talking to himself. For some reason this was fascinating to him. This woman’s death was the kind that you see on movies. She died with her head resting across her husband’s chest and everything was quiet except for soft sobbing.  Exactly like a movie except the sky shimmered. He lingered there for a moment, finding comfort in the small secluded house.  Not only to bear the feelings of another, but to bear one’s own feelings when you cannot support them any longer. He thought to himself.

He had seen this grieving process many times, and he had no intent of staying to scrutinize this particular human habit.  However, this man did something he had not encountered before, to relieve his agony through written words.  Bending awkwardly to see the words on the paper he saw this:

The Lonesome Man             

There was a lonesome man that had the power to walk among our thoughts, to whisper in our heads. He would walk into our rooms every single night whispering. He crept into every kid's bed, and tiptoed to every person's room until every brain was filled with the same thoughts.  

This lonesome man was not very important, but soon after the thoughts had been placed in every single manipulative mind he would finally become the most important man on the face of the Earth.  Like an equestrian guiding his horse with reins, this man was controlling everyone.  

However, it wasn't just at night that he would come. He would hide these thoughts In plane sight for the whole world to see. One day, this man decided that there needed to be an easier way to hide all of these thoughts and words. He was getting tired of placing each individual thought, and each individual word. Then he came up with a plan. It was a truly brilliant plan he thought. What could I do that would encompass every single word and every single thought? It started out as just a hasty scrawl, just a few marks in thick black ink, but it evolved. These black lines meant nothing to the people, until it was placed in their heads, surrounding the world hidden, but not actually hidden. The symbol was found everywhere. Until it created a thick black mark across the sky, and the ground, and it was wisped away and placed everywhere.  

All those thoughts and all those words hovering above all the people. Shielding the stars like a thick black cloud. He called it a swastika. He thought it deserves a name. A title will give it power, he thought. The black ink rested atop the eyes of each of the people. It was cradled in their eye sockets. Looking down at his work, he smiled.

It shamed him to atmit the lamentable truth. His sickening similarity to this man humiliated him. His role as the killer that does not actually kill, the attention he never asked for, the title he was given without a consensus humiliated him. He then realized the likeness to himself and the symbol as well.  He then stopped to think about this.  I am bound to humans, and I am created by humans. This black cloaked, hatchet bearing creature.  They created this terrifying creature and then attached it to my title. The world does not revolve around them.  Their fears don’t create the world, and their opinions don’t affect the universe.  I am not bound to their rules, or their thoughts. The sky does not turn gray everytime one of them dies, rain does not mean sadness, the world does not grieve with them. No one can mark the sky. Not even a man with a swastika. He was growing angry, but he was still only thinking to himself.

He took a walk across their tiny planet unable to stay at the tranquil little house.  He watched a coyote gnaw on a squirrel and he wondered if both creatures were created by the same set fingers. As he walked a little further he came across a little boy who just celebrated his fifth birthday, and then a couple newlyweds. He looked at them with clenched fists, but gradually relaxed. He was now growing tired, so he returned to the people he was inspecting originally, and it was like staring at a battle between the stars themselves. Something so magnificent and so fragile was falling to pieces. They were crumbling to the ground.  He watched and tended to them because no matter how many times he denied it, he was bound to them like a dog.

Perhaps they thought of him as a completely different creature because they would be too ashamed by his physical similarities if he wasn’t. Or maybe they just need something to blame. Or perhaps they created him in order to believe they could control him.

Maybe one day he'll gain the courage to reveal himself to them. Until then, he'll look down upon them in shame and they'll have no idea he's there.  He'll just sit there and watch them completely invisible to their tiny little planet. And he’ll have no idea how lonely he is because he thinks it doesn't quite count if it is inevitable. He has no one to tell him how wrong his statements are, but if  there was someone, then maybe he wouldn’t have thought them at all.

Golden fingers of sunshine reached out across the rippling stalks of wheat, passing the wooden posts and barbed wire fences to approach the vacant farmyard. In minutes, the morning sun rose above the prairie horizon and illuminated the modest Lafler Farm. Stucco buildings cast elongated shadows on the grove and trees west of the house. Meadowlarks began to serenade their joyful songs through the trees and brightened pasture.  

Before the world awoke, Grandpa and Grandma had already risen early. Sitting at the kitchen table with his usual steaming cup of coffee, Grandpa contemplated the day’s work ahead. With his snow-white hair and beard, Grandpa had a grizzled appearance. Canny, diligent, and steady, he lived through the trying times of the Depression and had seen many years come and go into the next. He could remember the uncomplicated days of his childhood. That was such a simple time, he thought, filled with family, friends, and hours of farm labor.  Despite their hardscrabble lives, people were thankful for their blessings and the company of each other. As a young lad, he was expected to do his chores and attend school, but there was plenty of time to run around the Lafler Farm, which had always been his home. He had watched his four daughters grow up on the farm also, and now they had children of their own. Grandpa was old, but he had a sharp mind, sometimes remembering occurrences by the year they happened. There were events that he had forgotten, but occasionally something would trigger a recollection of earlier times.

"Do you need to go to town today?" Grandma asked. 

"After I tie up a few loose ends outside," Grandpa remarked before he took another ample sip from his oversized cup. 

Grandma was an organized and loving woman. With her jet-black hair and round, burgundy glasses, she reminded one of any gracious, good-hearted grandmother, who found great joy in her family. She especially delighted in their return back to the farm. When her children and grandchildren sat down at the meal with smiles on their faces, she could not be more content. She kept them well fed, encouraging them to eat seconds and thirds. She would never admit that her food was exquisite, though, for she was the most humble person. On the other hand, the humorous man that she had married was quite ornery. He caused Grandma to become stern, but it was not long before a warm, radiant smile would return to her wrinkled face.

After eating a hearty breakfast, Grandpa rose to take a look outside. Standing in front of the kitchen sink, he peered across the yard into the pasture and fields of crops growing in almost perfect lines. He knew every hill, curve and dip of the land. He knew when to work the fields, when to plant, and when storms were was approaching. For many years, Grandpa had worked in the oil industry too. He was familiar with treasure buried under the earth. Unbeknownst to him, he had more treasures in store.

Not long after Grandpa walked back to his place at the kitchen table, a boisterous, strongly-accented voice called from the front porch of the farmhouse. 

"Morning!" declared the voice with a hint of excitement. 

 “Hugo?” Grandma answered, "come on in!" The wooden door promptly swung open as his trusted hired hand entered with greasy work clothes

“I struck something with my shovel, and I think it might belong to you, Don.” Hugo had been outside digging holes to plant locust trees that Grandpa was putting in the pasture. Hugo was a considerate, moral man. Appreciative of the Laflers’ generosity, he was always quick to help Grandma with anything she needed. He was long-legged, lean, and had a dark complexion that came from his Mexican heritage. In his smudged hands, Hugo held a rusty, bent box. Dirt-caked and stripped of paint, Grandma didn't recognize it as anything more than another old hunk of metal. But the moment Grandpa spied it, realization rushed through him like the western Nebraska winds blow through the barren prairie. 

 “Don?” Grandma questioned as she realized how unusually quiet he was. 

Hugo, also noticing this, remarked in a teasing way, "I think you may have lost something, Don."

“Where did you find it, Hugo?” 

“North, in the pasture,” Hugo replied. Suddenly, Grandpa laughed wholeheartedly, filling the whole room with a deep, pleasant sound. 

“Well, I’ll be darned! It's my old marble collection from when I was a kid. I believe my cousin and I buried it. I thought it was long gone.”

Grandpa reached for the once brightly painted Walt Disney container. It felt so small in his hands now. Over seventy years ago it had seemed large, certainly substantial enough to store his treasured marbles. Instead of the smooth finish that he remembered, the box felt coarse and smelled of the earth. He opened the rusty lid with a creak. For the first time since he was eight years old, he gazed upon his beloved marbles. Sparklers, oxbloods, and popeyes, he recalled the names of a few. Most of them were regular-sized, but there was one giant marble called the shooter. Consisting of a variety of colors and patterns, this assortment had made Grandpa proud. They were not vibrant now, for they were covered in fine, velvety prairie dirt. Nonetheless, Grandpa knew what they were. He knew the second he laid eyes on them. It was a piece of his childhood that he had lost and forgotten. The sight of them was a gateway into his past.

Staring upon his familiar toy, Grandpa was taken back to the memory of the day when kids had few playthings. Children created their own fun, running across the prairie, "farming" in the dirt, or playing cowboys and Indians. Grandpa found great joy in his marbles, for they were one of his favorite pastimes. Participating in friendly competitions with kids from school, he traded them and shot them into rough circles drawn in the dirt. His mind drifted to the day he spent with his cousin, Gale. It was the year 1939; he could remember clearly now. Gale was visiting with his family, and the two were playing outdoors. Growing tired of hide-and-seek, they decided to invent a game. Each boy buried a personal toy. If one found the other’s buried treasure, they got to keep it. That day, Grandpa, took the marbles in his Walt Disney tin box and hid them in a clever spot, north of the house. Gale paced back and forth across the pasture looking for them. After a while of searching with no luck, the boys were called for dinner, leaving the marbles unfound. Gale left with his family after the meal, and Grandpa spent the rest of the afternoon playing with his new English shepherd puppies.The recollection of the marbles left his distracted mind. There in its hiding spot, they laid, disregarded.

Trampled upon by numerous deer, pheasants, and coyotes. Frozen solid through many frigid winters. Baked in a tin box through many scorching western Nebraska summers. Maybe even walked upon multiple times by his very self, unaware that an erased memory lay just beneath his well-worn boots. Who knows what would have become of those long forgotten marbles if not found? They may have been carried away by a curious animal to its home miles away, or after years and years, buried too deep to be found. Maybe Hugo, not being the honest worker that he was, could have carelessly thrown away the warped metal box like any other piece of junk metal. But nothing of the sort happened. The lost marbles had been found. The memory was excavated. But had that memory really been forgotten? Grandpa had lived that moment years ago when he was a young boy. Surely, somewhere in his brain, the thought of them was there, buried by years of work, marriage, and children. All of those fond moments of friends, family, holidays and more were locked inside his brain. All it took was something as simple as a smell, feeling, or object from years before to make it a memory once again. 

"Don?" Hugo’s voice seemed far away and muffled. It took Grandpa a second or two for his mind to come back to the present. 

“ Oh, umm, yes Hugo?” he replied.

Hugo chuckled, “You were faraway, Don, I felt like we'd lost you." 

"Did you think I had lost my marbles again?" Grandpa chuckled. Grandma and Hugo couldn't help but join in laughter at his ridiculous joke.

In a blink of an eye, Grandpa remembered his marbles, or possibly he remembered as quickly as a flick of a thumb that shoots a marble into the circle of one’s life. Spinning towards the smudged and faded edge of childhood and landing to fill in the space. Something as simple as a marble. Grandpa never lost his marbles; they just had to be found.  

My hands shook ferociously as I lifted the knife. The metal almost sparkled in the dim moonlight. Could I really do this? Is it worth it? It was too late, I had done it. The last thing I remember is my body falling onto the floor.

But the story doesn’t start there. It starts a few weeks before on the first day back from winter break.

I cautiously approached the huge school. Why was I worried? I’d gone here for a year and a half. For some reason, today the school seemed extra menacing. I considered what waited for me. Would everyone laugh at me and talk behind my back? Why did it matter anyway? I could do it, but I just needed to ignore the voices in my head.

“Bella!” a girl yelled from across the parking lot. The tall blonde girl sprinted and almost tackled me, enveloping me in a hug. I stood, my feet frozen to the ground. My cheeks burned as I felt myself becoming flushed.

“How was your Christmas break? Mine was great! I had a lot of fun with my family in San Francisco.”

“It was okay, I guess,” I quietly responded, “Could you not be so… so loud?”

“Fine,” the girl said with mock irritation, “I’ll try.” That time she was sincere. She understood, she’s the only one that understands.

“Thanks, Clementine. It means a lot.” It did mean a lot. Clementine is my only only friend and I’m not in a position to lose her. Everything in my life had changed, but Clementine was constant. She was always there and, I hoped, she would always be there.

“We’ve got to go to class or Mrs. Johnson will kill us!” Clementine raced into the building. I trailed just a few steps behind as I always did. As I walked, my eyes wandered to the colorful posters on the wall. One caught my eye.

“Suicide helpline,” I quietly whispered to myself.

“What?” Clementine called out, just a little too loud. Everyone in hallway 3A turned to look at us. There it was again, that burning feeling in my cheeks signifying the bright red that followed. The on-looker’s eyes burned holes in my already thin self confidence. I wanted to cry out for help, but who was going to help? I tried to run, but I was frozen to the ground. Clementine grabbed my arm and ran around the corner into the bathroom, holding me tightly.

“What happened? You know they were just laughing at me,” Clementine assured.

“Umm… uh. I…” I stuttered. It was as if someone was strangling me, making my words clog me with fear. Fear… why was I so scared? I know they meant no harm, but my mental illness caused me to think they were a pack of starving hyenas and I was the carcass. I remember when I was first diagnosed with depression and social anxiety disorder about three years ago. My life has been going downhill since then. I have no control over my emotions or when the panic attacks come or go.

“It’ll be okay, just breathe,” Clementine said calmly. She had gotten used to my panic attacks. After all, she was one of just five people that know of my mental state. My mom, dad, doctor, and therapist were the other four.

“Thanks for helping. It’s been getting worse.” I trailed off quietly at the end. It had been getting worse. Those bracelets on my left wrist weren’t a fashion statement, they were a necessity. They covered up the bloody cuts that rested there. I hadn’t told anyone about them yet, not even Clementine. Clementine knew almost everything else about me: my favorite of everything, my plans, and she was the first to know about my depression.

“I’m going to assign groups for a project,” Mrs. Johnson grumbled. No… no… no! The panic spread throughout my body. Group work was my kryptonite. The awkward conversations, the one kid who insisted on being bossy, and worst of all, the questions. To a normal person being asked questions about your opinion on something is at worst annoying or awkward. To me, the questions felt like an interrogation into my personal thoughts. I was already awkward, but group work was torturous and involved a great deal of concentration in order to not explode with fear.

“Each group will present their project on Friday,” Mrs. Johnson stated as the class erupted into a chorus of sighs and mumbled curse words.

I could feel the blood rushing to my head, as I repeated the horrific word over and over. Present! I can’t present! I’m going to die if I have to stand in front of the class, I thought. I turned to look at Clementine hoping she would have a plan to get out of this. Instead, she just gave me a sympathetic look and turned towards the teacher to hear the rest of the instructions. Great, I thought, not even Clementine can help me.

Terrified of who I would be stuck with, I nervously listened to Mrs. Johnson hoping I would get good partners.

“Group three is Dillan, Valerie, Eli, and Bella.” Oh. My. God. Why does this kind of thing always happen to me? Really world, why do you hate me that much?! The teacher just had to put me in a group with the annoying, unproductive kid, Dillan, the gorgeous, popular girl, Valerie, and the guy I’ve had a huge crush on since eighth grade. Mortified of what would happen, I looked at Clementine for support. She mouthed the word “sorry” and walked over to her group.

I gave up on trying to find excuses not to do the project and walked over my group. I immediately knew I would have to do all the work. For the rest of the hour Dillan goofed off, Valerie flirted with someone from a different group, and Eli did homework for another class. I managed to do a lot of work anyway.

Clementine and I walked to my house after-school for our “check up on what we did over break” talk.

“I’m soooo sorry that you have to work with them in social studies. I know how awkward it feels to work with your crush.”

“I’ll be fine, I’m the only one doing work anyway.”

“Okay, but give me updates.”

“Ok.”

The next morning I begrudgingly got out of bed and got ready for school. My depression clouded my mind with fear and worry. Sometimes you have good days where you feel like nothing can stop you and some days you feel like you’re about to be pushed off a cliff into the abyss of depression below. Today was the latter. I don’t know why, but my depression seemed to worsen with every step I took. My depression weighed me down to the point where lifting up my foot was a nearly impossible task. Every time I take a breath a sharp pain runs through my body. I feel dead inside. It’s hard to explain how much it hurts to feel yourself deteriorating, but I have to keep living and carry on as if I was perfectly fine. I grabbed my backpack and opened the door. A cold burst of wind hit me, chilling me to the bone. I continued all the way to school wearing the biggest, and the most fake, smile ever. No one would know I’m in pain.

I walked into Mrs. Johnson’s class and got to work, beaming. Eli walked over just as I finished his part of the presentation.

“Is it done?” he asked.

“Ya, I just finished,” I said, handing him the papers.

“Why are you even talking to her, she’s so ugly” Valerie asked as she approached us.

“You know she’s done all the work, right? Without her you’d be getting a F.”

“You know she’s really annoying and gross and deserves to die in a hole.” As she mocked me, she acted as though I wasn’t even there. Die in a hole, perfect, as if I wasn’t already totally embarrassed in front of my crush, and now I feel even more suicidal. Her words stabbed deep and reassured my anxiety that everyone hates me. I wanted to die right then and there, to end it all. No more mean girls, no more embarrassment, and no more pain and suffering. But more importantly I needed to not let them see me cry. I plastered on the biggest smile I could and laughed at the “joke.” Luckily the bell rang shortly thereafter and I scurried out of the room so fast that I didn’t even see their reactions. The rest of the day went by in a blur without a single tear.

As soon as I got home I rushed to my room and threw my backpack on the ground. Tears poured out of my eyes and flowed on my cheeks in rivers, falling onto the floor in big droplets. My lungs burned as I gasped for air. It feels like there’s no air left and you are being suffocated. My body started to freeze as a chill ran down my spine. The tears suddenly stopped and a feeling of calm rushed over me. I wiped the streaks of tears off my face just as my mom walked in.

“Your dad and I are going to dinner, wanna come?”

“No, thanks.” She walked out of my room, unaware of the consequences this would have.

I made my way down the stairs as I heard the garage door close. The cold tiles of the kitchen floor froze my feet. I slowly reached for the knife, gently holding the ice cold blade. I walked to the stairs and continued up. I was done, with Valerie, with Eli, with my depression. I no longer cared about the repercussions. My life would finally be over. I could finally feel the sweet release from myself. After today there would be no Bella, just a lifeless body.

I arrived at my room and calmly closed the door behind me.

My whole life played like a movie in front of me. My friends, my family. What would happen to them? Clementine! I could picture her crying at my funeral. But it didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be done.

My hands shook ferociously as I lifted the knife. The metal almost sparkled in the dim moonlight. Could I really do this? Is it worth it? It was too late, I sliced deep into my wrist. The blood rushed out and mixed with my tears on the floor.

“Goodbye,” I whispered. The last thing I remember is my body falling onto the floor. I was gone.

It was surprising how something so seemingly small could be the catalyst that would send her life into a downward spiral. It was so miniscule and somehow it held the strength to tear away the only person she ever loved. It wasn’t fair, but Juliette’s life never was. With an alcoholic father and a mother six feet under, she was practically labeled “unfortunate” from birth. In fact, many living in the small town of Hayesville assumed that the young girl would grow up to be an outlaw or a floozy. However, her friendship with the sweet McClay girl was what many deemed as her saving grace, and Juliette would never deny that Gigi’s support and understanding was what kept her head above water. But, somehow, that made the whole screwed up situation even worse, because what could Juliette do when Gigi was now the one who needed help? Was she supposed to just lie down and watch her best friend disintegrate into oblivion?

All it took was three stupid letters for Gigi to be taken from her, not even a word or a phrase.

Just three.

HIV

~

She knew that Gigi wasn’t an imbecile, truth be told she was actually the most perspicacious person in the entire state. However, there was one topic she wasn’t an expert at. Sure, Juliette knew plenty about sex. She’d had that conversation with her father a long time ago. I mean, when your dad comes home every night with a new woman, questions are bound to arise. But for the rest of the teens in religious-centric Hayesville; the cat was still in the bag. And, sadly, Gigi wasn’t immune to the townspeople’s perpetual avoidance of the subject. The church and Father Christopher would occasionally mention the intimate acts, but only to remind the children that ‘Celibacy is what God wants from you!’ and ‘Satan will try to tempt you, but do not be fooled!,’ and plenty more trauma-inducing mantras. But if the adults really didn’t want the kids to have sex, than maybe they should’ve just educated their children. I mean, fatal diseases and childbirth seem a lot more menacing than the wrath of God. Maybe if Father Christopher would’ve stopped evangelizing and started explaining, Gigi wouldn’t have had to suffer.

 “You did what?”

“Jules don’t make me say it again. I…I did the deed, okay?” Gigi said as she pulled the covers of her bed up to hide her blushing face.

“With who? You don’t even have a boyfriend.”

“Well you left the party, and Rex offered to take me home so I—”

“Seriously? Gigi, you did it with him? Of all the people in town that you could have been with, you choose the guy who equates sex to a handshake?  You’ve got to be kidding me! How could you do this G? ” Juliette shouted.

“Shhh! Keep your voice down! You’re gonna wake up my mom, and then we’ll both be in for it.”

“G, you’re supposed to be better than this.” Juliette replied, in a much softer, more defeated tone.

“Look, I’m sorry Jules. I just wanted—he made me feel special, okay? And I just wanted to try it. Why are you making me feel terrible about myself? I tell you something super personal, and you scream in my face about it? We’re supposed to be friends.”

“G, I’m not mad at you. And nothing you ever do will make me stop being your friend. I just—did you guys at least use protection?”

“Protection? Jules, we weren’t playing tackle football. Was I supposed to wear shin guards or something? Oh great, now you’re gonna lecture me about how helmets must be worn during intercourse, aren’t you?”

“Oh my god.” Juliette sputtered out as she stared at her blissfully ignorant friend.

Thoughts were racing through Juliette’s mind at lightning speed. But one word kept pounding in her ears, flashing bright across her eyes like a neon sign. It’s funny, because it wasn’t even an actual word. It was only three letters.

Just three.

OMG

~

Her legs wouldn’t stop bouncing up and down. She felt like her calves were competing to see who could jump the highest and knee her in the face. At least a broken nose would be more enjoyable than just sitting in this cold, dank waiting room. The overhead lights added an eerie ambience to the room, and Juliette couldn’t help but wonder if this is what hell was like. Looking down, she stared at the random lines and colors that decorated the carpet below her. She couldn’t tell which markings were parts of the original design and which were added by other artists, latched on to their mother’s sides whilst sucking on their tiny thumbs. This was the only clinic that was, both, far enough from Hayesville that no one would recognize the teens and offered testing for minors with no parental supervision. Juliette had forced Gigi to come, despite her insistent denials that nothing was wrong. A nurse had called Gigi’s name about a half an hour earlier, and her best friend had disappeared behind a large, wooden door. The longer Juliette waited, the more her mind became a ‘what if’ wasteland. She was so zoned out that she almost missed the door creak open, allowing Gigi and the now-frowning nurse to enter the waiting room.

“Hey, are you okay? What’s going on? Are you pregnant? Is she pregnant? Are you gonna answer me? Wait, why are you crying? Are those happy tears? Sad tears? Gigi, answer me!” Juliette rambled looking towards her friend and the nurse for positive responses.

“Well, the pregnancy tests came back negative, so Gigi is not carrying a child.” The nurse calmly explained.

“Oh, thank god! G, this is great news! Why aren’t you smiling? G?” Juliette questioned her mute friend.

“Unfortunately, we did find antibodies in Gigi’s blood sample.” The nurse chimed in once again.

“Antibodies? Wait, what does that mean? What are antibodies? Are they good to have?”

“The presence of antibodies in the bloodstream means that Gigi tested positive for HIV. Now, remember, this is just a preliminary test. We’ve sent her sample to a lab to be tested again, and we should receive those results in about three weeks. However, the rapid test we just performed is very accurate. So, it is very unlikely for her results from the lab to come back negative.” the nurse supplied, with a pitying look in her eyes.

“Okay…um so what’s the um—the best plan of action for us?” Juliette tried to form a proper sentence, but she felt a lump in her throat and the back of her eyes starting to tingle.

“Well, we’re going to need to contact Gigi’s regular doctor about our findings today. However, you’ll need to bring a parent or guardian back with you so that we can get all of Gigi’s information. Look, I know this seems like the end of the world right now, but from the looks of the test, we caught it early. There are plenty of people living a normal life with sexually transmitted diseases.”

There it was: the official proclamation that her friend was ill. It felt as though the ground beneath Juliette had just crumbled away and she was now free-falling. The clinic was most definitely like hell, after all. It only took the nurse three seconds to confirm her worst fear.

Just three.

STD

~

Telling her mom was probably the hardest part for Gigi. Juliette knew that Mrs. McClay and her daughter had a very close relationship, but it would never outweigh the relationship Gigi’s mother had with Jesus. The night Gigi finally found the courage to confess, no one in Hayesville got any sleep. Screaming, crying, fighting. The noises of despair echoed through the town, chilling even the most rebellious thug to the bone. Naturally, everyone at school found it to be hilarious. They would taunt and nag Gigi until she burst into tears. They would tell her that she was a sinner, and that she deserved to burn. The irony was that the bullies were more sinister than Gigi would ever be. People egged her house and went as far as to throw rocks at her. All of the harassment contributed negatively to Gigi’s grades, and the overly-opinionated teachers weren’t much better than the students. One even subtracted fifty points off of an exam and wrote in big red letters, ‘BECAUSE YOU’RE INFECTED WITH THE DEVIL’S POISON.’ The worst part was that Gigi was actually an avid follower of Christ, so all of the insults really hit home. However, after a few months she developed a thicker skin and stopped listening to the persecutors around her.

“Gigi are you in here? Gigi! Look, no one’s around. I promise, it’s just me.” Juliette said.

“I’m in the third stall, door’s open.” Gigi replied, but her voice was shaky and raw.

“Hey. I thought we were over hiding in the bathroom? What’s up?”

“Some kids were calling me some names.” Gigi answered, her eyes glued on the tile floor.

“Okay… What did they call you?”

“They…they said I was like her. And they’re right. I’m—I am like her, just like her. I went against the church and God. I-I ate the apple! I listened to the serpent—I took a bite and I…I’m her.”

“Gigi, I don’t understand. They said you’re like who?” Juliette asked slightly confused, but knowing deep down what Gigi meant.

“YOU KNOW WHO! I’m going to hell, Juliette. I’m a despicable human being.” Gigi screeched out, her words turning into sobs.

Never had Juliette hated religion so much in her life. It was because of religion that her friend was uninformed about fornication. It was because of religion that she was now ostracized. It was because of religion that Gigi was at her breaking point. Yet, as she held her weeping friend, all Juliette could do was pray. Pray to God that her friend didn’t shatter in her arms. As she beseeched the Lord for help, she repeated ‘You are not her. You are not her,’ into her best friend’s ear. Her. A word that was once biblical, now being used as an insult. That word. That name. So short, and yet so powerful. It was only three letters.

Just three.

EVE

~

It was rough, but the two girls got through it. They both graduated high school, moved on to college, and went onto get jobs. Juliette got married, and had a few kids. Gigi was taking her meds, and working as a motivational speaker. Life was good. Somewhere along the lines, Gigi and Juliette started floating farther and farther apart from one another. It started when Juliette moved to California, and escalated to no texts, less calls, and pretty minimal communication in general. They were just on different paths, but they never stopped thinking about one another. About 20 years from when Gigi was diagnosed, Juliette got the call. She flew back home and spent about three months with Gigi in the hospital. It was nice for the two to be able to see each other again. However, good things never did last long for Juliette.

“G! Gigi! Stay with me, G! I can’t lose you! Nurse! Nurse!”

“I’m going to heaven, Juliette.” Gigi whispered serenely, staring upwards at the ceiling.

Gigi please! I can’t lose you yet…” Juliette whimpered as the ominous beep displayed a flat line on the monitor.

It wasn’t enough time. Gigi passed away too soon. She only got spend three months with her best friend.

Just three.

RIP

~

The funeral was short and simple, just the way Gigi would have liked it to be. Only a few close family members and friends attended the procession. Juliette didn’t cry. She just stared at the tombstone on display. There was no coffin, because Gigi had never liked the idea of being buried. She always said that she wanted to donate her body to science. Juliette was grateful for that, now. Seeing the orifice that would conceal her best friend from the rest of the world was not something on her to-do list. No, she just stared at the slab stuck halfway in soil. Juliette stood there staring for hours after the funeral had ended and everyone had left. She stayed until nightfall, and eventually the groundskeeper came to tell her that the cemetery was closing.

“I’m real sorry to do this ma’am, but I’m gonna have to ask ya to leave. The gates gotta be closed, and I can’t lock ya in here.” The groundskeeper politely said, with a slanted accent.

“Oh wow! I’m sorry. I—I didn’t realize how late it was. Um, I’ll go.” Juliette said embarrassed, as she turned to leave.

“Uh wait, Miss! I’m…uh—I’m real sorry for your loss.”

“Me too.” Juliette replied.

“What was she like—uh Gi-gi?” The man called out to Juliette’s retreating figure, squinting at the tombstone to find the name.

“She is—was a beautiful person. She saved my life. Without her I’d probably be dead—not here right now.” Juliette answered, having been intrigued by the groundskeeper’s interest. Most strangers could care less about someone else’s life. Or lack thereof.

“Well, she sounds like a stand-up girl. Really wish I coulda met her.”

“I wish you could’ve too.”

“Ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking, that’s a pretty interesting inscription on that there stone. What does it mean?”

“Um, well, let’s just say it has sentimental value.”

“Alrighty then, Miss. You have a goodnight, okay?”

“Okay, I will. Goodnight to you, too. And… thank you” Juliette replied and then walked out of the cemetery.

The groundskeeper was right; the engraving on Gigi’s headstone was fairly unique. When Juliette was asked what the inscription should say, she had to think long and hard about it. She knew that she didn’t want to put ‘Rest in Peace’ or ‘In Loving Memory of’ on Gigi’s memorial. They just felt too distant. They wouldn’t communicate how caring and spectacular she was as a human being. She wanted it to say something that was theirs. Something that no one else could take away from them. So maybe Juliette just wanted to get back at the universe and say ‘Hey, it took just three for you to take her away, but guess what? It took us less than three to fight through it and love each other!’ The world could tear Juliette down over and over again. It could deal her the worst cards in the deck, but she’d pull through. It might have been childish, but looking at that tombstone, Juliette felt like she’d finally won.

Less than three.

<3

The morning is dark and clear, moved only by the clamour of many, molasses-slow bodies fighting the early chill. The barn is quiet, save for the murmurs of horses and cattle, stirred up by the yowling of a pregnant cat.

Walling in the camp, the forest is always loud. The trees fill all hours of the day with the rumble of their leaves flicking greedy, green tongues at the brightening horizon.

Though the sun can only weakly comb its fingers through the tents, the people of the camp quicken to their station. With the fast approaching day comes the day's chores.

As the children spill together in search of firewood, the troops gather packs of stale bread and gunpowder in stained fabric sacks. Their faces are grim, so all can feel the waxy layer of fear that sticks to the morning dew.

The kitchen workers, spurred on by the smaller children’s enthusiasm and flanked by Mavis, follow Shusterman into the kitchen. Mavis, in her sleek, black glory, chooses instead to skulk around the barn and scout for rats.

The wild screeches of dawn creatures are cut off as the kitchen door is pulled shut.

First slivers of onion and carrot fly, then comes the quick flash of a silver blade before chunks of horse and rat meat are tossed into the slow-bubbling stew. Through billows of tangy steam, large but careful hands move mounds of potato into more manageable piles, working in tandem with smaller hands that divvy up the remaining bucket of broth with a cautious ladle.

Aside from the gurgling of the pot and the sound of warm water sluicing over dirty dishes, the kitchen is blissfully quiet. Briefly, a muted but jarring shriek echoes from down the hall, but those in the kitchen relax again at the subsequent laughter. The workers meet the screeching with howling of their own and fervent clanging of metal pans until the head cook, dwarfed from where she stands alongside Shusterman, cocks a challenging eyebrow.

“Now, isn’t a little early in the morn for such behavior? I would have though the lot of you nothing but children.” She says, smiling slyly and mindlessly dicing the fish that were not immediately salted. “I thought I had taught you all better than that.” Contrite looks from the staff follow, much to the head cook’s glee. “That is how respectful adults act, especially in front of the little ones.” She turns and gives Shusterman a gentle pat on the cheek. Her fingers smell like fish and rust. “Such a good, kind boy you are. My son was like you. He’s off now, traveling the world. What's left of it anyway.”

The head cook’s laugh is harsh with work and age, but it dispels the press of tension in the room. Around them, the workers return to their tasks, so she risks a kiss to Shusterman’s cheek. Her hair smells like pine and smoke.

The two of them are quiet then, but work does not continue in silence. Songs of mountains and oceans are whistled through the chapped lips of the cleaning crew, with choruses telling of cool waters on overheated skin and the freezing winds of the Western mountain ridge. Rough hands move in steady rhythm to keep pace with the patter of rain off the tin roof, and eyes grow sharp as the kitchen fills with sun, weakened by dark clouds.

The stew is almost finished when the door is thrown open in a gust of cool breath and the squealing of rusted hinges.

The commander, almost swallowed by a burst of iron rust flakes, stands tall in the doorway. Dark in mood and skin, her eyes find Shusterman looming in the far corner.

She moves carefully, either in awareness of his mood or mindful of a recent wound, Shusterman cannot tell. He bites back both the question and the small tick of concern with ferocity.

William, who was diligently peeling off the mottled skins of carrots and collecting the scraps for the livestock in a small pail, quickly darts away, but not without a deep bow to the commander.

It was the commander- Cassandra, as Shusterman had known her then, the both of them no older than sixteen -who had found William, his lips blue and eyes closed. She had stopped, listening again for the raspy breathing of a half-dead babe, cradled in the cold arms of his mother. Shusterman had been the one to push the craggy slab of concrete off of his mother, letting the blinding sun spill onto William’s slack face.

After his sixth summer in the camp, William insisted on sleeping in a separate bed, though he gave not a thought to ever sleeping without the commander in reach should night terrors come.

The other workers have gone quiet, but quick hands move crates and cut portions of supplies with engrossment, though it is transparently fake. A dozen ears tilt in the direction of the commander and Shusterman. Even the head cook hums in false disinterest as she cuts a glare towards the commander, chopping off the heads of fresh cod with a little too much vigor. The glassy-eye fish watch on with honest indifference.

There is a heavy pause where Shusterman can feel sharp eyes cutting strips of skin from his bones with impersonal flicks of scrutiny. The commander- Cassandra, a voice whispers, lilting with simpering tinge of melancholy -sighs and straightens, her mouth a hard and tired slant.

“The troops wish to make move for the farther reaches of the canyon.” She says, pulling a map from her breast pocket and pinching the worn fabric between forefinger and thumb to indicate the passage. “They will need more food. Enough salted meats, bread, and nuts to sustain them for several weeks. We will need anything you can spare.” She punctuates the plea with a careful pause. “Please.”

Against his better judgement, Susterman considers the condition of the camp, though he is careful to betray no outer twitch of feeling. In truth, any supplies bought at the beginning of the month had been quickly diminished from civilian mouths alone. Fresh meat from cattle and pigs had filled bellies for a mere week, with the bread soon disappearing in droves of insatiable fingers next, until even the vegetable gardens were ravaged for whatever sustenance could be found. By the current day, all that was left was thin broth, shrunken vegetables, and tough morsels of meat stripped from an injured horse. The children had even begun trapping rats, skinning knobby knees on the splintered floorboards of the barn as they chased the vermin to and fro.

When Shusterman fails to respond, the commander scrubs a calloused hand over her face.

“Henry-” She interrupts herself with a bitter laugh. “Shusterman, I need this. The ruins near the route are fresh, there will be survivors. They will know which way the scourge moves.” Hope sticks like pine sap to her voice. He can see it in her eyes.

Shusterman surprises himself again. “It will take a few days to run inventory.”

And so, with a muted look of surprise from both ends, preparations are made.

When Shusterman returns to his tent for the night, long after the sun had escaped the split of the western mountain crest, he reflects.

It had taken fourteen hours to properly set the supplies for the troops. Shusterman had sliced, diced, and packed enough food to last a hundred men for the better part of a month, all with the slight bitter tang of anger on his tongue. He had been livid at each hunk of meat, each moldy loaf of bread. He had been so furious that the other kitchen workers cast him worried looks in a round.

But through his anger, he could think.

Shusterman knows what the commander needs of him, so he is sure to pack the best of the meats and grains for himself.

When they leave it is still pitch black, lit only by the dozen oil lamps clenched in the tight-knuckled hands of the younger troops.

Shusterman walks with the commander, keeping to her fast pace in an effort not to nod off. He is used to rising with the sun, but the moon seems barely risen as they move west.

They walk for miles, slicing over-reaching foliage with swords thin as wire. With each step the sky grows brighter.

When midday hits, the commander stops them to water the horses and to give the troops’ sore feet a rest. The oil lamps had been put away once they could see more than five feet in front of them, but in the blazing sun Shusterman can see many without shoes. Those barefoot have soles smeared with red and brown.

The commander and him do not speak often. Sometimes talk of the troops’ direction, or evident bad weather, or jaded horses is exchanged. Such words grow less and less as the near the passage. Soon even the more boisterous troops quiet as the oppressive thickness of the scourge is felt tickling the hair on their arms and necks.

The weeks blend together in a haze of green. Shusterman walks and eats in a steady routine that leaves room for no more thought than that of rest.

He hunts once, downing a deer with the help of one of the commander’s officers. Cassandra had smiled gently when they returned, the young buck slung over Shusterman’s broad shoulders. He found himself returning it with a surprising lack of reluctance.

Shusterman grows content with the discomfort, so when they reach the pass, he is unprepared.

The ruins are fresh, as the commander had said, and Shusterman is no stranger to death and blood, yet the sight still turns his stomach.

Besides the cascades of rubble from collapsed buildings and the eerie whistles of wind through broken windows, the narrowed streets are filled with blood. Crimson is smeared on bodies, splattered on walls, and pooled in the cracks in the pavement. Men, women, and children, all open-eyed and stinking of rot.

The smell travels with the breeze up to Shusterman’s perch with the commander, making some of the troops gag, others grimace.

The commander gives those weaker in constitution a few moments to gather themselves, then marches them down the hillside.

They spend the day inspecting the ruins, calling out for those huddled under bodies or trapped beneath a sheet of brick. Shusterman’s voice, without much use at the camp, is hoarse after a few hours of increasingly desperate shouts. For all of the troops’ zeal, they find no one.

And by the time they can feel the chill in the air, there is nowhere to escape.

The scourge is upon them by dusk.

I follow the girl with pink-tipped hair up the back stairs and behind me, the audience laughs. I turn and look at them for a moment, at this sea full of my neighbors, colleagues, and faces of my childhood. They cannot see me, hidden in the shadows of the stairwell beside the stage, but I watch their faces as they light up and rest again. They are here to watch you perform, to do exactly as they are doing now because they have no other reason to be here on this stuffy, Saturday night. And while the thought tumbles through my mind, I can’t help but think how easy it would be to watch from their perspective, with innocence replacing the years of knowledge inside my chest. Their only purpose is to enjoy the show. But I am here for a different reason, I didn’t pay at the door, and as I turn back to the crew member guiding me, I feel my breath catch in my throat.

    Because there you are. We have made it up the stairs, and as my vision is flooded with the backstage aura, you are the only thing that stands out in this sea of mayhem. I watch as the girl goes up and taps your arm, the way a person does during a math class and they need help, that’s how her fingers poke your shoulder. As if it’s light hearted, as if we aren’t standing behind a curtain in an auditorium filled with hundreds of people in the same high school I once drove to every single day. As if I don’t have the news that I carry deep within my stomach.

    I watch as she points in my direction and you turn your head. The smile that was stretched along your cheeks slowly begins to fall when you take in the sight of me. I know it’s obvious I don’t belong as I stand with my hands burrowed deep in the pockets of my coat, still in the sea of rushing bodies that weave around us, alone among the groups of performers applying last-minute make up.   

I watch your face for any sign of emotion but it’s just blank. A girl wearing heels too high to walk in says something, your name I guess, and you glance from her to me as life returns to your cheeks. Your once chlorine-frayed hair is tied back in an Elsa-like braid, draping against the purple sequins of your leotard, a similar color to your bedroom walls when I was nine. I can still hum the tune your doorbell played just as I can name the stuffed animals that lined your bed because they are cemented somewhere in my memory.

You know what I have to say before I can even think of how to form the words. You must know because that’s the only reason I’d be here, backstage, on your big night. You knew as soon as you saw me and so I wait still for your reaction, for a yell, a cry, a sign that you know and I won’t have to be the one to say the words out loud. I have only been here a few seconds, I am reminded after I hear the audience chuckle, but as we stand and look at each other, I am lost in time.

Do you remember details like I do? I catch myself thinking back and wondering whether you do the same. I remember sitting on the stairs in your house, the rough carpet against my bare thighs as I waited for you to come down. I heard you crying instead, and when I looked up I saw your mother leaning against the wall and that was the first time I saw how sick she had become. Her eyes were so much smaller than I remembered, her hair so thin, her fingers almost blue in the dim hallway. I didn’t know what to do so I stood up and waited in the living room, and then outside because I couldn’t stand to look at the framed pictures any longer. I waited and kicked rocks in your gravel driveway with my hands in my pockets until I saw my father’s truck pulling up. I left without saying goodbye because all I wanted was to take you with me.

The distance rests between us and I know I have to be the one to walk first, so I take a few steps, slowly and then faster until I’m welcomed into the circle of dancers you are standing in.

“She-,” I start, but for the first time I can’t think of anything to say. I’ve imagined this moment for years, I’ve grown up with it, but my hands shake a little, just as they do when I can’t form the words I want to write. They twitch with anticipation and anger, quivering inside my pockets with an irresistible itch to escape. But I try to ignore the dizziness, the fast hammer of my heartbeat, and the anxiety creeping through my body with every passing second.

Because that’s when it hits you. That’s when you know. I watch as you look from me to a girl next to you to the floor and back at me again. And your head shakes, your eyes water, and even though I hate to (God, do I hate to) I just slowly nod. You shake your head more and I nod and you shake until a small sound escapes from your mouth.

“No. No, I can’t deal with this now,” you say in a voice I’ve never heard before. Yet we both know you will never deal with this.

Suddenly the circle is shifting and you’re moving away from me and I shout Wait but a crew member steps in front of me as I try to follow you and the other performers.

“I’m sorry, we really can’t allow you back here,” the girl in the black tee-shirt and headset says, and I know she has no reason to apologize, because I do not belong here and it is obvious.

“It’s a family emergency,” I say anyway, and the girl looks at you, but you shake your head and turn away. I don’t wait to see her reaction and by the time she turns to me I’m already at the steps, back down to where the ignorant audience rests and I fly past them.

It only takes seconds to reach the front entrance, and I crash through the large glass doors, feeling the wall of cold air float over me. I stop for a moment, underneath the dim lights that rest above the doors, and look around at the full but silent parking lot. I have nowhere to go. As I realize this, my breathing slowly returns to normal and I take my hands off of my knees to stand straight. My arms hang beside me for a moment before I slide them back into my pockets, trying to let the anxiety loose from my shoulders. And all the while I’m counting.

I count the parked cars, I count the snowflakes as they land in my fine hair, one by one. I count the seconds out loud in this utopia, the rhythm rocking me back and forth until I feel the chapped cracking of my lips and the frigid air tight in my lungs. I try to push the memories away, but I watch them dance before me because that’s just the way my mind works. I see us when I was seven, then eight, the images blurring in mind like an old movie I cannot pause.

When I was ten and it was autumn we went to Jenny’s Farm Stand and Cider Mill. The air smelled like little kids and apples with just a hint of donuts, an afterthought in the crisp feel. I wanted to look at pumpkins, but you decided to climb the haystack, where kids were playing tag and hide-and-go-seek. By the time I found you again, you were leaning against the golden door of your minivan, struggling to breathe because you had fallen off the bales and the wind was knocked out of your lungs. The group of moms watching said your brother pushed you off the top, but I was looking at pumpkins and didn’t even realize the magnitude of the moment until I heard someone scream out. And as you tried to convince your mom that you had only lost your balance, I wished I could have seen you fall because imagining it was only worse. Was the haystack truly as tall as I remember it? And more importantly, did he push you? I only wonder this in retrospect, after I have replayed arguments from the car ride home over and over again in my head. I still imagine you falling in slow-motion, your stark blonde hair contrasting the red October sky, eyes flashing open as you hit your head against the dirt and tried to scream.

It’s only then that I can return to the crowded auditorium. I tell the usher I forgot my ticket, but it doesn’t matter. It’s clear I’m just interrupting her view of the show.

In a few seconds my eyes adjust back to the darkness and I make my way to the front of the auditorium along the left wall, stopping when I reach a group of students with cameras. One of the girls is scribbling away in a notepad, another typing on her phone. I melt in with the reporters and try to focus on the boy singing “Golden Moments,” but my mind can only wander while I lean against the cool brick.

I remember your dad told us while we were eating Kraft macaroni, the kind with shells and orange cheese but you called it yellow.

    Your dad called it cancer. How do you explain to child a disease that has no cure? I remember your eighth birthday at Gallup Park, when I was sulking because I was eleven and I didn’t want to play House any more. You brought me a slice of Dragon Tales birthday cake and asked if your mom was going to die.

I remember you told me I was the one you wanted when it finally happened. You wanted me to tell you, because it was never a question of if, just a question of when.

And that’s when you come on stage. I haven’t even heard the MC announce your name, but there you stand, back to the world as somewhere, the band softly starts. The spotlight is turned on next, and I watch your shadow begin to move slowly, only the way a dancer can. You always were the athletic one.

And I try to think how I will write about this moment, how I can describe the way your body twists, but for the life of me I can’t find a single word. Not even years later when I sit and stare at the blank pages on my laptop screen can I capture your spirit that night.

And as I watch you I know something no one else does, I know our haunting secret and I know why you’re crying. I know why your eyes are red and your mascara is leaving soft trails down your face. I know they think it’s just passion. But I cry as you cry, and I bleed as you bleed underneath the burning lights, your skin glistening with sweat and tears. I watch you as you watch me.

And we cry together.

i.

The only picture of me that I’m genuinely smiling in is my mugshot. Or rather mugshots, plural. There were quite a few before I improved my craft, but in all of them I wore the same wide-eyed, exhilarated grin.  

This wasn’t exactly where I’d expected to end up. It’s not the kind of dream job you’d draw in preschool and hang up on the wall between your classmates’ clumsy stick-figure drawings of  firemen and doctors. You don’t see newspaper job ads that list five different ways of breaking and entering without tripping any alarms as the basic skill requirements. There aren’t guidebooks or courses, no “Burglary for Dummies,” but that never mattered to me. I was a thief by profession, and, eventually, a damn good one at that.

Two weeks after my debutante party announced my first appearance in fashionable society, my first arrest announced my criminal record debut. It was a simple jewelry store robbery spoiled by my inexperienced mistakes, an ultrasonic detector that I missed. Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds after I broke the lock, the trusty boys in blue arrived; another eight minutes and thirty-three seconds later, zip-tie restraints and metal bars separated me from my freedom.

“Smile,” the cop behind the camera sneered. I gave him the grin I used in my valedictorian photos.

Two hours later, on the car ride home, my father sighed.

“You really need practice.”

ii.

My father had an impeccable golf grip; his grip on a gun wasn’t half bad either. In his prime, he led a legendary string of forty-seven successful jewel thefts in a row; now, he was a reformed “family man,” having met my mother when they both cased the same museum collection (theft number twenty-one). But sticky fingers tend to get restless. Luckily, he found a protégé in me, a toy-pilfering child menace who was all too eager to turn from plush animals to precious metals. As my older brother went into accounting , I entered the criminal underworld.

But all the training in the world couldn’t prepare me for the real art of crime, for the reality of what it feels like to break a window when any wrong move could set off a hotline to the police. And for all my efforts, I simply could not pull off the perfect heist.

Attempt number two went much like the first. The back window to the museum detached cleanly from its frame. I cut and rewired the alarm. I set the cameras on loops. I got as far as blocking infrared sensors and cleanly breaking the seal on my display case of choice before the lights in the museum gallery snapped on and blue and red flashed outside.

Shortly after, the camera flashed and I gave a smirk for police posterity.

My father looked disappointed, but for a very different reason than what the officer releasing me likely assumed.

iii.

My mother made her small fortune in “art collection and trading,” which translated to her “collecting” whatever art she wanted. An actual art aficionado despite her methods of acquisition, she was the one who emphasized cultural and artistic worth while my father taught me the monetary value of things. To steal simply for monetary gain, she said, is not enough, no; you need to want it, need to love it. In another life, I think she could’ve been a life coach.

However, no matter how much I loved the thought of it, in reality I just could not pull off my perfect heist. It seemed that whatever ailed me was here to stay. Attempt number three was a nice department store that saw me fail at my goal of cleaning out the display cases of various sparkly and metallic items. Who knew that there would be a night guard, and that said night guard would have a Taser? The lady working at the police precinct’s main desk rolled her eyes. I grinned.

“Sick of me already?” I kept the smile until the shutter clicked and the cop called for the next detainee. Once again, my father was not thrilled.

“I spent nearly thirty years avoiding the police, I can’t say I’ve enjoyed seeing them three times in the past month.” I slumped low in the Bugatti’s passenger seat.

iv.

I was inconsolable, but beyond that, I was concerned. If this went on too long, I’d have to resign myself to a normal life like my brother. So I practiced. I locked myself in my room and surrounded myself with blueprints of galleries and bank vaults. I disassembled and reassembled locks with my eyes closed. I did pull-ups until pulling myself onto windowsills and ledges was second nature. Finally, I talked to my mother.

“Oh, honey,” she sighed, twisting her platinum wedding ring around her finger “three fails isn’t so bad.” I buried my head deeper under my arms as she continued. “None of the best thieves excelled at first. It took me at least ten tries before I finally got my first Monet. Even your father took eight attempts before he wiped out a bank.” I looked up, shocked. This was news for me. My father, the most successful thief in recent history, took eight tries? With this information, I set forth with a new goal: succeed in seven tries or less.

It was a good thing the limit of seven allotted me more tries, because attempt number four was not destined for success. I was rifling through safe drawers of valuables when the vault door slammed and alarms began to blare. Zip-ties chafed my wrists in the back of the police car and as I was shoved through the police precinct, but I smiled anyway, even though I was starting to see flashbulbs and concrete walls in my sleep.

My father just sighed.

v.

The day of my fifth attempt, my brother was arrested. While we thought he had chosen the honest life, an Ivy League education and an office job, he had unbeknownst to us been the head of a massive Ponzi scheme. I had never seen my father as mad as when he received that call. Cursing, he poured himself a glass of expensive scotch and began calling in connections, trying to cut the story off before it reached the press. In our world, major media attention was death. As soon as they smelled blood, there’d be no stopping the investigations of our family’s vaguely suspicious finances.

In the end, I was foiled again that night, though at least I wasn’t arrested. A gallery guard turned a corner the same time as me, and I had to run out of the place faster than it could lock down, winking at a camera and flashing the one-finger salute as I slipped through the back exit into an alleyway and away into the  night. While my brother faced five to ten years in prison, I faced only my father’s frown of disappointment.

vi.

While sorting through my closet of dark clothes, I found a crumpled old picture from kindergarten of my “dream job”, featuring a rather good drawing of future me garbed in full pirate regalia. I laughed. I guess I was mistaken; “criminal” can be a prospective job for some determined young children. I scanned over a new floor plan, this one for a distinguished jewel gallery. I was always partial to the shiny things, hence the pirate career plan. Well, this sparkly theft was for child me.

I took a blowtorch to a padlock to get in through a back maintenance hatch. It wasn’t until I was inside that I saw exactly how many alarms the place was wired with. I silently wished I was actually a seventeenth-century pirate; at least they never had to deal with this laser-sensor-alarm insanity. Reaching into my pocket, I removed a penny and threw it across the room to see if it would trip anything.

It did. The police were not nearly as amused with this as I was. Nor was my father. After grinning for what I hoped was my last mugshot, he sighed again, a sound I was beginning to hear in my head whenever I made a decision.

“If you make this a habit, I’m going to stop wiping your record.” I nodded.

“Don’t worry.”

vii.

I announced my plan for my seventh attempt to my father.

“Lucky number seven.” He almost smiled, but settled on a grimly encouraging frown instead. I suited up. Black shirt, black jacket, black pants, black knit hat, and my characteristic smirk. Taking a running start from the roof of my penthouse apartment, I lept across the gap to the next building, sticking the landing and continuing to run across the roofs. Many jumps to window ledges later, I reached my destination: the same gallery where I had failed several nights ago. Instead of entering directly, though, I started on the roof, where I found the transformer and circuit breaker for the building. With a flick and a snip, I cut it, and with that, I entered the gallery once again.

As I expected, with the power out, the system couldn’t run the web of alarms arming the gallery. By my estimates, I had about five minutes before the backup generators kicked in and alarms started going off. Nearly skipping, I cracked the locks on the display cases one by one, sweeping the glimmering contents into a duffel bag. As an afterthought, I pulled a sheet out of my pocket and stuck something on one of the “no touching” signs- a large yellow smiley face sticker. Smirking, I languidly jogged back to the roof, bag pulled tight against my hip. I was a few rooftops away when an alarm began to blare. A couple blocks further and red and blue swirled in the streets below, but fortunately, no one bothered to look up.

When I got home, I kicked open the door to my father’s study, tossing the bag at his feet. He unzipped it as I spoke.

“Like you said,” I grinned, “Lucky number seven.”

Finally, he smiled back.

Twelve Days, Twelve Nights

“Hell, no, we won't go!” one man cries. 

“Hey! Hey! LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?!” shouts another.

The calls do not cease, even as the police begin to fire. The protesters do not surrender; their principles are impervious to the rubber bullets. In other parts, both factions hold their ground, not even slightly discouraged by the deathly silent cold air.

A company of protesters guards the draft board. The police, with orders to secure the area, are unsure of their course of action. A man leaves the protesters’ ranks and strolls into the foreground. The police halt their fire.

“Greetings, officer. Can I help you?” he asks, with an undeniable nonchalance about the whole affair. His chiseled cheekbones are as sharp as his penetrating glare. The wind pushes his chestnut locks behind his shoulders, and even with his short stature and flared pants it seems that commandeering respect is a simple task for him.

“You’re going to have to leave the premises...” the police lieutenant begins. He is young, presumably under the age of thirty-five. The protester can only feel pity for the bullish thing in front of him. Well-built with broad shoulders, the officer’s uncertainty makes for a comical sight. A clean-shaven face and freshly pressed white shirt are as unmarked as is his experience.

“Well, that’s going to be a problem.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t take orders from women.”

The police lieutenant, fuming, orders his men to move in. The apparent chief of the protesters motions to retreat, but he and those most committed to the outcry do not leave. Only a few men remain in the bitter cold, their dark trench coats the blemishes in the pristine snow.

“I hope you’ll be the last ones leaving,” the lieutenant says.

The counter: “Don’t mistake a last stand for that which it ain’t.”

The end of the confrontation sees all the remaining protesters arrested and thrown behind bars for, as the judge in his dreary Southern drawl says it: “Twelve days and twelve nights.”

            Despite the overwhelming stench of the cells, the dissenters are not in low moods; no, they are not! Their heads are held high, for every night served is a medal, every wound an honour.

            The lieutenant removes his adversary from his cell, and takes him to the station registrar.

            “Name?” inquires the registrar with a tiredness in his voice.

            “Morrison McGovern.”

            The registrar yawns, exits the room and returns with a cup of coffee, which will presumably join the eleven others on his desk.

            “Age?”

            “Listen, asshole. I don’t have time for this, so cut the crap will you?”

            The registrar’s eyes shoot to his book.

            “Age?”

            “Forty-two.”

            “Place of residence?”

            “53 Christopher Street.”

            “Next to Stonewall Inn? Greenwich Village?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Relations?”

            “None.”

            And so on and so forth, until the registrar is satisfied. Morrison, with a parched throat, asks for a glass of water. The lieutenant returns with a cup, and lowers his towering figure to the ground. Morrison’s eyes dart to the cup, wondering what it is that the lieutenant is doing. That is when the lieutenant surges forward, crushing the plastic cup as he does. Morrison is sprayed with the water, and as if in spite of this humiliation, he says, “That the most you can lift?”

The officer’s face burns to a bright red; his comrades stare, and promptly burst into laughter. In the heat of the moment, the lieutenant loses his composure, and punches Morrison squarely in the nose. Blood ripples across his face.

Morrison looks at the blood as it trickles down his shirt. He recedes quietly to his cell, and though he has made up his mind to deny any care, none is offered.

At first, the days go by with relative ease, for this is an experience Morrison is well accustomed to. A dull pain still emanates from his nose, but in time it fades.

The same cannot be said of the lieutenant’s bitterness. On the last night, Morrison wakes up with water dripping from his hair. His ankles are tied, and his head aches. He is hanging by his feet from the ceiling. 

He is plunged into a barrel of frigid water. He does his best to raise his head, but he is forced further into the water. At last, he is pulled out.

“And how’d you find that?”

Morrison hesitates.

An officer strides up and slams him in the gut.

“Answer the lieutenant!”

Morrison murmurs incomprehensibly.

“Screw it. Send him back to his cell.”

The next morning, Morrison is released. His clothes are returned, and a signature later Morrison leaves the station as though nothing had happened at all. Unsure of what he is to do with his newfound freedom, he decides to indulge himself.

The bar has a distinct smell to it. It is some combination of alcohol’s aromas and oak’s woodiness. The place had once been splendid; Morrison recalls marble walls, gleaming white pillars with touches of gold, and carnations flowing from ornate vases. Somehow the bar had slipped into oblivion, and was now a favourite rendezvous point of his. The owner is Morrison’s friend, of course.

Men of all walks of life are dispersed throughout the hall. The pathetic beginnings of a beard have formed on Morrison’s face, but the self-confidence he exudes earns only approving looks. He’s settled down in a corner with another man, and the two are engaged in a hushed conversation.

It is at this time that the wooden doors fall. Uniformed men march in, enveloped by white light. The main body is five men abreast, three deep. They stand behind their commanding officer. He is young, presumably under the age of thirty-five. Well-built with broad shoulders, his uncertainty makes for a comical sight.

The officer’s eyes scan the frightened crowd. They stop briefly as they pass over a dimly lit corner, long enough to betray the officer’s intentions. The officer inevitably orders his men forward. The police strain to contain the seething mass of humanity ensnared in the bar. In the ensuing chaos, Morrison slips out through a rear exit, a gateway only he is aware of.  

He trudges in the snow, wrapping himself in his overcoat. He knows these parts well, and he passes through many an avenue and alley to make his way home.

After bathing solemnly as though he partook in a ritual before death, Morrison paces nervously back and forth across the room. The police know, he thinks. It is only a matter of time until everyone knows. The Bible forbids it, they’ll say. The lieutenant will proudly proclaim that the movement was led by a...he can no longer entertain the thought.

He knows that the lieutenant will find him. There was a flaming fury in his eyes, one that Morrison has never encountered. Morrison begins to inhale deeply; his vision is somehow monochromatic. He steadies himself, and lies on the floor. The cold tiling does little to slow his sweating.

Someone is knocking the door. Now, he’s banging at it. Morrison can feel his heartbeat rapidly accelerating. He hears the door come crashing down. He sees a figure racing towards him. His eyes start to close. There is a blinding white, followed by darkness.

Morrison painfully pries his eyelids apart. He is unsure if he’s come to God’s abode. The bed he is in, the window overlooking the city, and the light dancing on the steel utensils say otherwise. The police lieutenant enters the room, and Morrison feels an electric shock of fear pass through him.

“Didn’t fancy seeing you here,” Morrison manages.

The officer replies, “You owe me.”

“What happened to me?”

“Not quite sure. I brought you here.”

Morrison is astounded.

“You’ll bring me to ‘justice’ too, won’t you?”

“Well, surprisingly enough, I won’t.”

“What?”

“I, too, am like you. You’re a good man.”’

            “That’s it?”

            The officer starts to leave, but just before exiting, he stops momentarily. “I hope it isn’t.”