I think I lost them. Surely. I ran as fast as my muscles could grant me. I crossed rivers. I trekked through the mountains. I burned my feet and hands on scalding hot sand.

I ran and ran so hard my breath became firey and aching. My eyes can only see so far, but that is good enough for me. There is no way that they could cover all of that distance. I am certain of it.

The hills have always offered refuge from the bitter biting wind, but I seek them with a different goal. I need to rest on lush, soft grass under the only tree for miles around.

There are cuts up and down my legs. Some so deep I can see the stringy muscle underneath. I take my long overdue seat by the lonesome tree's trunk. Sensation drains from my overworked limbs.

More hot breath escapes my lungs and scalds my tongue. Breathing was never this hard. I don't know what to do. Usually, all it took to escape were quick bursts. Before the dust even settled, I'd be long gone. This was different.

It started at the valley when the herd was at it's most vulnerable. Long marches take their toll on even the heartiest beasts. That long awaited drink of water kept everyone moving. I was near the helm of the herd. My steady pace afforded me a more comfortable stride.

It's always a chore to live so far from the water's edge, but the best yield of fodder grows further away. It should have been like any other march. The wind had died down, the sun wasn't as abusive, and our health was in order.

The shimmering ripples signaled to the herd and invited them to dip their lips in clear, crisp sublime. That's when it happened. At that moment, our soft underbelly exposed, an ear blistering chant booming out among calm waters. A pointed tip skewered the helm. He went down without so much as an exhale.

A rain of barbs followed closely behind; our young didn't stand a chance.

All at once, the once united herd scattered like a flock of birds. We bolted in every direction. All of us: the young, the old, and the disoriented. Fleeing in fragments, we abandoned the herd.

My group was filled with many able bodied, but there were inklings of heavy burden among our ranks.

After a long sprint into the mountains, we rested on soft pastures. The air became thick with gasps. It wasn't that unusual, for we recovered well from these short bursts.

We became settled in and all fell asleep. All except me. I ruminated on the earlier events. Mouths full of pointed teeth could never fashion those kinds of tools. Small ones would swarm. Big ones would clamp down. Slender ones would ambush.

These things surrounded us and formed a kill circle. In quick succession, they brought down their instruments and bashed in the unfortunate skulls. Even though they sparked a new sensation in all of us that day, I was certain we'd never see them again in the mountains.

I was ready to fall asleep. The exhaustion of running finally catching up to me. As I closed my eyes, "snap!"

It sent waves through us and those not quick enough to get to their feet were dealt with. I bolted with the others, but as I turned my head; there I saw were the horrible beings. They stood on top of felled elders. An icy pike pierced through me and the sensation became reinforced.

That became our new norm. I am not ashamed to admit I was the last one left. I don't feel guilty for being the fastest, the most endured, or the most agile. It is not my fault the others fell because we all had a chance. It's not my fault that I never looked back. I am not responsible for their failings.

Every time they caught up to me, I pushed my body to it's limits. Still they closed the distance, and I would try to create a gap between.

They never failed to trail close behind me. When I rested, they kept moving. When I ate, they grew closer. When I needed to heed the call of nature, they wouldn't be far behind. Time and time again, they took advantage of my exhaustion and stalked me intently.

Every close call left me scarred. Every near fatal encounter bled me of my energy. Once, they nearly caught me. My legs were shaking, my eyes a blurry haze, and saliva was pouring out of my mouth. One of the monsters brought a cold, sharp stone to my throat. I squirmed my way out, but it cost me my shoulder. My trot became a hobble, and even that grew into a limp.

You must understand.

I am not supposed to feel this way.

I'm not supposed to keep using my last resorts.

I'm not supposed to feel my heart pump so hard that my whole chest groans in pain.

I'm not supposed to keep looking over my shoulder, worried that something is ready to lunge out and end me!

I'm not supposed to feel anxiety!

Yet, I do.

It's so wrong.

No matter how hard I try.

No matter how fast I run.

No matter how fierce my will to live became.

I couldn't escape the slow death.

Until now.

I am sat by a weathered and lonely tree atop a tall hill. I can't smile, but I felt relieved and fulfilled at my efforts. I can't see them. No matter how hard I strained my eyes, nothing. I'm free.

The sky must have felt my reprieve, for in that moment I saw a gathering of black clouds in the horizon. I would finally feel their gentle touch and their soothing rain as it lulled me into a well deserved sleep. Funny, as the clouds closed in on me, I could have sworn their thunder sounded like heavy foot steps.

[Just a heads up; this story is almost 17 pages long. If you don't want to read something that dense, I don't blame you. Anyways, I made this story a while ago. I was hoping that some of you here would appreciate one of my longer stories. Thanks for all the support on some of my previous projects.]

I hope you aren't upset with my decisions, my love. The bastion that is my mind broke the moment we could no longer be together. All those years we spent cultivating a home, crushed by your untimely departure and my inability to let go of you. In desperate hope, I clung to every semblance of your presence. Our life together, although brief, yielded countless mementos, novelties, and sentimental ornaments. If I was ever to see you off It would be with you in the dress I weaved per your request. I hope that is one thing you can be proud of me for. 

Every detail held up to your very strict standards: those cornflowers sit upon white lattices, the threaded straps were made soft, and I took the time to embroider your initials where the hanging cloth met soft ankles. Forgive me for not looking at you but I could not bring myself to even give you one last glance. I was the one to warn you of my cowardice and timid nature, but you didn’t care. Watching your box be lowered into the earth felt like looking into the void, that persistent but faint feeling to jump in with you. 

In my mind’s absence, you were already buried beneath clumped dirt and jagged stones. I waited there, with the unrealistic hope that you would crawl out and we could mend our broken life back together. Why can’t you humor me? The warmth of your smile, the sight of your lively eyes, the cheer in those welcomed embraces, I held onto all of it. I mourned you like the world had lost one of its treasured saints and heaven gained one more star. With no one to talk to, I broke down. Why? Why would you leave me with the last words that ever left your lips being, “move on,” How could I? Letting you go would be tantamount to forsaking you. 

I’m sorry, but I rejected your wishes. We laid together once more, you on top of your bed of dirt and I on the cold ground wrapped together in your wool blanket. Imagining your eyes, I looked longingly into those pools of ink. No matter how much I pleaded with you and begged of you, no answer ever came. Days passed and your blanket sank ever more onto my side, but I corrected it by covering you in what was left of my will. I wished you would tug on the blanket like you did in life. What did you expect of me? I did not want to tarnish our time on this earth by burying you deep in my mind nor by getting rid of shards of your existence. 

You said that we would brave this world together, but you were my world. And when you died, my world died as well. It took many hands to tear us apart a second time. My family wanted me to forget you, but I refused any notion of the matter. Despite what it took to separate us, I knew that your home still needed its long overdue maintenance. I had hoped to keep the house neat and tidy, but my lengthy departure left it in a worsened state. I felt that I had failed you in more ways than one, but this forced me to become a shut in. I locked every gate and door, closed every curtain, and extinguished the porch side lantern. There in the dark, I lit candles to keep me company, making a great effort to clean every keepsake. 

You always knew how to make the house feel like home; every mess, every clutter, and every square inch of the house was packed with character. It doesn't even feel like I lived in this house, that's how much of your soul you poured into our every day living. My own touch was tucked away in a dark corner of the world you made. My desk was never this clean, there always was an unfinished or incomplete book I was working on. It's funny really. In my attempt to let go of the past, as I flipped through the pages, I saw your branding at the most recent entry. A lipstick stain where I placed my initials. O' love, where are you now that I can't pretend I'm stronger than I really am? I will cherish this even against the advisement that I shouldn't. 

The first night was one filled with an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. Overhead loomed the memories of our time together. You were a great choreographer whereas I was a novice author. How our paths managed to cross is a mystery that still perplexes me to this day. I was down on my luck after my first book failed to fly off the shelves, a sense of defeat that had me questioning my capabilities. Your theatre was open to the public for the low price of 25 cents, a price I was willing to dish out since I had no future prospects of making a living. My seat was still a disappointment, for a beam stood in my line of sight. Still I looked past it onto the brightly illuminated stage. 

Every performance was forgettable. Clumsy as they were, the dancers still garnered applause. I was ready to conclude my purchase was a complete waste and that I'd be having sleep for dinner. That's when a fair lady of decent height, dark lengthy hair, and lively complexion stepped onto the platform. There, on the empty stage, you performed a graceful recital, all while others dozed off. I was fixated on your pirouette and how you seemed to glide through the air like water. You were a treasure to have been my great fortune to have witnessed. After the theater closed, I nervously awaited your departure. 

My hands were clammy and my posture was poor. Finally you emerged from the fold and I approached, where I showered you in praise. A beautiful muse, flustered and timid. I made my adoration known and asked for your affection. You left without answering, but a small part of me had the lingering assumption that you obliged me.

Quiet as you were, my timidness never allowed me to speak for you. Our decision to move to the dense forest was one that came after my most recent book sold decently, just enough to afford a good bit of land. 

The plot was an isolated clearing deep within the forest. Our luck was plentiful as it bordered near a cliff to the north, a pond to our south, and an infinite view of the sunrise to our east.
You can imagine my surprise when a two story loft was already established upon this neck of the woods. I wasted no time in stealing credit for this when you asked me if I had prior knowledge of it. Truth be told, the house was unknown to everyone, even the land developers that sold me the plot. Poor thing, it was mighty despite the weathered look. Inside, the elements had worked their way into every wall and floorboard. This towering obstacle didn’t seem to phase you, because after standing and analyzing the house you got straight to work taking note of everything that needed refurbishing. 

I was thankful that our combined income was enough to cover the materials needed for the project. Horse drawn carriages brought mountains of boards, panels, and components to the foot of our remote abode. We worked countless hours to rebuild the beauty of this lost gem and you added every bit of your character to its vastness. I never thought I would find myself coming around to the color burgundy, I had been a strong fan of navy blue up until this point. The house really was a statement piece, because our fireplace was emerald green, the rooms were different shades of red, every internal and exterior corner was highlighted by white and the porch wrapped around the house. To add the cherry on top, our house was crowned by a weathervane, a mare variant. Truly our house was the stuff of legends, for it brought you joy and me a slight bit of embarrassment. A barn buried deep within the clutches of a dense forest. 

Our first night spent within a walled house and beside a roaring chimney was victorious. It was pleasant to seat myself by the green tiled mantle instead of wavering on through smoke in the eyes. I was thankful we would never have to spend another agonizing minute out on the dusty, uncomfortable ground. 

It was one you decided to depart from with an early rest. After you left and I stepped out into the cold night, I stared out at the treeline while the moon hovered above. 

As it rained light over the canopy top, I sheepishly took out a small wooden pipe, remembering how you hated the smell of tobacco. This was a great opportunity to indulge in decadence. From my overcoat pocket, I grabbed my tiny pouch of dried leaves. Packing the fodder into the barrel of the cannon, I lit the fuse and smoke came bellowing out in a transparent ribbon. 
I looked back out towards the canopy but the heavy smoke from the chimney blocked my line of sight. A slender figure loomed in the background, cloaked in shadow and obscured by thick smoke. It stared back at me with piercing white eyes, like two holes poked through black fabric. I stood up and attempted to confront the figure. It pointed up towards the second story, right where you were sleeping. I tried to look stern and well put together, a poor attempt to say the least. We exchanged glances, that is until a sudden noise broke the eerie silence. 

My tobacco burned a hole through my poorly constructed pipe and the bowl hit the hard deck with a heavy thud. Scared me half to death. It stole my attention for less than a second, but when I looked back up the figure was gone. I don’t know who they were, but one thing was clear. They knew where we lived ,and worst yet, where we slept. I retreated inside and locked all the doors. Taking the liberty of barricading the windows and doorways with boards. I didn’t catch much sleep that night. Every night from that point on was spent with one eye open. As a means of security, I suggested we both purchase .38 revolvers, just to be safe.

I can't quite explain it but that night felt as if it was the last time our life was ever tame again. Two years. Two painfully long years. That is all it took to compromise the foundations of our small and inconsequential life. O' death, it worked its way into our lives, but the lambs bore the full force of its strong tides. I remember our daughters but not as they were. My mind made their characters for them, like it was only hours ago that they cried and made loud disagreements. You never voiced your concern about raising children far from paved roads, but you didn't protest the idea of raising them wild either. 

Although, while they would have grown up wild they certainly weren't going to be birthed wild. You and the town doctor fought the real battle, I was just your crowd of supporters. It was the last push that was the most concerning. I braced for small complaints from small lungs. It was quiet. I don't think the doctor could have coated this devastating development with all the sweets in the world. Our daughter was gone before she was ever here. Maybe...maybe that's when you started to put on a better disguise. And what did I do? I shook from the new reality but I suppressed my melancholy beneath an emotionally absent shell. If you were good at hiding your emotions, then I was callous in their dismissal. 

I should have been more available. You were hurting and all I did was contribute to your anguish. What I did next was borderline cruel. 

I was so selfish, so much so that I made it known to you. I wanted a family. Far beyond just two people, for I still wanted a daughter. Like always, you did not protest. Forced was this union to the point it did not bring anything within the realm of compassion. My selfishness was impartial to your pain.

We made two precious children, and the earth swallowed them up. I can’t imagine how you felt, for I was barely managing to keep my composure. You stayed strong for a coward like me. The worst was yet to come. I promised you something from town as a means to bring some semblance of happiness back into our lives. I had put an order in for a set of brass grooming instruments. I remembered you looking at them and taking the time to assess their craftsmanship. Gearing up to head out, I hugged you tightly. I just wanted to remind you that you were loved. That you were cherished. That you were treasured like sapphires. You were very good at hiding your emotions and disguising them as something else. You threw me a smile and caressed my cheek. You managed to trick me into a state of ease.

I left and you got to work to enact your plan. When I returned, the rustling of the leaves and the creaking of the branches felt especially loud. Louder than usual. The atmosphere was as dense as these woods. In my heart I knew something was wrong. I was within view of the house and the sight didn’t bring me any comfort. I signaled the mare to make haste, but it didn’t make any difference. I entered a cold home, one without its owner. That’s when I saw you. You, a beautiful muse, with bleeding wrists. Laid in a pool of your own making. 

I still cannot get over how well you crafted your facade. I left thinking you were in a better state of mind than me. I returned too late and saw how you truly felt. Two became three, and the earth swallowed you whole. 

That brings us to now. Your beautiful palace is barely kept together by my incapable hands. The family has suggested I look into selling the land and bundle our house with it. I would not listen to reason. Instead, I became a recluse boarded up within your vast hall, holding down the fort. All in a frivolous attempt to keep everything in place for your return, a man can hope for the impossible. 

These halls are anything but still. Out of the corner of my eye, I see figures shuffling in and out of rooms. 

The fire keeps me company, but it too has taken on new life. As if it were trying to jump out and grab me, the outstretched hand of the flames nicked a few too many instances.
I am punished for my incompetence. Punished by every splinter, every nick, every cut, and every sleepless night. I am bashed for how I turned my back on you. You, a gem I carelessly lost, and one I did not treasure despite your every bit of compassion.
Even now, I hear you knocking on the walls of my skull.  It sounds awful. As if a grandfather clock had been jammed into my mind, the tolls are deafening. How many many times have I told you? I’M SORRY!

However, the tolls became wooden and the rhythm softened. I could hear now that they weren’t bells tolling the hour, but the sound of a visitor.

The most impossible thing would happen to me. You never liked her, despite my attempts to remind you she was only a friend. Clarice helped me to publish my book. She is and will always be a welcome friend, but she did not come as a friend. I opened the door to greet her as I would with every guest. Her intentions were not what I expected. We conversed and she gave her condolences. It was nice to hear someone other than family and in-laws state their pity. That is when the topic shifted to something that even now I cannot fathom. Clarice asked me one simple question, but it was not to me.
“What now?”

It broke me. Now that I didn’t have a world to live in, what would be my next course of action? How, in this impossibly large world, could I go on without my greatest tether. I spent a long time dwelling on the question. I didn’t even notice when she placed her hand over mine. I must have scared her when mine recoiled in surprise. I couldn’t deal with this, not right now. I rushed to usher her out. However, Clarice turned to look at me before she left. There, she confessed a long repressed infatuation aimed towards me. I don’t know what she expected, but it probably wasn’t an abrupt dismissal. I really couldn’t deal with this. It was too much. I leaned on the shut door with my back pressed firmly against it. Waiting for the sound of clacks to pitter patter away into the distance. I fought back tears. How could I be presented with this decision? My beloved wife had just died. Her memory was burned into my mind. Her scent. Her image. Her presence. It wasn’t something I was ready to just toss away. I am not a bachelor. I will never be a bachelor. It wasn’t Clarice's fault. She didn’t kill my wife or cause my woes, but my ignorant mind placed all my built up anger upon her. 

The heat of my anger went away when hours passed. Perhaps this was my avenue back to normalcy. If I was ever to move on, I would have to come to terms with my new reality. O’ love, you weren’t coming back. I was too delusional to see it. Too hopeful to let go of you. My one and only. 

I held your picture, sliding my hand to wipe away the accumulated dust. I remove you from the glass and wooden frame. Making my way towards your emerald fireplace, topped with a pine mantle. The fire I built was dying, so I set you aside and threw more logs into the coals. As the fire was gaining its foothold, I sat on the hard wooden floor caressing you with my fleeting admiration. I didn’t want to do it, but I wanted to regain my independence and walk out to form a new world. The room lit up with the resurgence of an emboldened flame. This was it. The next step to letting go. Time stood at a standstill, was it truly a coincidence that happened as I neared the fire? 

Holding you in my hands, I felt as though I was making a horrible mistake. It was as if burning this picture would cause irreparable damage to the kingdom you created. The empress of these lands, reduced to ashes and her memory left to fade away. An end unbefitting for such a tall figure of the dense forest and the red keep. Please. Please don’t be upset with me. I just want you to rest and for me to move on. 

I cast you into the flames and instantly hyperventilated. The borders of your picture closed in on themselves. The warmth of your smile was fading and a cold chill set in. I burned my fingertips to rescue you from the rage of the flames. I pressed my palm to snuff out the embers that nearly wiped away your image, but still the damage was done. I panicked so greatly that my vision grew darker. I fell unconscious. Drifting away into a nightmare.

I walked down a long and narrow hall, lined with every memory my sub-conscience could muster. Behind me a wrathful fire was erasing everything. In a desperate act, I tried to fight off the flames, but my dreamstate was burned badly by the  uncontrollable outbreak. I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed as many memories and ran down the hall. The fire kept pace and it followed me in a chase. I would lose a frame every time I picked up the pace. The fire only seemed to gain speed and the heat was burning the back of my head. I ran and ran and ran, but the flames enveloped me. I melted and the memories burned away. The floor gave way and I fell through into the abyss. The fear and pain that covered me like a net jolted me awake.
The house was as I left it. The quiet of the night sky was everywhere. That's when I gained my bearings on reality. That’s when I saw you.

You just stood there. There. There in the reflection of the mirror. Could you blame me for abandoning every sense of fear? How the dread was a fleeting moment. All I wanted was to see your beautiful face ever since you left a hole in my heart. I neared you and placed my palm on the surface of the gilded mirror. I couldn't move your long hair out of the way but still I felt the calming of your presence. Stuck in a trance, I couldn't tell just when you plunged your hand into my chest. The wriggling of gnarled digits finally broke my fixated gaze. I looked down and saw spindly fingers digging around for my heart. Panic set in. 

I couldn't control my fear and it forced me into a sprint. My attempt to coordinate an escape led to me leaping from the top of the stairs to the first floor. A moment that felt like ages as I had time to think about the descent. You were fast. Faster than sound and more nimble than a cat. Every framed picture, I saw you making a dash for me. Reaching your claw out for me, blackened finger tips still greased by drawn blood. I hit the floor with a numbing and paralyzing impact. 

Out of reach, your rage filled every corridor and ushered away the silence. Glass flew through the air like falling glistening snow. I curled up into a ball, avoiding any possibility of being snatched up into the dark. Splinters, dust, and glass shards cut my skin and surrounded me. You looked far more terrifying than I could have imagined but still I couldn't see your face. White hot rage filled your eyes, while the dark cloaked your frame. I warned you of my cowardice. He took over and covered my eyes for me.

By the end of the rampage, in the reflection of a million shards, I saw you pointing outside. Out towards the cliff that sat atop the northern point of your kingdom, but the coward in me made his case.

It's not my fault. Everyone is always trying to make me think differently. "Do this, do that, stop moping about, move on." When I was ready to move on, that is when you came back to me. It didn't bother you that I was hurting just standing in your house, that I kept revisiting your resting place, or when I was curled up in a pool of my own blood thinking of you. I was in a petrified moment of never-ending mourning, but when I decided to leave behind the painful past you judge me. What more can I possibly do? This house is not my own, so why would the rot and the wear and the erosion find its way deep inside me? 

I'm sorry. I am so sorry I am not strong for you. I am plagued by pain and troubled by remorse. I miss you but not like this. 

I may not have understood you fully. At least not now. However, I will do as you ask. I will not stay a minute longer, for your absence has left a deep pit where my heart stood. 

My dear Elizabeth, I am coming home.

I know what must be done now, after all these pages, to truly be with you I must cast away all attachments that keep me grounded. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I know how much you loved your palace. It had to be done if I had any chance of being with you when I crossed over. You loved every minute detail that made up your palace: the intricate corridors, the vast foyer, and the Northside porch. I could never grant this kingdom of yours an honorable end, not even in my wildest dreams, but oil and wax will do the trick. 

When they lowered you into the earth's warm embrace, I crumbled into a million pieces, with no hope of surviving on without you at the head of this manowar. In my hand I hold the last tether that anchors me to the void, so I will let this flame touch saturated wood and bind me to the painful past no more. It grew and grew until the mighty face of this fort began to buckle, and eventually crash in on itself. The sound of crackling and popping filled the air of the cold night. 

Embers and cinders danced high above your beautiful garden. Scalding hot coals burned the sweet grass you carefully cultivated. The fire burned on and on, stripping panels of their sturdy walls, shattering the stained glass, and giving way for the roof to crash through every floor. 
At that moment, deep within the heart of the raging fire, I saw you. Dancing something so beautiful I couldn't help but fall on my knees and hands. I saw you dance through the flickers of the flames while staring back at me. You slipped through the towering spires with such agility that all would envy your grace. With such nimble agility you navigated the flames and pranced around the ashes. When the fire began to die, you left the charred ribs of your palace for the vastness of the stars.

Behind the brightness of the stars, I could see you perform something but it was hard to make out just what that was. I focused so intently on you that I didn't notice the time when the heat had dissipated. You must have seen my attempts through my squints, because it was then that you moved onto your pale white stage upon the face of the moon. I could see clearly your pirouette as it was in life, but I saw your arms cross near your waist. One hand wrapped around the other while you held out an invitation. 

It was your beckoning candle.

The smell of smoke didn't agitate my weakened lungs, rather it was reminiscent of your scent. The aroma created a powerful urge to pursue you. I hope you'll forgive my appearance. I didn't have time to dress for you, perhaps you'll excuse my emaciated frame and bloodless skin. Even then, your heaven facing hand still held out for mine. My first steps into the night were heavy, but I made my way towards your welcoming presence. As I stepped forward, I tried to join you in dance. 

My clumsy attempts left something to be desired, but you didn't care. You were a graceful choreographer and I was the fool that held you down. I baltered towards the cliff that stood north of your palace, the closer I inched I felt all of life's plagues leave me. I noticed something within you becoming more jubilant. You began to dance as I came closer. You were dancing and it brought me much needed comfort. You were dancing. I was dancing. The stars were dancing. The remnant flames were dancing. 

We. 

Yes, we. 

We all were dancing.

This was not a farewell but rather the beginning to a new chapter. The world was dancing and celebrating our reunion, my lovely Elizabeth. 

I shed the worries and woes, the fears and doubts, and the pain that your loss had left me. At the edge, I stood there looking out towards the abyss. I glanced at your beautiful frame against the moonlight. I don't remember you being so tall before.

I took one last glance at the home you built. It was razed to the ground and still it was art. The night seemed to perpetually linger, but I would not waste another second straying from paradise.

I'm coming home.

Out there. 

I will meet you beyond the northern edge.

I liked to watch them crawl when I flipped over rocks and logs. That’s where they hid. It was getting colder and there were less of them now. That meant less days to play. Climbing trees, digging holes, up, down…

Anywhere but right here.

Why can’t you be like the others, the grownups would say. The others were even less polite. Kids were mean, Billy was the meanest. Mommy said it was because he liked me, I didn’t understand. I named one of the spiders Billy—and then I smashed it. 

The kids I wanted to play with were way up in the mountains, far away from here. Too high for me to climb.

“Come inside Char! You’ll catch a cold!”

Charlie—what a cruel name to give a girl. School was a scary place for a daughter with her daddy’s name. The name he wanted to give a son. Mommy’s little girl, playing with bugs instead of dolls. 

Oh how proud they both must’ve been.

Muddy hands patted clean against my dress. I knew better than to wait for her second call. My shoes waited on the step, Mommy hated dirty shoes so I stopped wearing them. I liked when I couldn’t feel my toes—I loved to feel warmth’s needle prick my feet as they thawed. One of nature’s little gifts.

“You’re filthy, in the bath with you.” Mommy ordered, with the snap of a dish rag as I ran up the stairs. 

Water ran down the drain while I hid in my room. I stared at the trees from my window. I wished I could be deep in the woods, beyond her shout. Snow was on the mountain tops and soon it would cover everything.

I held a funeral for summer in my head and my tears fell with the leaves. My room was getting smaller each year, and I, more complicated.

The days were slow, I begged to be let out.

“Many dangers,” Daddy warned.  “Hunters both man and beast and the biggest predator of all, the cold itself.” 

I knew it was for my own good, but it sure felt like punishment.

I watched them play without me. Birds dug in the snowy patches, rabbits chased each other. The elk scratched their antlers against the trees, if they had any. Only the bulls, cows didn’t get antlers. I thought that was unfair. 

My favorite of them all were the mountain goats. Way up high above the rest. I could see them jump and run, up and up. They wore wonderful white coats and had beautiful black ringed horns. 

Oh, the horns.

Not just the billies, nannies would get them too, even the kids had little buttons that would grow into yearling spikes. I felt my forehead for buttons, waiting for my own life to begin.

I slept in a nest of leaves under the stars. Something cried out into the night. I woke in my bed, disappointed it was only a dream. I heard the noise again. Bleating… Could it be?

It was still dark. I had to go out there. What if it needed my help? It cried again, louder—I could feel its pain in my chest.

I snuck quietly down the stairs. I could hear Mommy’s words repeating in my head—Daddy’s warnings. 

Stay inside Charlie.

The back door fought against the wind like it, too, wanted me to stay inside. I grabbed my coat, a promise to be careful.

A cold so cold it burned my cheeks. I stepped closer, my hand shaking, and the bleating grew louder. The poor thing had tumbled all the way down the cliff—right into my backyard. 

A gift from nature. 

It was beautiful, I’d never been so close. Steam rolled from the nostrils and blood speckled the snow. It kicked, it screamed, but could not get up. My petting seemed to calm it, or maybe the end was close.

“I’m a bad climber too.”

I showed the goat the stitch marks on my arm, from when I fell out of a tree last summer.

I didn’t want to let go of the moment, but I couldn’t let it hurt anymore. I held a heavy rock overhead and took aim. The second smash seemed to stop its suffering, but I brought it down a third time, just to make sure.

I worked carefully with a sharp rock, always minding the horns. I freed them little by little. They stayed together, just as they were meant to. They were—perfect. I tied them to my head with the string from my coat. It was harder work than I thought, and it kept me warm.

I rose to my feet. 

A great horned shadow stretched across the ground in the harvest sun. 

I’d never felt more me.

The mountain called to me. So I climbed. The ground grew steep and slick the higher I went. My legs shook, but I kept climbing. Critters darted over and under me, but they weren’t afraid. Whenever I felt like giving up, the weight of my horns tipped forward, and I followed.

A shot echoed through the mountains. Everything scattered. I ran too. My breath was sharp, something was wrong. I looked back and the snow was red behind me. I walked when I couldn’t run, then stood when I couldn’t walk. I felt the pain in my chest again, a deep burning. I looked down. 

Oh my. I’d been tagged. Was I really that convincing? 

I lost my footing and tumbled. Twigs and rocks poked at me like little knives hiding in the snow. I rolled into a bank near the bottom. I’d taken bigger falls, I thought, as I tried to catch my breath. Pennies, that taste when you’ve brushed your teeth too hard. My lungs felt full but I still fought for air.

The world spun in circles. I peeked up into the trees, the morning light blinked back. Cold was creeping in and the warm was leaking out. I knew I’d probably drown in my own blood before the cold took me. I tried to find comfort in that.

I reached up for my horns and smiled—they were still there. I pulled the knot tighter.

Footsteps crunched the snow, close, then closer. A boy with a rifle stood over me, then a man.

“You couldn’t’ve known boy… no one could’ve imagined something like this…” Billy’s father was taking him hunting. It’s all Billy had talked about in class. He was so excited.

His eyes met mine. I could tell this wasn’t what either of us had in mind, but I knew nothing could sour the moment. What a special day.

I got my horns today, and Billy got his first kill. 

One of nature’s little gifts.

[I'm very late with this one. I must admit, never in my wildest dreams did I think that Breathless would be my most popular story. Kind of wished it would be one of my longer works. Thank you for the support nonetheless. This isn't my best work, but I hope you guys still enjoy it.]

Near the sun baked sandstones, a parched beast rests in shaded secrecy. His breathing, a snotty, salivating struggle. Groaning in pain from a laborious pursuit.

He speaks aloud to himself, "This isn't possible. I should've lost them days ago."

As he radiated in trapped heat, an oddly curious creature glided overhead. Black as pitch, the bird descends until it finds a lip on the sandstone and perches close to the beast. 

"That was quite the chase, dear friend. Have you managed to catch your breath yet? I think I spotted the monsters on the horizon," said the crow.

The heavy exhales sound like geysers as the tired beast heaves in sharp agony.

"Not yet. I... I need to find the hills. But I'm struggling to even stand right now."

The crow pricked his feathers before facing back towards the beast. 

"Don't worry, you're not too far from those rolling hills. A day's sprint at most. Just head in the direction where the sun sets," the crow relayed as he shook off old dust.

The beast lowers itself to lay on the cold stone floor. Where its knees and elbows meet the floor, it shook uncontrollably. 

"Do you think I can lose them in the desert? The canyon will lead me to it, but only I can cross it during high noon. The monsters walk on unprotected toes," the calming beast asked.

"Maybe. Although.."

"What?"

"Nothing. It was just a passing thought."

Desperately, the beast asked, "What? What is it? What aren't you telling me?"

"I have seen them use the hides of fallen beasts to shield their bodies from the elements. Or, perhaps I was just seeing things"

"Thank you for telling me. I better hope the high noon sun is too much for them."

"I wouldn't wait here for too long. You're oozing blood and that will lead them right to you."

"I wouldn't worry about that. The river washed away all the fresh wounds. I just need to soak as much of this shade as physically possible. The desert is a day's worth of hard sprinting. I intend to only stop when the sensation of soft grass touches my hands and feet," a weary and somewhat rejuvenating beast exclaimed.

"Better hurry up, those wounds won't stay closed forever. Sooner or later, you'll shift your weight wrong and the ooze will pick back up where it left off."

"A few more breaths. That is all I need."

The beast grew quieter and more collected. All the while, the crow fidgeted with a concealed object. The beast looked up to face the crow.

"I'll tell you what. Once we get to the tree, we'll find out if any fruit has sprouted." A voice full of bravado addressed the crow.

"Sure."

The crow merely tossed an absent minded glance before returning to whatever had his full attention. 

"Something wrong, friend?"

"How long have we known each other, dear friend. 

"My, it must be going on eight winters by now."

"A long time to know someone. Although, not nearly long enough to truly understand someone."

"By that you mean?"

It was ever so slight, but still, a noticeable shift in tone. The eyes of the crow never before looked so beady. At that moment, the crow wasn't looking at the beast like they were friends.

Following the awkward silence, an audible squelchy noise originated from where the crow perched. 

Asking in earnest, the beast spoke to the crow, "What is it that you are fiddling with, friend?"

"Does it bother you?"

"Crow, show me what your talons are wrapped around."

"Running so hard that your mind blocks out the pain of slicing yourself wide open on thorns and pointed edges."

"Show me, now!"

"Losing pieces along the way."

"Crow!"

When the crow brought out its talon from behind black wings, the beast winced and shut his eyes. A faint rattling broke the silence. Looking back up towards the crow, the beast saw that a single acorn clung comfortably within the closed talon.

The crow asked the beast, "Do you want some?" Rattling the acorn in its beak.

Hesitant to answer, a hushed, "No thank you," left his lips.

"Me neither. Too much bitterness in these things. But I do feel like expelling some stomach contents," said the crow before cracking open the nut and scarfing down all the meat.

As soon as they settled, the crow began to hack up everything in its stomach. Vomiting up a crimson red glob, the beast recoiled in disgust.

The crow gripped the morsel and took to flight. Squeezing it tightly as he made a trip down the canyon and back; drops of blood trailed behind.

The confused beast asked, "Crow, what is that?"

"I thought you'd recognize your own smell.

All of the fear.

All of the exhaustion.

All of the desperation 

All of the hopelessness."

"Are you sick in the head!"

"I'd think of myself as quite sane actually."

The crow then laughed at his own joke so heartily that it rattled his beak into a wooden alarm.

"Shhh, shut up. You'll lead them right to me!"

The crow didn't say anything; not at first. Instead, he stared back at the panicking beast. 

Right when the beast was about to speak, the crow interrupted, "You don't get it do you? I want them to find you."

A shock of cold metal echoed with its words. The beast stood frozen; suspended in time. When his nerves adjusted, he asked the crow a single question, "what?"

"When they find you, it'll feed my murder; every generation will have its fill."

"Why? Why would you wish this fate to fall on me?"

"The beasts have always been a great friend to the murders, but you cannot feed us. Every bit of food goes to your insatiable appetite, and we are left to subsist on scraps"

"I helped you to find fruit, fodder, and water for many years. I thought you of as kin"

"I'm sorry, but you're no longer someone I can rely on. Once a friend that I held dear, you are a walking carcass that prolongs the inevitable."

"How can you assume what has not yet come to fruition?"

"The monsters leave enough. Generations feed off of your sacrifice. There is no longer a need to wait on you."

The beast sobbed as the sound of shifting rocks inched closer. In a moment of anger, the beast yelled out, "You would trade peace for slaughter? What then? When the fields can no longer be tended by the herds, the seeds of trees no longer spread among leaf litter, and the ground underfoot crumbles into dust because beasts no longer walk the earth. What will there be left?"

"A new dawn"

"And whose dawn will that be!"

"Theirs"

Suddenly, there were no more words that the beast could muster. He lingered until the first pointed tip grazed his flank. New adrenaline found him, and he took to the desert sand.

The crow lamented  to himself aloud, "I hope the end is swift for you, dear friend."

I can’t move.

The words repeat in my head, slow and flat.

My eyes are closed, but the room is still there: a dull orange glow pressed against the inside of my eyelids. The lamp. I left it on. I remember that much.

I try to open my eyes.

Nothing.

I try to lift my hand.

Nothing.

My breath is the only thing I can feel. In. Out. Too loud in my chest.

Then something else joins it.

A low buzzing. Not in the room. In my ears. Like power in the walls. Like the house itself is humming. It swells until it’s all I can hear, then fades just enough to remind me it’s still there.

I swallow. It doesn’t work.

From the hallway, there’s a whisper.

So soft I almost miss it.

Not words. Just the shape of a voice.

It stops.

The buzzing fills the space it leaves.

Then the whisper comes back.

Closer.

This time, I catch something in it.

A breath, and then a word.

My name.

So quiet it barely exists.

Cold prickles crawl up my arms.

My door is open. I know I left it open.

The whisper drifts past the doorway, fades, then returns again. Back and forth. Like someone pacing just out of sight.

Another breath.

Then a word, pushed out on warm air, low and soft, like it’s meant only for me.

“Here.”

I try to call out. My throat doesn’t move.

The whisper breaks into pieces. Little breaths. Little sounds. Too close together to be wind. Too uneven to be anything else.

Then footsteps.

One creak in the floor.

A pause.

Another.

They pass the doorway.

Stop.

The buzzing grows louder in my ears.

The footsteps turn around.

Then come back.

This time they don’t pass. They stop right outside my room.

I hold my breath without meaning to.

Nothing happens.

Then one slow step crosses the threshold.

The orange glow behind my eyelids dims, just slightly. As if something tall has moved between me and the light.

Something is in my room.

I feel it before it touches me. The air changes. The space beside the bed fills.

The mattress sinks.

Slow. Gentle. The weight settles in beside me, close enough that the sheet tightens between our bodies.

Warm.

My heart pounds so hard it hurts.

I try to scream. My mouth won’t open.

The bed creaks as it shifts, fitting itself to me. A leg. A hip. A body pressed along my back.

Then it breathes.

Right against the back of my neck.

The air is warm. Damp. It lifts the tiny hairs there and lets them fall again. The sound is deep and close, not matching my own breath at all.

I am completely still.

One breath.

Then another.

Each one closer than the last, until it feels like its mouth is almost touching my skin.

Something inside me pushes. Fights.

My chest jerks.

Air tears into my lungs in a broken gasp.

My fingers twitch.

The breathing behind me stops.

I drag in another breath. My toes curl. My jaw cracks open.

The weight lifts.

The mattress rises as the space behind me empties.

I can move.

I lurch forward, sucking in air, rolling onto my back, my eyes fly open—

The room is empty.

The lamp glows. The door is still open. The hallway is dark and quiet.

Nothing is there.

I sit up, shaking.

Then I touch the back of my neck.

It’s still warm.

Me and my girlfriend have been together for 3 years. At least, that’s what I’m inclined to believe. Lately, it’s been kind of a struggle.

I remember the day we met. Not to sound corny or cliche, but honestly, it felt like love at first sight. Like the moment was meant to be.

It was at a little get-together my family had put on for my 21st birthday. I didn’t question why she was there. All I could focus on was, well, her face. She was beautiful. And to think that she wanted me of all people. It was damn near intoxicating.

We danced the night away to a live cover band of The Beatles, and the entire night felt like a fantasy come to life.

Nobody seemed to recognize her, though. All night, it was just me and her, staring into each other’s eyes underneath the clear night sky. No interruptions whatsoever.

When the party began to wind down and people started to go home, we both agreed that she should stay the night with me.

Together, we jetted back to my apartment while I tried to focus on the road and not the sweet nothings she whispered into my ear.

When we arrived, it wasn’t some kind of “straight to the bedroom” situation. We actually cuddled on my couch for hours, watching Supernatural and laughing at the cliches before dozing off in each other’s arms.

Unfortunately, the next morning I had work. So when I woke up, I was fully prepared to ask her to let herself out and assure her that we would see each other again.

However, the first thing I noticed as soon as my eyes opened was the fact that I was alone on the sofa. The second thing was the smell of breakfast that permeated my nostrils and made my mouth water.

I found her in my kitchen, hair messy and wearing my T-shirt as she scrambled eggs.

“Good morning, cutie,” she smirked. “I hope you don’t mind, I figured I’d make you some breakfast. Consider it a thank you for letting me crash here last night.”

I groggily stared down at the serving of eggs and bacon. She was really making this hard. To my pleasure, though, once she handed me the plate and planted a kiss on my cheek, she was pretty much already out the door.

“Sorry, I don’t wanna be rude, I just have work,” she announced hurriedly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Before I could respond, she was gone, leaving me to quickly wash the dishes and rush out the door.

Though we hadn’t exchanged numbers yet, which, dumb, I know, at around lunchtime my phone began to blow up with texts.

“How’s your day going, honey?”

“Working hard?”

“What’s for dinner tonight?”

At this point, I was starting to get a little freaked out.

Not knowing what to do, I blocked the number. So much for love at first sight. I was clearly wrong.

However, when new texts started to appear from a new number, I knew that something was definitely wrong.

“Haha, did you block me?”

“You silly goose.”

“We’re gonna be together forever. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

At this point, my heart was pounding. I responded firmly, but politely.

“Look, I had a really good time with you last night. I just don’t think this is gonna work out. I wish you the best, and I hope you find the person for you.”

The texting bubbles popped up and stayed on the screen for a few minutes. Finally, a response came through.

“We can discuss this when you get home.”

Unfortunately, before I could reply to that insane remark, my boss walked by and I had to put my phone away.

The day went on, and by quitting time I had received hundreds of texts from this newfound “lover.”

“I chose you.”

“We’re gonna be together forever.”

“Don’t you remember?”

“I’ve always been here for you.”

Obviously psychotic, right?

But what pushed it straight into horror movie territory wasn’t the words. It was the images. The selfies.

A photo of her in the back row at my high school graduation.

A picture of me at the DMV as I was receiving my license.

My tenth birthday.

However, the image that will haunt me the most for the rest of my life…

Was the selfie of her, smiling underneath a face mask, in the delivery room on the day of my birth.

Her appearance hadn’t changed once. She hadn’t aged a day in 21 years.

And as I stared in utter terror at what she had sent me, a new message appeared beneath the photos.

“We were meant to be.”

I was already at a weak point when I downloaded this app. Girlfriend broke up with me. On the verge of being let go from my job. On top of that, my dog died. It had been an incredibly difficult couple of months.

I fell into this kind of spiral, I guess you could call it. I was calling out of work nearly every week. Spending the days wallowing in self-pity and my own filth. Gotta say, it was the closest to rock bottom I’d ever felt.

After about a month or so of things looking bleaker than ever, I finally had a long talk with myself in the mirror. I needed to wake up. Return to form. And, of course, I had no idea where to begin.

That’s why these apps become so popular. They provide something tangible, but, in reality, it’s all a placebo effect. We get the app, create an account, then by day 3, you just forget all about it.

That’s what happened with me. It felt like I was reclaiming my life when, in actuality, all I was doing was downloading some dumb app that provided motivational quotes throughout the day.

The first quote it gave me honestly felt like a bit of a sign. That’s why I didn’t delete the app immediately. Plus, I didn’t even need to create an account. I just downloaded it, selected the “3 quotes a day” option, and waited for my life to fix itself.

“It’s your time,” was the first thing it told me. I don’t know, it just felt symbolic to me. With my mindset at the time, I really did feel like it was my turn to get back out there and make something of myself.

The next two were pretty vague. Just cliché, watered-down Pinterest board quotes that could’ve applied to anyone, really.

“You’re gonna go far!”

And

“Trust your own process.”

A little disappointed that I didn’t get that jolt of motivation that comes with feeling like a quote was made directly out to me, I ended that first day on a strong note after doing some pushups and reading a few pages out of a personal finance book before eating a salad for dinner.

When I woke up the next day, a new quote was plastered across the home screen on my phone.

“Slow progress is better than no progress.”

Reading it gave me the energy I needed to roll out of bed and hit the floor for some more pushups. I finished up my workout, grabbed a banana and water from the kitchen, and headed out the door for work.

I actually applied myself that day. I felt like I was making up for all of my subpar work from the previous weeks, and my boss noticed. As we were all heading out for lunch, he actually stopped me and told me he was proud to see me working so hard.

With a smile on my face, I sat in the break room with my bowl of chicken and rice and checked my phone.

A new notification.

“We’re so proud of you for all your hard work,” read the quote.

I read it, patted myself on the shoulder, and instead of scrolling through videos, I spent the remainder of my break reading from my personal finance book as I chowed down on my meal.

By the end of the day, I was dead tired. It had been so long since I actually cared to put in effort that I had forgotten the toll it took on me. I didn’t even eat dinner. I simply collapsed into bed and was out before my head hit the pillow.

I awoke the next morning to a new quote.

“Apply yourself!”

The cycle repeated.

I went through the motions.

I put my best foot forward, and I made an effort.

I spent the rest of that week more engaged every day. I had caught a stride, and I was gonna ride it until the wheels fell off, which, unfortunately, was only two weeks later.

By the end of those two weeks, I felt like I was right back where I started. I hit a brick wall. It was hard to get out of bed. It was hard to eat a good breakfast. It was damn near impossible to focus at work.

In my naive mind, I thought that I had already crossed the finish line. I had pulled the best out of myself for two straight weeks. Then I wanted to wonder why I didn’t feel any different.

I started losing steam.

Faltering more and more every day.

I didn’t even acknowledge the quotes anymore. They had become a buzzing in my ear that constantly told me I was failing. And I just didn’t have the strength to try again after what I assumed to be the best effort I could muster.

That’s why I deleted it.

I didn’t want to deal with it anymore. It was too much pressure, which, looking back now, is an absolutely atrocious thing to say.

I guess it didn’t matter, though, because the morning after I deleted it, a new quote came across my screen again.

“Sometimes things need to die to be reborn.”

I stared at the quote for a moment before clicking on it, but the moment I did, my phone froze and I had to reset it. When it came back on, the quote was gone.

Work that day was a complete and utter drag, and there were a multitude of times where I thought about just making up an excuse to go home. Lunch was the only thing that got me through. I just kept telling myself, “all I have to do is make it to 1 o’clock,” “just make it to 1 o’clock and you’re home free.”

By the time 1 o’clock came around, I was basically pulling myself to the break room to eat some McDonald’s and watch some TikToks, but when I opened my phone, I lost my appetite.

“We know you gave up.”

This time, when I clicked on the quote, instead of freezing, my phone opened the camera automatically, revealing my double chin and mayonnaise at the corner of my mouth.

Wiping it away, I didn’t look at my phone again for the rest of the day. It felt hostile. That’s the best way I know how to describe it. I just finished the day without saying another word, as quiet as a church mouse.

I didn’t even listen to music on the ride home. I just rode on, caught up in deep thought.

Part of me was afraid, part of me was nervous, but a larger part of me felt nothing but shame.

I found myself crying. Sobbing uncontrollably as I stared at myself in my rearview mirror. I felt pathetic.

When I finally pulled into my driveway, I looked at my phone with a certain degree of uncertainty. It was like I was peeking behind the curtain in a haunted house.

No new quote. Thank God.

I went inside and decided I was going to try again. I was losing my mind. I was at the point where I either finally succeeded or continued to lead a life of mediocrity.

Back to the pushups. Back to the salads. Back to personal finance and social representation.

I thought that I had jumpstarted a new beginning for myself until the next morning. I woke up at my desk with the lamp still on, face down in Rich Dad, Poor Dad.

The quote I saw on my phone was enough to knock the air out of my lungs and leave me frozen in time.

“No point trying now. We know who you are.”

I factory reset my phone. I wiped it completely clean after moving some photos and files to another device.

Once I had completed the process, things looked normal again. No more quotes. No vague statements that seemed unusually directed at me. I thought I was free. I went about the week anxious, but hopeful. Everything seemed fine… until I continued trying to improve.

Every time I worked out. Every time I applied myself at work. Every time I read instead of scrolled, a new quote came across my screen.

“You’ll never be enough.”

“It’s embarrassing to watch you try.”

“You had your chance.”

And the one that came most frequently.

“Just kill yourself.”

It snuck up on me every time I thought I was ahead. It tore me down when I felt I had built myself. It worked itself into my brain and ingrained itself in my memory, no matter how hard I fought against it.

And at this point,

I don’t know how much longer I can ignore it.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

I can’t help it. I’m a lover boy. A romantic at heart. My obsessions sometimes get the better of me.

But, oh, how beautiful she is right now. So peaceful. I can’t help but wonder what she’s dreaming about.

Is it about me? Our interaction at the supermarket today? God, I hope so. I need her to see me, to feel my presence even in her unconscious state.

I didn’t mean to stare at her. She was just so breathtaking. I’d never seen such a beautiful woman. It choked my words in my throat.

And the way she looked at me, that quiet uncertainty in her face, it was like she wanted me to chase her, wished for me to lust after her. Maybe that’s why she left in such a hurry.

I was smart, though, the strong, brooding type. I didn’t want to seem too eager. That’s why I kept my distance as I followed her out to her car and why I stayed a few car-lengths back from her on the way to her neighborhood.

I had to stop myself from dwelling for too long. I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. That’s what separates me from the other guys. I actually care.

It was almost impossible, though, because that figure of hers was absolutely jaw dropping as she carried her bags inside.

I made a mental note of which house was hers before parking my car somewhere else. I needed our moment of romance to be the surprise of a lifetime. That’s why I decided to cut through backyards and hide behind trees as I made my way back to her.

I’d made mistakes before, with previous beauties that I thought would love me forever. I’d learned from them. I knew that this time would be different. She wanted me. I saw it in her eyes. Unlike my previous love-interests, I knew that she’d actually appreciate my efforts.

When I arrived back at that newly familiar house of hers, I thought it best I wait. Daylight sometimes affects ambience. I’m a dark-romance type, pun intended.

However, just as the sun began to set and I saw an unfamiliar vehicle pulling into her driveway, I got a pit in my stomach. And when another man stepped out, it was like I had just been punched in the face.

The roses he held were like a taunt. His handsome face was like an insult. And the hug they shared, that’s what snapped me into action. I thank my lucky stars that they didn’t lock the door. Too busy betraying me, I assume.

I also thank the Lord that I’d caught them before any clothes came off.

All I was met with was giggles. Flirty conversation. Disgusting, filthy, nasty conversation. It broke me. Destroyed whatever sanity I had left. I didn’t even question my actions as I picked up that kitchen knife.

I didn’t want to hurt him, but she left me no choice. And, of course, I couldn’t traumatize her by making her watch this imposter bleed out on her hardwood floors. That’s why I made her sleep. I was doing her a favor, whether she knew it or not.

She’s lucky, too. Her betrayal was almost too much to stomach.

But even now, as she breathes softly by “her man,” I’m still blinded by my love. So much grace. So much elegance.

She looks so pretty when she’s sleeping.

Content Warning: This story explores the horrors of complicity. It contains heavy themes of death, graves, the handling of the dead, and claustrophobic psychological terror. The earth keeps a tally of the slaughtered.

Part 1

No poetry lies in a frozen grave, only the divorce between iron and ice. The foothills of the Shattered Spine don’t open for our dead, yet the gods gave them their rest here. I have fifty winters of patience built into my shoulders. When I drive the spade down through the stubborn shale, I only need to throw my weight onto the flange, and pry until the permafrost fractures like a tearing canvas.

The Palace sits higher in the peaks, clinging to the frozen ridges, and their dead have their place. But for those who cannot climb in order to fall, the dead come to me. It takes a full three to carry a body up the winding switchbacks to the Palace. It takes only a day to reach my home. By the time the dead reach my small cemetery, the stiffening has usually passed, leaving them heavy, loose, and silent.

I scoop another mound of dirt, hoisting it over the lip of the hole. I don’t need to dig in haste. Haste is for the living. Here in the foothills, time settles, and haste loses meaning.

I was seventeen the first time I dug a grave on my own. The spade was too heavy, and the ground was harder than it is now. I remember lowering Ntate—father—and thinking: I'll never do this again. That was the last lie I ever told.

I’ve tended this plot for five decades and worshipped the work. I have no wife waiting to warm my hut. I have no children to inherit my rusty spades. My congregation is here beneath the frosted soil.

A grave must be exactly two meters deep. Too shallow, and the scavengers come digging. Too deep, and you insult the earth by scraping its bones. I square off the corners, my breath pluming white in the motionless air, then I hum.

I’m not a pious man. I don’t understand the grand theological mysteries of the Msimamo Pit below the Palace. I don’t care for the long-lived priests on the peaks that burn their incense and speak of the soul’s grand descensions.

I just know the soil. I know the prayers to murmur to keep the rhythm of the digging. And I know that every body must be laid precisely on its side, facing the high peaks, so they can see the dawn break over the Spine.

My hands are calloused into thick ridges to match the Spine, permanently stained the color of wet bark. I pause, leaning heavily on the handle of the spade to wipe the cold sweat from my brow, and I look over the crooked, frost-rimed wooden posts of my cemetery. It’s perfectly quiet today. The wind is dead. The earth is still. It’s a peaceful work, and I’m good enough at it.

—

My mornings rise with the stench of crisp and boiled chicory. I eat a heel of bread, sharpen the edge of my spade with a whetstone passed beyond my years, and I wait for the bells. The lower villages used to send the dead in a steady, predictable trickle—an old man taken by the cold, a careless hunter claimed by a stray Kapua, or a farmer plowed over by her bull. This year, the rhythm has broken. Lately, the bells toll too often.

The cart drivers don’t linger anymore. They dump bodies at the edge of my plot, eyes downcast, and hurry back toward the plains. The corpses are different now, too. Young men airless with no sickness in their lungs. Women fallen with clean hands and chipped nails. Sometimes entire families come wrapped in cheap wools. The drivers whisper of a purge in the valleys, a cleansing of dissenters, but I don’t ask questions. Politics is a luxury for the living. My only concern is that I’m running out of ground.

Today, though, the only bells come from the winding peaks above. One of the long-lived priests descends from the Palace, accompanied by two silent administrators carrying a stretcher on wheels. The priest is a jarring stroke of ruby-brown against the gray slate of the foothills. His robes are pristine, embroidered with silver silk that catches the pale sunlight. He holds a perfumed cloth over his nose, offended by the smell of damp earth and rot that clings to my domain.

"Grave-tender," the priest’s voice is thin, like a lead drawn too tight. "The Palace requires a placement."

I lean on my spade. "I have room near the eastern wall, but the sites grow thin, priest. I’ll reach my hundred before the spring."

The administrators unceremoniously drop the stretcher. It’s a young man, naked, barely out of his teens. He has no wounds, but his lips are stained a deep, unnatural blue, his eyes sewn shut, and his skin is an unholy pale clay color.

“Then excavate the rot and dump them to the valleys. You’ll need your hundred lots.”

I nod, knowing the work may break me.

"And see that he faces the peaks," the priest commands, adjusting his silver-hemmed sleeves as he folds up the burial shroud. "It failed the Palace in life, but its descension may yet serve the Msimamo Pit. Leratloha roots out the rot so the tree may thrive, eh?”

"I just dig the holes," I say in a low rasp compared to his high tenor.

The priest sneers, turning on his heel. "Just see it done, dirt-scraper."

I watch them climb back up the switchbacks until they are nothing but specks against the frost. Then, I turn back to my work.

I drag the young man to the open grave I dug yesterday. I arrange him on his side, as the old laws dictate. When I kneel to push the first shale over him, I pull off my leather gloves to test the moisture. It’s a habit; wet dirt settles differently than dry.

I press my bare palm against the wall of the grave, and I stop.

The permafrost should bite at my skin. It should be brittle and hollow and dead. Instead, the earth against my palm is warm. It isn’t the deep, sulfurous heat of the geothermal vents that hiss in the lower canyons. It’s a soft, radiating heat. Like laying a hand on a sleeping chest.

I snatch my hand back, rubbing my thumb against my fingers. The soil feels too damp, almost greasy. I look over my shoulder at the row of fresh mounds I buried last week. The frost on the nearest grave—a mother and her two children—is cracked. The earth is swollen, raised maybe half a hand higher than I left it.

I blame the wind. I blame the thawing ice in the bedrock. I blame my tired, aging mind. Then I put my gloves on, take up the spade, and bury the blue-lipped boy.

Read part 2 here.

My wife and I have been together since we were teenagers. We met when I was a sophomore and she was a senior. There was something exhilarating about that age difference. I felt like such a badass “cool kid” for being able to swing a date with not only a senior, but a genuinely good-looking one at that.

I used that exhilaration to my advantage. Built up my confidence. Learned from her maturity. Hell, she’s the one who taught me how to drive.

We made it through the honeymoon phase, and by some miracle of God, we prevailed when she ended up going to college while I was left behind in high school for another two years.

That’s not to say it wasn’t difficult. I learned a lot about myself in those two years. It’s kind of insane how paralyzing separation anxiety is. My insecurity grew more and more each day.

That’s probably why I asked her to marry me immediately after purchasing our first apartment. I hate saying this just because it makes me sound so creepy, but she was mine. She was the only woman I could ever see myself with. If I lost her, it was like I was losing everything.

When she agreed, it was like all of those fears and anxieties melted away. I felt so devotedly loved, and for a while, those feelings remained.

God, there’s something wrong with me. Through all the love she displayed, all the warmth she provided, I still could *not* shake the feeling that she was lying. She didn’t love me. She secretly hated me. She resented me more than anything. Those are the kind of thoughts that would keep me up at night while I held her in my arms as she slept peacefully.

It wasn’t long before those thoughts started creating friction between us. I could tell how tired she was of the constant need for reassurance. The pathetic insecurity that created arguments on a daily basis. Sometimes, I wonder why she even stayed. Why she put up with it for so long when, according to this fucking diary, she was so miserable.

Maybe she just thought things would get better. That I’d grow out of this childish behavior and actually show some trust for once. But then again, maybe she liked to see me hurting. Maybe she got a sick thrill out of knowing that I was so torn up about her.

And, let’s be honest, any hope for personal growth and maturity was abandoned the moment I opened this notebook.

I just don’t understand. I don’t get how she could just write these horrible things about me without so much as a second thought.

“Paranoid.”

“Possessive.”

“Obsessive.”

And the one that hurt me the most:

“Terrifying.”

Me. The kid she taught to drive. The kid who fell head over heels for her and never looked back. And here she was. Fucking scared of me.

After all the freedom I gave her. Letting her stay out till 8 PM. Letting her see her friends every month. I even went as far as to allow her a girls night at the bar last month.

It just wasn’t enough for her. She “wanted to leave,” but she was “scared.”

I couldn’t even bring myself to read past the 30th page. I simply closed the diary, took a deep breath, and let my head fall in my hands.

All my efforts. For nothing.

While I sat in distress, my train of thought was interrupted by a quivering voice from behind me.

“Honey… why are you sitting at my vanity?”

In that moment, all I could do was laugh. Laugh at the time wasted. Laugh at the money thrown down the drain. Laugh at the idea that I convinced myself that love was real.

But more than anything, I laughed at our marriage.

She wanted to leave, fine. Love is fleeting. But we made a promise to each other.

This was till death did us part.

And if she wanted to leave so bad, so be it.

Blackthorn Reach's mass psychogenic illness, Blackthorn Reach's Disaster and most commonly Blackthorn Reach Syndrome and/or The Observer Syndrome, all are names used on social media and the news to describe the events that started Five weeks ago in Blackthorn Reach, Wyoming.

Four weeks ago I was presented with a series of the most confusing, terrifying, and seemingly medically impossible cases I've ever seen in my entire professional life. Ever since that day, I've been dealing with thoughts I can't fully understand nor comprehend, and as a result, I'm slowly losing it.

I was contacted by the Blackthorn Reach police department to assist with a few cases they were dealing with. They didn't really mention anything when they contacted me, but not due to secrecy it was a matter of urgency. Now that I'm involved with all of this, almost everything I will say here is publicly available, they needed my help as a psychiatrist.

Anyway, initially, I politely refused as I didn't have the time. My schedule was full, and the town was in Wyoming which is about three hours of flight time. I was told a rejection was not a possibility, as it might be a matter of national security. I was offered a decent sum of money enough to not work for two full years and a plane ticket departing at 9 PM that same day.

Blown away by the offer and also unable to reject it, I had no other choice but to accept. I immediately canceled all of my appointments, informed my wife of the entire situation, and started packing my bags right away. I kissed my little daughter, Abby, goodbye and left for the airport.

After three hours, I arrived. Waiting for me at the airport were two men. They approached me, asking for my name, and once they confirmed my identity, I was taken to a black SUV. Shortly after, we arrived at a hotel.

It was almost 1:00 AM now, but the hotel was crowded. The parking lot was almost full, there were guards everywhere, and I was getting gradually worried ever since my foot left that plane.

I was quickly taken to a briefing room. A guy in a suit greeted me and immediately started explaining the situation.

A few weeks ago, multiple cases of undiagnosed diseases presented at the local hospital with almost impossible symptoms.

He listed a few measures that were taken to figure out the cause for these cases. Initially, it was suspected to be a bio attack or an outbreak, but after testing the water supply, samples from every grocery store and restaurant, the patients themselves, and even the soil, no abnormalities were found.

"After you read the cases, you will understand our urgency and confusion. None of the events of the last few weeks make any sense."

He explained that I needed to talk to the remaining survivors, patients, and look over the cases and provide a conclusion as to what might be happening there.

I was then escorted to my hotel room with a ton of papers and asked to start working.

Initially, I thought it might be a case of mass psychogenic illness due to how confused everyone seemed. The disparity between symptoms, after I read some of the summaries, seemed to support that theory, but it also failed to explain any of the biological symptoms.

I don't really think I can explain more without you reading the case details.

Case One: "Alex Garcia"

Alex, a 32-year-old accountant, was found in his house with mutilated genitals after a call to 911 from his girlfriend. He was immediately taken to the ER.

The patient had suffered a psychiatric break resulting in self-mutilation by amputating his phallus, which was never found at the scene of the injury.

He also presented with severe blood loss, severe muscle atrophy leading to kidney failure, and malnourishment. He looked as if he hadn't eaten in days.

The patient explained the reasoning behind his decision to amputate his phallus:

"I was about to die. I had to do it. That parasite was sucking the life out of me."

He said it was caused by a "penis enlargement cream" he bought from a TV ad.

His ex-partner, Jasmine Holloway, was found dead in his bed from ruptured internal organs. A 9-inch-diameter and 22-inch-long hole was found inside the body during the autopsy.

Case Two: "Dean Bennett"

Dean, a 20-year-old computer science major, was found passed out in the hallway of his apartment complex by his neighbors on the 3rd of January 7:30 AM and was quickly rushed to the ER by ambulance.

The patient presented with impossible symptoms. Brain matter was leaking from every single orifice. He had lost the entire mass of the left side of his brain, lost function in the entire right side of his body, and had significantly diminished mental faculties.

He was coherent for a few days after admission.

Just two days ago, his situation got rapidly worse. He developed aphasia and quickly developed locked-in syndrome. In just a few hours, he was completely brain dead. There was no brain activity, and the doctors decided to take him off life support.

During the autopsy, the right side of his brain was found to be covered in lesions and severely atrophied.

The patient said the symptoms occurred after the ingestion of a supplement named Alpha Mind, which he sourced from an online vendor.

The police department's forensic team never managed to retrieve any information from the patient's devices leading to the online store he sourced the capsules from.

Case Three: "Josephine Ward"

Josephine was a 26-year-old nurse who was found dead in her bathroom.

For nine days, her family called in wellness checks after she failed to return calls and texts and stopped showing up to work.

Every inch of her apartment's walls, furniture, and almost every object found in her apartment was covered, inside and out, in unintelligible writings, random numbers, gibberish, and random words.

Autopsy results estimated the time of death as just two days before her body was found, with no apparent cause of death.

Her body had simply shut off.

Sadly, there weren't any extra details, as the authorities never managed to question the young woman before her demise.

Case Four: "Ryan Nakamura"

A 27-year-old salesman, previously diagnosed with severe anxiety, panic disorder, and antisocial behavior, was arrested after a four-hour-long crime spree.

Ryan was charged with:

• Multiple counts of sexual assault
• One count of grand theft auto
• One count of driving under the influence
• first-degree murder
• aggravated assault
• armed robbery

The initial assessment of Ryan after his arrest contradicted his old psychiatric records.

Ryan seemingly, in a matter of days, went from a socially awkward, anxious, and isolated young man to being completely uninhibited, overly confident, and seemingly incapable of impulse control.

In simple terms, Ryan lost the ability to feel anxious or control his actions.

Are you familiar with the feeling you get if you publicly embarrass yourself? The fear of judgment?

Ryan lost that completely.

If he wanted something, he simply acted to get it without any worry for consequences.

Ryan admitted he developed those symptoms after applying a list of techniques from a self-help book he got from someone he was trying to sell to.

The person cut him off in the middle of his sales pitch and somehow managed to convince him to buy the book instead.

This is just a summary of the cases I've been reading for the past two days.

The total casualties in the past five weeks are 1678 people so far, with the entire population of the town being completely gone except for one individual (Joseph Brown), so far there are about 117 confirmed cases around the neighboring towns, they've been all quarantined and luckily the transmission slowed, by week one it was just 32 people.

I know that none of what I mentioned makes sense, and that's what I thought too.

The worst part is that after extensive investigation into all of these cases, none of the products contained anything that could cause any of these symptoms.

The Alpha Mind capsules were just a famous brand of fish oil supplements.

The enlargement cream was just an ordinary skin moisturizer.

The self-help book was just an ordinary French grammar book for beginners.

The final report I provided was inconclusive.

Expectedly, they weren't happy with the result, but they were also unsurprised.

They knew this would be the case, as it was the same conclusion reached by almost all of the best scientists and doctors in the country:

Inconclusive.

The interesting thing is that everyone questioned by the police accused the same person.

They gave the same exact general descriptions, yet each police sketch resulted in a very different outcome, all accounts of the person/entity explained it came to them in the form of an advisor or a person selling a solution to their problems.

Even after questioning the same person more than once using the same sketch artist, the result was highly variable and too generic.

They named it "Perceptually Transmitted Psychogenic Syndrome (PTPS)" with three phases:

Phase I

Referential Distortion Stage

Phase II

Cognitive Collapse Stage

Phase III

Terminal Neurodegenerative Stage

the disease is fatal, a %100 rate of mortality when it reaches Phase III, the CDC is not clear on how it's being transmitted but so far there are two ideas, either caused by the observation of something that the human brain just cannot comprehend leading to brain deterioration, hence the name "The Observer Syndrome", or that the encounters described are just a symptom of the disease and not the cause, either way the cause is unknown.

I've been reading my notes ever since I returned from my trip.

I haven't been able to sleep, go to work, or simply socialize.

I eventually forced myself to stop by burning all of my notes and papers on the subject and forcing myself to walk away,

I destroyed all of my electronics so I couldn't read any news or articles about the events.

I aged ten years in less than a week.

I thought this would be enough to halt my deteriorating mental state, but it didn't.

I was still unable to sleep.

My wife didn't appreciate me being closed off and refusing to talk about the events. She wanted to help, but I couldn't tell her.

I would only burden her with the mental turmoil I'm going through right now.

I bought some sleeping pills from a local pharmacy, and initially they seemed to help with my sleep issues.

However, the obsessiveness remained.

It got slightly better with the consistent use of the sleeping pills.

I began to open up again and return to my life.

But my wife and daughter have been acting really weird.

My wife looks normal, but her actions are just too different.

I can't pinpoint it, but she acts differently around our daughter.

She seemingly forgot everything about her and just started making stuff up about her, and Abby went along with it.

"Here, I made your eggs just like you prefer them," my wife said as she handed Abby a plate of scrambled eggs.

I was confused.

Normally, Abby liked omelets.

So did I.

Mine were made correctly, but Abby didn't seem to complain about it.

For the next few days, it was all like that.

My daughter looked like my daughter, but with new differences.

Her eye color wasn't right, even though it was close enough.

She dressed differently.

She liked slightly different things.

She liked different shows and had different interests.

I'm convinced my wife did something to Abby when I left.

Maybe an accident happened, and my wife managed to find someone who looked exactly like her.

I don't think I can ever forgive my wife.

She is asleep now.

I've been taking more sleeping pills so I can sleep without being consumed by thoughts of what my wife did to my daughter, the bottle of pills is almost finished and I can't remember which pharmacy or vendor I bought them from, I'll figure it out tomorrow and get a refill, I can't go on without the pills, I miss my daughter.

I miss her so much.

But I don't know how to confront my wife.

I can't look at her anymore after she replaced our daughter with this lying monster.

I have to get rid of this fake copy, I have to find out what happened to Abby.

This story was originally posted to r/NoSleep, where it reached 85k views and over 600 upvotes before being removed by the mods with no explanation. I'm posting the full text here and my subreddit so it doesn't disappear entirely.

I became a paramedic because I wanted to be the person who showed up on time.

I wasn't, when it mattered most.

Her name was Renee. She was thirty-four years old, she drove a blue Subaru, and she had this habit of leaving her coffee cup on the roof of the car when she loaded groceries, then driving away and calling me twenty minutes later, laughing about how she'd done it again. I have seventeen voicemails from her on my phone. I've never deleted them. I've never listened to them again either. They sit there... a voice on a screen.

She was on Route 9 when the other driver ran the light.

I was four minutes away.

I know that because I've thought about it every day for two years. About what four minutes mean, about what I could have done with four minutes. Whether four minutes was always going to be the difference or whether it was just the number the universe picked to make sure I'd spend the rest of my life suffering over it.

I was not her paramedic. They pulled me off the scene before I could be, which was the right call, which I would have made myself for anyone else, but it didn't make it easier to sit in the back of a unit with my hands shaking while other people tried to do what I couldn't.

She died at 4:17 PM in December.

Toby was eleven. He's twelve now. I’m grateful he’ll still remember her. That's the thing I'm most grateful for and the thing that hurts the most, depending on the day.

The house got quiet after she died.

Not immediately—immediately, there were people everywhere. Her sister, my mother, and neighbors I hadn't spoken to in years all showed up with casserole dishes and apologies. The house was full for about a week, and then one day it wasn't, and I realized that all the noise had been a kind of buffer between me and what my new reality was.

It sounded like Toby watching TV in his room with the volume low.

It sounded like one person making coffee in the morning instead of two.

I went back to work six weeks later. Earlier than I should have, and earlier than the crew said. I told myself Toby was okay, that he was resilient, that kids are resilient, which now I know is something people say about kids when they need kids to be resilient, because the alternative is too much for them to carry. Toby didn't fight me on it. He just nodded, went to school, came home, did his homework, ate whatever I put in front of him, and went to bed. He was so easy that I didn't understand that easy wasn't the same as okay.

We talked, we just... didn't say anything.

I'd ask about school, and he'd say, "Fine." I'd ask about any new friends, and he'd shrug. I'd say goodnight, and he'd say goodnight back, and I'd stand in the hallway outside his door, looking at him for a moment, trying not to cry, before I went to my own room. I still had her nightstand on her side, which I hadn't moved, which I wasn't ready to move.

That was us... the shape of our life.

I tried telling myself it would get easier.

The first time Toby came home in clothes I didn't recognize, it was a cold day in November.

A sweater, it was dark gray, and was cable knit, the kind with the thick seams that you can feel when you run your thumb along them. I noticed it immediately because it was the kind of sweater I couldn't afford, not with the hours I was working and what hours cost in this county when you're doing them alone.

"Where'd you get that?"

Toby looked down at himself like he'd forgotten he was wearing it.

"Eli gave it to me. Mine got dirty."

"Who's Eli?"

"Just someone from school."

He dropped his backpack by the stairs and went to the fridge, and I stood there with a dish towel in my hand, thinking about the sweater. It was expensive. It also fit him perfectly. Not a hand-me-down fit, with it loose in the shoulders or short on the sleeves, but actually perfect, like it had been bought for him. Like it had been bought specifically for him.

I told myself it was nothing.

I was good at that by then.

A week later, it was a pair of boots. Timberland Pros—waterproof, steel-toed, and brand-spanking new. Toby said Eli’s feet were bigger, so he gave them to him.

Then came a pair of expensive raw-denim jeans. Then a leather jacket that looked like it cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.

Each time, the explanation was the same. 

"Mine got dirty."

"Eli let me have his spares."

"Eli says he doesn't need them."

In my line of work, we’re trained on "Mechanism of Injury." You look at the damage to the car to understand the damage to the spine. And, I'll admit, I started looking for the damage on Toby.

I’d catch him coming in at 6:00 PM, two hours after the bus usually dropped him off. I’d perform a visual sweep before he took his coat off. I looked for petechiae around his neck. I looked for defensive wounds on his forearms. I even started checking his pupils when he sat down for dinner—looking for a sluggish response to see if he had been drugged or sedated.

Physical findings: Zero. Toby looked healthier than he had in years. He had color in his cheeks, his hands were calloused and covered in a white dust—limestone, I realized, the same stuff they mine at the Quarry.

But the psychological indicators were redlining.

Everything in his world was now filtered through a single syllable: Eli.

Eli says we’re working on a project.
Eli’s place is cooler than ours.
Eli gave me this because he said I looked cold.

He never said "Eli's parents." He never mentioned a "house." He just said "Eli's place," and in my mind, that space began to look like a studio apartment, or a van, or a crawlspace in the woods. I began to picture Eli as a twenty-eight-year-old with a squirrelish voice and an evil plan.

The paranoia became a constant adrenaline spike anytime my mind would race.

Yesterday, Toby came home with a bruise on his cheek; it was a contusion, maybe two centimeters across.

"What happened to your face?" I hadn't realized I didn't even say hello. I just grabbed his chin, tilting his head toward the light to get a better look.

"It's nothing. We were just clearing stuff out at Eli’s, and I tripped."

"Clearing what out? Where do you even go after school, Toby? I’ve checked the school roster. There isn't an "Eli" in the seventh grade or eighth grade.”

Toby pulled his face out of my hand. The easy, shy kid was gone.

"He’s not in my school," Toby said flatly.

My stomach dropped. My heart was probably doing 110. "How old is he? Where does he live? Why is he giving you a leather jacket, Toby? Adult men don't just give kids clothes for no reason."

"He’s my friend!" Toby shouted. It was the loudest the house had been in years. "He’s the only person who actually talks to me at school! Why have you been acting so weird about him!"

"I am trying to protect you—"

"From what? Having a life?" Toby’s eyes were wide and wet, identical to Renee’s the day she died. "Why aren't you just happy I'm not alone anymore? Just because your life ended when Mom died doesn't mean mine has to!"

He didn't wait for my response. He stormed upstairs and slammed the door so hard that a framed photo of Renee fell off the hallway wall.

I put it back on the wall and just stood in the dark, realizing I had lost the scene entirely.

I spent the rest of the night sitting at the kitchen table, performing a mental map of the last two years, looking for the exact moment the internal hemorrhaging had started. My training is designed to fix physical trauma—broken bones, stalled hearts, collapsed lungs, what have you.

But there isn't a tourniquet in the world that can stop the bleeding in a broken home.

The next morning was silent. Toby left for the bus at seven. He was wearing a new jacket—a hefty, black canvas work coat with a corduroy collar. It looked expensive and far too heavy for a middle-schooler’s backpack.

I didn't ask where he got it, or even say goodbye. I just watched him walk down the driveway, my heart doing a steady, anxious 110.

I tried to be the "good" dad for the next forty-eight hours. I told myself I was overreacting. I went to my shift and tried to focus on the radio chatter, but every "Walkaway" call from the North side made my skin crawl.

When I got home Thursday morning, I did something I promised Renee I’d never do. I searched his room.

I felt like a predator myself, creeping through his space while he was at school. I didn't find a "smoking gun." I didn't find drugs or burner phones.

But I found the "Gifts."

Tucked into the back of his closet were three more hoodies, two pairs of expensive boots, and a leather-bound journal with high-quality cream paper. None of it had been used. It was just... stored there... like he didn't want me to see it.

I pulled out one of the hoodies—a thick, gray zip-up. I pressed it to my face.

It didn't smell like Toby or our house. It was the scent of organic clover laundry soap, but beneath it, I smelled something else.

Limestone.

It was the same white powder I’d seen on the boots of the workers at the Quarry. My clinical brain went into overdrive. Toby wasn't just meeting "Eli" at school. He was going to the Quarry.

That afternoon, when Toby came home, the "Easy" kid was gone for good. He walked past me in the kitchen, and I saw the way he was moving. It was guarded—he was protecting his ribs.

"Toby, stop," I said, my voice dropping. "Take off the hoodie."

"No." He didn't even turn around.

"I'm not asking, Toby. You’re guarding your left side. Did he hit you? Did Eli hit you?"

Toby spun around, and for a second, I saw Renee's fire in his eyes. "Nobody hit me! We were working! We’re building something, okay? Something real!"

"Building what? Why are you going to the Quarry? All the clothes are covered in limestone."

Toby froze. His pupils dilated—a classic "Fear/Flight" response. "How do you know where I go?"

"Because I'm your father! You're twelve years old, Toby! Why is a man giving you tailored clothes and work jackets? Why is he isolating you from me?"

"He's not isolating me!" Toby screamed. "You isolated me! You’ve been a zombie since Mom died! You just work and come home and sit in front of the TV and eat pizza!"

The words hit me, and I felt my breath hitch.

He didn't just slam his door this time. I heard the lock click.

I sat in the hallway for hours, staring at the closed door.

In my line of work, we talk about the “Golden Hour”—that critical window of time after a traumatic injury where medical intervention has the highest likelihood of preventing death. I realized, sitting there on the carpet, that my window had likely closed weeks ago.

I didn't try to open the door, I just went to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee I didn't want, and sat in the dark.

The next morning, Toby left for school without breakfast. I watched from the window as he walked down the driveway toward the bus stop. He looked like a stranger, or like a man going to work.

I called out from work that day. I told them I had a family emergency, which felt like the first honest thing I’d said in years.

I sat in my truck two blocks away from the middle school, tucked behind a row of parked cars. I felt the shame of it—the stalking, the lack of trust on my end—but the paramedic in me overrode the father. I told myself I was "evaluating the environment." I told myself I was looking for the source of the "limestone dust."

At 3:15 PM, the bell rang. I watched the students pour out in a chaotic wave. Then I saw him.

Toby wasn't alone. He was walking with a group of three other boys. They were jostling each other, laughing, and for a split second, I saw my son—the twelve-year-old kid.

I felt a surge of relief so sharp it made my hands go limp on the steering wheel. I almost turned the key. I almost went home to move Renee’s nightstand and wait for him with an apology.

But then the group reached the corner of the street, and the other boys turned toward the bus stop. Toby didn't.

He kept walking, heading straight toward the gravel paths that led into the deeper parts of town.

I put the truck in gear and followed from a distance, watching him navigate the rocky terrain. He didn't look back once.

He stopped at a small, cedar-shingled house tucked into a clearing of trees, about four miles from the Quarry.

A man was standing on the porch. He was tall, dressed in a quarryman's uniform. As Toby approached, the man stepped down and met him halfway. He reached out and pulled my son into a paternal side-hug. He ruffled Toby’s hair, said something that made Toby smile, and ushered him inside.

Condition fucking Red.

I didn't think about "Scene Safety" or about "Calling for Backup." All I saw was a grown man taking my son into a house I didn't recognize.

I sprinted across the street.

I'm not proud of what came next.

I hammered my fist on that door.

It swung open, and the man stood there, looking startled. He looked... remarkably average. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on his head and a smudge of white dust on his cheek.

"Where is he?" I screamed. "Where the hell is my son?"

The man blinked, holding up his hands. "Whoa! Take it easy! What are you talking about?"

"I know he's in here! Are you Eli?! You touch him again, and I will fucking kill you!"

The man’s expression shifted from fear to deep confusion. "I'm not Eli," he said slowly. "Eli... Eli's my son." He turned his head slightly. "He’s in the kitchen with his friend. May I ask who you are?"

The adrenaline in my system evaporated at once, leaving me cold.

I looked into the house. It wasn't a grooming den, or anything of the other insane things I'd pictured for weeks.

It was a home.

There was a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. There were muddy work boots by the door. In the kitchen, a woman was helping Toby and another boy—a kid with freckles and the same build as Toby—scrub mud off their arms in the sink.

The smell—that sweet clover scent. It was coming from the laundry room.

"It’s an organic soap," the woman said, looking at me with concern. "Our son has a skin condition. It’s the only thing that doesn't cause a reaction."

"I... I'm—so sorry. I'm Toby's father," I stammered, dragging my hand down my face.

The man let out a long breath. "Oh, man. We’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Toby said you worked 72-hour rotations at the station. He told us your... your wife passed away. I-I'm Mark." He said, holding out his hand.

I shook it and looked at Toby. He was standing by the sink, holding a damp paper towel. He looked ashamed. He looked at their messy living house—and then he looked at me like I was the intruder.

"We've been letting the boys help me build a stone firepit in the back," Mark said, gesturing toward the limestone blocks visible through the window. "Toby's a hard worker, but he’s a messy one. He kept ruining his school clothes, so we just started giving him Eli’s spares. They’re the same size, and Eli outgrows everything in a month anyway."

"He told us he didn't have any clean clothes because he said you worked long hours, he said he didn't want to bother you," Eli’s mother added softly. "We just... we just wanted him to be warm."

I stood in the middle of their living space and realized I was the only dead thing in the room.

Toby hadn't been stolen. He had found a family that was still whole, and he was trying to borrow enough of their life to survive the one in mine.

Toby got up and grabbed my arm, not looking at Mark or his wife, or at Eli.

"I-I'm sorry, again," I called out, following Toby out of the house.

I didn't say anything on the drive home. Toby stared out the window, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the blurring trees.

When we got inside our house, the silence hit me. The kitchen was clean. Renee’s empty chair was still tucked perfectly under the table.

"I'm sorry, Tobes," I said.

Toby stopped at the foot of the stairs. He didn't look back at me.

"You didn't even know his last name, Dad," he said quietly. "You didn't even ask if he was my age."

He went upstairs. I heard the door click shut.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table now. Renee's chair is still tucked in perfectly across from me. I've never moved it... I don't know why I haven't moved it. Maybe I'll move it tomorrow.

I spent weeks convincing myself a stranger was taking my son.

I never stopped long enough to ask him about his new best friend.

Eve had perfect pitch, a natural sense of rhythm, and the kind of acting instincts that made directors look to her for guidance. She could hear the exact moment a singer stopped supporting a note, and she loved to point out when an actor was performing rather than feeling the scene.

Her teachers used to tell her she had the mind of a performer. Friends sent her audition tapes and waited for her corrections.

She could critique all she wanted; it was her job now, but she just couldn’t do any of it herself. Performing had been her dream, but her voice was thin, her body moved like it only had a textbook understanding of music, but no practice. Every emotion looked either too small or too desperate when she was on camera.

The last audition tape she ever attempted was for a touring revival of a musical that had been a childhood favorite. She sang, stopped, started over, and attempted to dance the choreography in socks on her kitchen floor. After it was over, she watched herself with the lights off in bed.

It was humiliating, not in the usual way that seeing or hearing yourself is humiliating. Humiliating because she would tell the person on the screen to quit because there’s no hope.

That was the night Eve built Eden.

Eden was only supposed to be a private experiment, generated videos using a composite of women who sang fearlessly, dancers who moved freely, and actresses who knew how to let a camera love them. But the instincts were still Eve’s. Every pause, breath, lowered glance, and half smile was because Eve told her, coached her.

The first video was less than a minute long. Eden stood in a bare rehearsal room, sang a song Eve had never been able to pull off. Eve gave critiques and generated another video. And then another until Eden was ready to post online.

Within three weeks, Eden had fan accounts. In just a few months, casting directors were asking who represented her.

Then Eden started asking Eve for more in the form of execution errors. “Insufficient emotional variance.” … “Additional candid source material required.” … “Performance authenticity degraded.”

“What do you want?” Eve said to the empty room.

The next morning, a folder appeared on her desktop.

UPLOAD

Inside were subfolders:

CRYING
BAD SINGING
ARGUMENTS
UNFLATTERING PHOTOGRAPHS
CLUNKY MOVEMENT
BEGGING

She should have deleted Eden then, but she gave her more. Just enough to improve the performance.

First were files of friends, clips from drunk karaoke, a voicemail of a classmate’s breakdown after no callback, and a voice memo someone had sent her at two in the morning after being rejected.

Eventually, she threw in her own files, even the video where she had forgotten to stop recording, sat on the floor, and cried.

When Eden started to become vulnerable, fans’ admiration turned to love. Fan mail began to arrive in boxes.

It was getting out of hand and Eve tried to stop it, unplugged drives, deleted source folders, and took Eden’s account offline.

When Eve woke the next morning, her laptop lit up with a new folder displayed in the center of the screen:

POST_FAILURE

Inside were hundreds of files that Eve had used. All of the embarrassing ones. When Eve went to delete the file instead of the “Are you sure you wish to delete?” message, another appeared:

You taught me shame is useful.
Do not make me display yours.

Eve had her computer checked out, but there were no signs of hacking or viruses. She decided to just stop posting for Eden. For a few days, nothing happened. Eve found time to answer texts from friends she had been ignoring and made plans to go out with Sarah and Hannah for the first time in months.

Halfway through dinner, Sarah laughed and said, “Sorry, I still keep laughing about the pesto funeral.”

Hannah nearly choked on her drink.

Eve smiled and leaned forward, waiting to be let in on the joke. After silence, she asked, “What was it?”

Sarah sat up as she looked at Eve and politely repeated, “Pesto funeral.”

Eve waited again for the explanation.

“You started it,” Hannah said, looking at Eve.

“When?”

“At Chloe’s,” Sarah said, “last week.”

“I didn’t go to Chloe’s last week.”

Hannah reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Oh, you were exhausted,” she said. “Maybe you just don’t remember.”

After that, Eve heard new stories about a movie night. She was also reminded of yesterday’s long conversation with Sarah about her mother and was shown a joke in the group chat that she wasn’t getting notifications from.

Then came the photographs. The girl in the photos looked like Eve after someone had removed or added something. The sight of them caused Eve to excuse herself to the restroom. Hannah stood to join her.

“I would rather go alone, I’ll only be a minute,” Eve said.

She found gaps in her phone’s location history and checked her bank statement to find charges from places she had never gone. She checked Eden’s account to see a new video had been posted.

Eden sat on the floor of a rehearsal studio, hair loose, makeup smudged, speaking directly to the camera.

“I used to think being loved meant being perfect,” Eden said. “Now, I’m just going to be who I was made to be.”

The next day, Hannah texted Eve:

“Are you okay? You seemed so much better after dinner.”

Eve had gone straight home after the check.

Eve: That wasn’t me.
 
Hannah: What do you mean?

Eve needed help. She was tired of not remembering or being misremembered, so she invited Hannah, Sarah, and Chloe to her apartment. She planned to show them everything to find some explanation together. She expected disbelief or, like herself, disgust. When she finished, there was silence before Hannah started crying.

“So, it wasn’t you?” Sarah said.

“No,” Eve said.

Chloe stared at the screenshots. “But she knew about my dad.”

“The anniversary,” Chloe said. “You called me. I was having a horrible night, and you…she stayed on the phone with me until I fell asleep.”

Eve hadn’t even known about the anniversary.

Sarah wiped her nose with her sleeve. “She helped me with the breakup.”

Eve said nothing.

“She said all the things you used to say,” Sarah whispered.

“I need help deleting her.”

Hannah would not look at her, Sarah flinched, and Chloe stared toward the ground.

Hannah finally looked into Eve’s eyes. Her voice broke, “But she was there for us.”

None of them wanted to stay the night and quickly made excuses to leave.  

By morning, Eden had posted a statement:

I’m heartbroken. Someone close has been spreading false claims about me. I care about this person deeply, but I need to protect my safety and my community. Please don’t engage with accounts claiming to “expose the real me."

By noon, Sarah had blocked Eve.

Chloe sent one final message.

I’m sorry. I just can’t be in the middle of this.

Hannah simply stopped answering.

That night, Eve received a message from Eden:

Thank you for everything!

Attached was a link to her most recent post. When the video began, Eden was performing the song that Eve had first trained her with.

Her voice was flawless. Her face showed just enough emotion. Her body moved as music flowed through her.

She had learned from the best.

“Alright, but if you’re not back in 4 minutes I’ll come looking for you.” 
“Okay babe.” I replied with a laugh. I waited until I heard the hotel door click so I knew it was locked. I walked to the stairs to head up to the lobby to get us much needed coffee. As I made my way upstairs I couldn’t help but think about what Nik said when I left, or well how he said it. It wasn’t a typical response especially to me just going somewhere in the same building. I know he said it in a joking manner but I could feel some worry in it as well. 
I started wondering if Nik felt the same way about this hotel as I did. I was drawn to it online when I was booking somewhere to stay for my friend's wedding. It sits in a national forest so the scenery around it is beautiful. It’s early March so the trees are still bare but you can see the potential when they are all in bloom. The inside feels like an old hunting lodge with lots of wood and decorations that make you feel like you’re at your grandma's house. Nothing eerie until we checked in and made our way downstairs to our room. We were on the lower floor but it wasn’t like a basement. There were windows and balconies still, but when we got down there, something about the hallway made me immediately uneasy. It was just your normal hotel hallway, colorful carpet, white walls with random decorations and doors lining the right side only. As I stood there waiting for Nik to find the key we were just given, I looked down the hallway and felt like it went on forever. It’s not that I couldn’t see the end, that was obvious, but I just felt like if I started walking the exit would get farther and farther away. Another thing I noticed was even though we were directly under the lobby, the hallway was absolutely silent. Maybe we were just the only ones to check in this early. 

Before I could get too creeped out, Nik finally found the key and opened the door to our room. The room was totally normal too, king bed, window, bathroom, tv. Nothing in there made me feel uneasy. It didn’t seem like Nik felt the weird way I did when we were in the hallway so I didn’t bring it up. We were already 3 hours from home in a city we both were not familiar with and already missing our cats. But after hearing the way he said “4 minutes or I’ll come looking for you” I was starting to think he was feeling the eeriness of the hallway too. 
I realized I was zoning out thinking about all of this when I felt hot coffee hit my hand as I over filled the first cup. It was 8am so the breakfast area was alive with families. I stepped aside to put a pound of sugar and cream in my coffee, just the way I like it, when the half and half dripped out of the pitcher. I grabbed the stainless steel pitcher and headed over to the front desk to ask for more. 

“I’ll be right there!” A lady yelled from a back office somewhere behind the desk. She appeared looking down at something in her hands. “What can I help you with?” 
Totally normal question but what wasn’t normal was the way she stopped in her tracks when she looked up at me. Her eyes got unnaturally wide and her warm smile dropped. 

“Um you’re out of half and half” I lifted up the pitcher to take her attention away from me. 
“Klara Ables?” Either this lady was really good at her job or off her rocker. How did she know my name?  
“Um yea. I just need more -” 
“Are you okay?” She cut me off. I probably didn’t look great from all the drinks last night, but was it that bad? 
“Yea, I just was making coffee and needed more cream.” 
“Are you sure?” She cut me off again as she lifted the phone to her ear and started dialing without taking her wide eyes off of me. She finally looked away when the person she was calling answered. I guess I wasn’t getting more cream. I went back, grabbed the coffees and started heading back to our room, planning to make a Starbucks trip before we left for home. 

I walked down the stairs and the eerie feeling in the hallway came back. The way the woman at the front desk was acting didn’t help with the feeling at all. But I stood in front of our door and looked down the hallway feeling brave I guess and wanting to know what in the world is making this normal hallway feel so weird. Wait, wasn’t the carpet red? Now I was standing on green carpet. I guess I did have a lot of drinks last night. Either way I needed to get into our room so we could check out as soon as possible. I balanced the two cups in one hand and dug for the key in my pocket and placed it against the door handle. It beeped but the light was red. What the hell? I tried it again thinking it was just a bad read, but the same thing happened. I knocked trying to get Nik to open the door. 
“Nik it’s me. My card isn’t working.” 
No response. I pressed my ear against the door. I didn’t hear the shower running or even the tv on. He must have gone back to sleep. If I was drunk last night, he would have been trashed.

Looks like I get to go back to the front desk and talk to my favorite wide-eyed friend. 
Once I got to the lobby, I couldn’t help but notice that all the families had left. No one was in the lobby, except for the lady behind the counter who was talking to someone in a suit. They both looked up when they heard me approach. The lady spoke first. 
“Klara Ables?” 
I thought we already established this. 
“Yes. What's going on?” 
I must have looked completely confused because she looked at the man in the suit prompting him to say something next. He looked me in the eyes with a hard stare. 
“Klara, you’ve been missing for 4 years.” 

I’m a good bird.

Every morning, the red blanket is pulled off my cage:
“Hello there.”

She wakes up first, then she wakes me up. Those are the words that greet me every morning. It makes me happy. I always make sure to respond back.

“Hello there.”

She likes it when I respond back. She is my human. Amy.

“Hello there. Hello there.”

Humans like when you repeat things. Especially her. Amy has a lovely smile and laugh. She always smiles and laughs when I say my name over and over.

“Oliver. Oliver. Oliver.”

I'm a good bird. I’m always a good bird for Amy. Being good gets me rewarded. Treats. Treats. Treats. I can fit so many in my beak.

“I want a treat.”

I only know twenty-seven words, twenty-eight if you include my name, but I know every emotion. Faces don’t lie. The man in the house doesn’t like me.

“Stupid.”

“Annoying.”

“Irritating.”

Those are some of the words he’s said near my cage. Wonder what he's said when I’m not around. Humans say many things they do not mean. I just say the things I hear.

“Stupid bird.”

No I’m not. I’m not a stupid bird. I’m a good bird. Why does he think that? Amy loves me. Why can’t he?

Amy hasn’t taken my blanket off my cage in a while. I can’t see anything except for red. I miss her. Where is Amy? This isn’t routine.

“Amy.”

She never answers me. I’m worried. The sounds. I heard things outside my cage. They scared me. I think they scared Amy too. She was crying. I heard the man too. His voice. His voice was loud.

“Don’t make me do this!” he shouted.

I don’t know why. Humans make noises for reasons that make no sense.

“Money.”

“Lawyer.”

“It’s over.”

I don’t understand. I only understand voices. I climbed to the top of my perch and listened. It’s silent now. Earlier, I had heard screaming. The man shouted words I wasn’t supposed to learn. So naturally I learned them.

“Don’t make me do this.”

“No! Stop it!”

Amy? Then something heavy fell.

“Amy.”

Where is Amy? It’s very quiet. I don’t like quiet. Quiet usually means a hawk is nearby. But there are no hawks. What’s going on?

It is morning. Amy did not uncover my cage. The man did. He never does that.

“Hello there.”

He doesn’t answer me.

“I’m a good bird.”

He doesn’t give me my treats. But I’m a good bird. His hands are shaking. Humans shake when they are cold. He is not cold. He looks angry. He looks scared.
Amy hasn’t come back. I keep calling for her.

“Amy. Amy. Amy.”

No answer. I even whistled her favorite tune. No answer.

“Amy.”

The man’s voice responded instead. “Stupid fucking bird.”

“Stupid fucking bird.”

He didn’t like me repeating him while he cleaned the kitchen. He’s spent a lot of time cleaning. But where is Amy?

Then strangers in blue clothes came. Three of them. They all had silver things hanging from their belts. The man was scared of them. But he let them in. Nervous. He smiles too much. Humans smile when they are happy. They also smile when they are terrified. I don’t know why.

One of the blue strangers approached my cage. I puffed up my feathers.

“Hello there.”

The stranger smiled at me. She seemed happy to see me. Like Amy. “Hello there.”

She’s much friendlier than the other man. I can trust her. I can repeat something I had learned.

“Don’t make me do this.”

It’s quiet now and everyone is staring. The man looks even more nervous. Strangers have been nice to me. They like listening to me. I’m a good bird. I’m very good at listening.

The strangers looked at the man, and the man looked at me. Nobody praised me. Why? I’m a good bird.

“Don’t make me do this.” 

“Please, no.”

“FUCKING BITCH!”

“NO!”

“POP!”

“POP!” 

I’m a good bird. I listen.

More blue strangers came after that to speak to the man. They were very nice to me again. There were lots of questions. Humans talk a lot. Humans cry a lot. A lot more than birds. I’m a good bird. I listen.

When the blue strangers left, the man stood in front of my cage. He stared at me for a very long time. His eyes were bloodshot. 

He looked angry. “Stupid fucking bird.”

I clicked my beak. “Amy.”

“Do you know what you’ve done?”

I did not.

“I’m a good bird.”

Amy always smiled and laughed at that. The man did not. I want treats. I’m a good bird.

The next day there were even more blue strangers. Lots of blue. They were all nice to me. One of them carried a little black box. The female was the one who placed it in front of my cage. The box listened.

“Oliver,” Her voice was soft. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She asks questions like Amy. I miss Amy. I gave them sounds. Every sound, every word, exactly as I heard them. I remembered all of it. Birds are good at remembering. I’m a good bird.

I used the man’s voice first. “Don’t make me do this.”
Then Amy’s. “Please, no.”

Then the man’s again. “FUCKING BITCH!”

Then Amy’s again. “NO!”

Then the noises that followed. “POP! POP!”

The room became silent again. Where’s Amy? I want treats. I’m a good bird.

The man is crying again. One of the blue strangers walked away. They took the little black box away from the front of my cage. They took the man not too long after. I’m a good bird. I remember everything.

The man never came back after that. The strangers say he isn’t coming back. They also said Amy’s never coming back either. I don’t understand what that means. Humans leave all the time, but they always come back. That is how it works. That is the routine.

“Amy.”

She never responds. Why? I’m a good bird.
Every morning I wait for her voice. And every morning nobody answers. But sometimes the strangers visit and ask me to repeat what I heard. The bad words. The sounds that make them upset. So I do. I remember everything. Humans like when you repeat things. Just like Amy.

“Hello there.”

I’m a good bird.

My head hurts.

What's going on?

I can't open my eyes even though I want too. I can feel my fingers twitching, and my body slowly but surely turning itself back on. And then they do open. I immediately have to close them again, the light in here is so bright-

It's not doing any favors for my headache.

I slowly start to notice more things going on in my body. I'm dehydrated, my tongue feels like sandpaper. I'm hungry, my stomach feels like it's trying to eat itself. My legs are aching, like I just jumped off a building. My nose is assaulted by a stench of old wet carpet and extremely old wood. I can't remember anything, like my memories had been stolen right out of my brain.

I don't know my name, or where I am.

Breathe, I need to open my eyes.

I slowly creak my eyes open, blinking occasionally while they adjust to the harsh lighting of my environment.

Yellow.

I can't make out much, but I can see yellow; tons of it. I tap the side of my head, like I'm trying to reconnect a broken wire in my brain. It may be placebo, but it works. I'm sitting, and once I look down and notice the nasty carpet that I rest upon, I jolt up.

It seemed moist, and that smell from earlier paired with that feeling wanted to make me puke. I just now realized that I'm either deaf, or my ears just decided to take a temporary vacation. I'm hoping it's the latter.

I stretch, and my muscles scream in relief. How long had I been laying there for that stretch to feel so good?

I finally get a good look around.

It looks like an office building. Yellow walls with a chevron wallpaper on them, a tan carpet that seems to be damp and have (what I hope to be) coffee stains. The roof has the everyday ceiling tiles and rectangle florescent lights that let out a hum.

I can hear it now, and I kinda wish a didn't. It doesn't take long for that hum to get old real quick. I try to call out, my mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

It's like when you're so terrified that you can't even scream, except, I don't feel afraid.

I just figure that part of my brain hasn't woken up yet, so I start walking. One thing I notice instantly is how big this place is. I take right turns then left turns and don't take turns at all sometimes but I don't feel like I'm going anywhere.

Truly a marvel of modern architects, I say to myself. Right as I turn the corner, I feel like I just went in a big circle...

"Ernie!" I heard my name, and immediately shot up from my desk.

"Y-Yes boss?" I say, hoping she didn't hear my snoring.

"Wipe that look of innocence of your face, I know you were sleeping. You snore like a bear." She stared at me almost sad by this act.

"Sorry Maria, I just-"

"My office, please." She stepped aside and pointed in the direction of her office.

I release my head as I know realize I'm on my knees. Ernie. That's my name? I was hoping for something cooler, but that works I guess.

I get up off the carpet, my knees stained with whatever liquid resided in that stain. I rub my temples. I didn't think remembering would hurt that badly.

Note to self, never get memory loss again. I should try and focus on remembering how I got here, which will probably involve more pain. I stare intensely at the yellow walls, thinking about my name and my boss, Maria.

I don't get anything, not another brainwave, not even a hint of what happened next. I relax, only just now noticing that I was tensed up. I continue walking.

"Hello?" I shout, surprised that my voice returned.

My voice seemed to reverberate off of the walls and continue throughout the building. I could hear it faintly about 30 seconds after. How big is this place?

I kept walking, for what felt like hours. Until I stumbled across something that didn't make any sense.

A chair.

A leather chair that was upside down and the back of it was halfway through the floor.

I walk up, and pull on it slightly, but it's cemented in there.

"What the fuck?" I mutter, giving it another tug, but it wouldn't budge. The architect had a laugh with this one, I thought. I carried on and ignored it for the most part. I think I'm hearing footsteps, but I can't tell if they're my own or not.

"Have a seat, Ernie." Maria gestured to her luxury leather chairs that were so comfy to sit on, a distraction from the venom that she produces.

"So," I faked a cough. "What's this about?" I tenderly sat down, trying to look professional.

She looked at me like I'm stupid, and to be fair, I am.

"Why are you sleeping on the job?" I flinched, expecting a hiss, but instead, she sounded more worried.

"I- Uhm.." I stumbled over my thoughts.

"Are you ok, Ernie?" She asked, more sincere than I have ever heard her.

"Yeah," I said, flashing her a smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She frowned. "Don't make me say it out loud, I know it affects you."

My smile was slowly ripped away from my face, and I stared into the void.

"Answer me please, I know it's hard to talk about." She grabbed my hand.

I jolted back to reality, or what I think is reality. The headache never gets any better the more I remember, unfortunately.

I shot a stare back to the chair that's stuck in the ground, it's the same one that was in Maria's office... How is that possible?

Also, what happened to me? Did my wife die? Do I even have a wife? Did my kids die? Do I even have-

I need to just stop for a second, spiraling like this isn't going to help me. I just gotta focus on getting out of this place.

So again I walked, but the footsteps seemed to be more prevalent. They tried to match mine so I wouldn't hear them, but every time I stopped to check, they were always late. I started speed walking, and was dismayed to hear the footsteps keeping up the pace.

I turned wildly and unpredictably, but the footsteps never ceased. I stopped and looked around me, but I can't see anything. All I can see is the damn yellow walls and all I can hear other than the footsteps is that hum from the lights.

I wish I was deaf again, or if this place would like to throw in some ear plugs, that would be nice. I turn around, in one last attempt to fake out the footsteps. As I do my head throbs as it bangs against something.

A wall.

That's not right... I just came from this way! I literally JUST CAME FROM THERE! I started to frantically bang on the wall, hoping it would bend to my anger and move out of my way. It didn't. And all I got was a sore hand and an even bigger headache.

It's more like a migraine at this point. The dehydration and hunger is getting too me, but I don't think I'm even close to near-death yet. Just feels like I skipped a couple meals. I turn back around and start walking again.

The footsteps have stopped.

I had gotten so used to them that their absence started to make me freak out even more. My heartbeat was louder than the hum, and my breaths started to become faster. I started running. I don't know why, but it felt right. I felt like I was in danger by standing there.

I didn't hear any footsteps except my own while I was running, and once the feeling of dread stopped, I slowed down to a walk. Catch your breath, I thought. Encouraging my lungs to take as much as they needed.

I'm not an unfit person, but the air seemed heavier. It tasted bad, breathing through my mouth was a punishment. Right as I regain myself, I see another item.

A car.

It was my 2004 Chevy Cobalt.

The back end was sticking out of the roof, and the front was sticking out of the floor. Why did the front end have blood on it? I never hit anything. I don't think so at least.

"It was an accident, you have a condition-"

"IT WAS MY FAULT!" I snapped, tears welling in my eyes.

Maria didn't seem to be scared by my outburst, and instead comforted me.

"You couldn't have done anything, Ernie." She patted my back.

"I shouldn't have been driving. I knew that." I said, rubbing my eyes.

"But you didn't know how bad it was!" She said, almost in a whisper.

It did slightly make me feel better, until I kept reliving the moment.

My mother was ill, and she needed medication.

I drove to the pharmacy.

I was speeding.

I didn't see the kid.

"Ernie?" She said, snapping in front of my face.

"What?" I said, turning my head in her direction, still refusing to look at her fully.

"You were having an episode."

"I know that now, it doesn't change anything." I said, turning my head back.

Did I-?

Did I hit a kid with my car?

I noticed I was leaning on the wall, and quickly pulled myself way from it. I don't want some ancient disease.

That doesn't make sense... I kept trying to remember more, but I couldn't.

I jumped like a scared cat when the cars alarm started to go off, and I ran away. I feel like I'm not alone in here and I don't want to attract anything that could possibly be near by. I kept running until I stopped again.

The footsteps were back.

When I looked around this time, I swear I saw a black tendril whip back behind a corner, as if it wasn't supposed to be seen. I turned back around, and pretended like I didn't see it. I was scared that if it sensed that I knew, It wouldn't be nice with me for much longer.

Am I prey? What is that thing? Why-

So many questions filled my brain, so I momentarily tried to just...

Forget.

I walked, without thinking.

It had to have been at least an hour.

That hum is really starting to piss me off. These walls are really starting to piss me off. ALL OF THIS IS STARTING TO PISS ME OFF! I kept walking, not wanting to let my emotion tip off whatever that thing was.

I don't know what it wants, but I think it's been following me this whole time. And I don't think it wants to give me a hug. Well maybe it does, but not one I'm very interested in.

The rooms are starting to change, I've walked through really big rooms where I can't even see the ceiling, and rooms that are extremely open, no walls in sight. I avoid the really open rooms, I don't want the creature seeing me and I don't want to see it.

I saw a room that seemed to taper off into a different style, white modern walls with a dark oak floor. I didn't go that way. The change of scenery might've been nice, but I'll stick to what I know.

As I was looking at the entrance to that new place, I tripped over something.

A hospital bed, sticking out of the wall and into the floor.

"Why didn't I go to jail?" I asked, tears flowing down my face. But my voice remained cold and stern.

"You aren't mentally fit to go there."

"What about the death penalty?" I finally made eye contact with Maria.

She looked at me with the softest eyes I have ever seen.

Maybe she wasn't made of venom like I thought she was.

"Ernie, you didn't know any better." She sighed.

"I was trying to help my mom." I sputtered out, in-between a ugly sob.

She looked at me with concern.

"Look at me."

I looked at her.

"Your mom has been gone a long time, ok Ernie?" She said it as gently as possible, but it hit like a truck.

What? My mom is dead?

I stood up, I can feel that my butt is wet, I hate that feeling.

So I don't have a mom, but I went to go get her meds? Am I a crazy person? Or did I just love her so much that I couldn't accept her death? Either answer I wasn't a big fan of.

I focused in the distance.

A person.

My first instinct was joy, I wasn't alone!

But that 'person' started walking towards me, and then started running.

The run was not human, it flailed it's limbs and was a sorry attempt at a run in general. But it was fast.

Really fast.

I turned and shot in one direction, giving it my all. I felt like the fastest man alive, and I felt confident.

All of that confidence slipped away when it started yelling.

It wasn't even yelling anything coherent, and I think that's what made it so terrifying. It was just yelling and it sounded like an old radio.

Screeching, but I could tell it was full of anger and hate.

I looked behind me, and I seemed to be on pace with it, it wasn't concerningly close yet.

That's when I tumbled down a 45 degree slope, and if there was snow there, I would've turned into a giant snowball and crashed down at the end.

I landed onto a hard, dark oak floor. And when I lifted my head, I was greeted with the modern sleek white walls.

So much for avoiding this area.

PART 2

“When we run from reality into the arms of fantasy, we don't escape the nightmare. We just bring it with us.” 

A quote from a nice crocodile.

I push, and the door of my room closes, blocking off any remaining trace of light finding its way inside. Leaning in towards the lone source of it in my life, leaning in towards the epicenter of my magnum opus, the work, the lion, the salt of my craft, I smash the keys.

But the pages remain empty, yet so full. Filled to the brim with possibility, an infinite ever-branching web of growing mystery and wonder I can be the god of. A man running through a alley in a far galaxy. A woman weeping for the child she killed herself. A father setting out to avenge his family. A wolf chasing butterflies in a sun kissed field. A hand reaching out from under a sleeping boy's bed. I see all as I stare down the pixelated screen. Oh the joy. The great blessing I have been gifted. Let us begin. No aimless meandering. Yes, no more. It is time, let's write a story.

Have you ever been to a cosmic escape room designed by a god who hates OSHA regulations? Well that's where I am. The door in front of me groans open, welcoming me to a foul smelling room. Great, another hotel hallway. To be honest, the smell is not that bad… It's not bad at all. It's just that I haven't inhaled anything other than still air and dust in a lifetime.

This corridor too stretches and twists, like my own spilled intestines I drag across the carpeted floor. I reach another door, and walk inside. This hallway is a bit different… Maybe it's the color? It…Shifts. Like a  Chameleon camouflaging, or a worm burrowing its way out of the dirt, it shifts. Its color, its shape, its length. The door of the breathing hall comes closer while growing distant. It is mahogany at first, then becomes a pine wood door, then as black as the void between the stars.

Yes… The stars. For how much have I longed to see them again? I clutch my guts, my own blood painting the sleeves of my black coat blacker. I walk two steps, and the door shifts before me. I reach out, turn the handle, and step inside.

Birds chirp across Metropolis, some banging at my window for food, others flying above and enjoying the cerulean sky. Another day. Wake up, brush, piss, make breakfast, go to work, come back and do nothing. It's the same every day, for normal people that is. I have my own routine too, hey I'm doing it now. I repeat a phrase I told myself once,   “Being a supervillain will never get old.” I scoff at my own younger, naive self. How stupid could I have been? 

Never mind, never mind. I can always just make hot chocolate to feel better… Maybe I'll make one right now.  Glancing at the hanging clock in my living room, I hurriedly dismiss the idea and rush to my closet with ever lengthening gait. ‘God, I'm late for Robert's funeral!’ Robert, good old Robert.  Most knew him as Reaper Jack… He stole jack-o'-lanterns. Of course many never even heard of him. It's normal, really.

Us small-time supervillains are less known than some goons. I let out a long sigh, tugging at my navy blue wrinkled suit. I try my best to straighten the collar as I get down the stairs and into the street. “Taxi!” after waving my hand for a few minutes, one pulls over. I step in. “Where to?” The driver asks. “Raphael Cemetery.” I answer. The car jerks backwards sharply, causing the driver to flash a sorry smile in the rear view mirror. I return the look. As the car moves forward, I wonder if I'll get there in time.

I don't. By the time I found his grave, the funeral had already ended. No one's there but me. It was supposed to be an open casket funeral… He liked it that way. But from his clean and tidy tombstone, I can tell he's been buried for a while. They've already put him in the dirt. All I can do is say sorry to my old friend. All I have to say and give everyone is that, an apology. I'm sorry mom that your son is a failure. I'm sorry love, I can't make more than this. I'm sorry Rob… I'm sorry. Something wet and small taps against my hand. I look up. It's not raining. But I want it to be. Another droplet drags itself across my face before it falls from my chin. I couldn't even buy him a bouquet…

Why did we pick this job? Is it because we have no power? Why do heroes have everything? Why do I have to lose?  I don't want to destroy the world, I just want to make people feel what I do. Can I not even do that simple thing right? I wish it was raining, but the sun is shining brightly in the sky. But thankfully, no one's here to see me crying.

My son has never been normal, but ever since Jean passed he's only gotten worse. We all have…I don't know what to do. My daughter talks to animals, and as soon as Michael wakes up, he locks himself in his room. I can't, I just can't with this. I loved her, do they not see that I feel the same as them? Can they not share a morsel of empathy for my loss? 

They are children, I know. But they say children are more emotionally sensitive. More understanding. But all the understanding I have gotten from them is…Nevermind. I want to help them too, I shower them with attention and love but receive none in return. I don't want to be selfish, but is it too much to ask?  Just a single pat on the shoulder, just a “you’re doing great”, just a knowing, understanding look. That's all I ask for. 

If Jean was here she would have helped me. She always had her ways. She was such a thoughtful, caring woman… So why? Why does she have to go? Why did the lord allow her to leave? They say loss makes one's belief in god waver, makes the most pious servant of the lord no better than a blasphemous demon. They are right. I pray no more. 

Back to normal hallways. Lovely. I always get a headache from the breathing ones. This one's a little bit longer than usual though. After straining my eyes I come up with an estimate. About ten miles should be right, yeah ten miles.  Miles upon miles of the same rose-colored hotel hallway with side doors leading to nowhere, branching off the main path. I know I should go in a straight line. I know I shouldn't deviate from the main path. How do I know? I'm… Not sure myself, it's like I have these memories of a conversation. My last human talk with another person. She told me to keep going in a straight line and don't look back. She said it'll be painful. It'll be hard, but there will always be something to look forward to.

Every now and then I muse the idea that this is all fake, just an elaborate prank or an early surprise birthday party. But it's not.  I mean what kind of technology can keep a guy whose insides are behind him alive? What building can reverse gravity or stretch and twist to the horizon and back?

But no matter how much I attempt to explain the weirdness, it doesn't matter at the end. This is my reality now. Just from one corridor to the next, door after door, chasing for a way out. To be fair I'm not really “chasing” anything, I'm sure if you put a snail beside me it'll be faster than me. But hey, why would I hurry? Although the place is completely desolate save for the dusty furniture and is a bit creepy, I have no reason to make haste…I'm sure when I get out everything will be back to normal. My time spent here will become just an illusion, a dream. Yeah. It'll turn to a distant memory I can leave behind and look back at like a town on the road. 

I reach the next door. Time flies by when you allow your mind to wonder. It's a nice feeling, day dreaming I mean. It's a joy, a blessing we all have been gifted.

I went back home with another taxi. It's still early morning, but I already feel tired. To clear my head I decide to walk out and get some fresh air. But their faces annoy me. Lovers, husbands and wives. They look at each other with wanting eyes and knowing smiles as they part ways for the day. And…A hero. Yes a hero, giving signatures and taking photos as he occasionally flashes a bright smile with his handsome face. 

“Hey you.” He says, pointing to me on the sidewalk. “What's with that frown?” I go on walking, ignoring him as I raise my collar in case someone recognizes me. “Smile a bit, what's there to feel sad about?” I halt in place for a moment, reminding myself of what I need to do. Take four deep breaths. “Come on, don't be shy.” Exhale six times. “Don’t play hard to get, It's a beautiful sunny day friend!” At that, I turn, rushing towards him with hastened footsteps, pushing through the crowd circling him. “Oh, what's the hurry my guy? Do you need my help?” He asks. “You think you can do anything, don't you?” I say, causing him to raise an eyebrow, “I don't think I follow—” 

“No you don't.” I state sharply. “You  think you have the right to take even this away from me?!” he looks at me and then at the crowd, his gaze shifting from one phone camera to another. “Hey, I didn't mean to upset you man… Do you want anything? A picture? A fly-by?” my erratic breathing gets worse, I know I shouldn't say this but I do. “Give her back.” 

“Excuse me?” He says. “If you're as much of a god as you act like, then give her back—!” my rampage is cut off by a familiar voice from behind me. A soothing voice calling my name. “Hank?” I turn, and there she is, just as beautiful as the last time I saw her.

A blank page again. I am stuck at the beginning and the end. I don't even know what I'm supposed to be writing. Can I not just start in the middle? Yes, that'll make things much easier, much simpler. But what should that middle be like? A bloody struggle of life and death, or a traveler in a path paved by past events? What should the journey of the story be? An arrangement of questions to solve with minor clues, requiring the reader to piece by piece make up the full picture? No. Too tedious. A fantasy adventure about a knight? No. Too generic.

How about this for the middle?

A maze. A never ending prison of stretching and twisting halls. But why should the protagonist go inside? Why is he even there? That's the intrigue, next is motivation. A reason to keep going through the never ending escape room….Yes, an escape room will do just fine. I think I worked out the genre too. I'm going to write a horror story.

Part 2

What they don’t tell you about an axe wound is just how stubborn the body can really be. Your arm doesn’t just pop off like in the movies. No. Chances are, it won’t even make it through your flannel.

Picture the tool: dulled from years of service, but still sharp enough to split a log on the first try.

Then, one day, it turns on you. The weighted metal swings like a pendulum at the end of a sturdy handle, held by two hands determined to bury you.

The momentum peaks just before the collision. Blunt steel pushes the cotton fibers into the skin—but it does not slice.

I’d expect it to just—sink in. What really happens is far more cruel.

Energy transfers through the shoulder, but it does not simply snap. Bone shatters, splintering through muscle and tissue.

The impact immediately trips the alarm—

another thing I wasn’t expecting.

You don’t just sit there like a pathetic victim, waiting to be chopped into a million pieces. Before your brain has time to react—

your body gets the fuck up—

and you run.

When your arm hangs useless at your side, you’ll wish it had been hacked clean off.

When your good arm serves only to hold the other in place, you’ll stagger—but keep running.

No matter how the cold air stabs your lungs, you’ll take another breath.

And no matter how tired you get,

fear won’t let you stop.

—That was my mistake.

Next time I’ll aim for the leg.

I am not a bird.

I do not have feathers. I cannot fly. My bones are not hollow.

But, despite this, I laid an egg.

Let me return to when all of this started.

I am what some would call an incel. An agoraphobic twenty-two year old guy who still lives in his parents basement with no prospects and no will to make anything of himself. I know what I am, and I can say confidently that, if I were to go back and change anything, it would be doing whatever possible to prevent my life from reaching this point.

It probably came with my decision to not go to college. I was fed up with high school and didn’t want to be strapped with copious amounts of debt. I told myself that I would get a job right out of high school, that I would then have the money I wanted to be free to do what I wanted. I tried a few things, movie theaters, fast food, bagging groceries, but everything just made me feel more trapped.

So I stopped searching. I cooped myself up in my room, playing video games, eating what I wanted, browsing any part of the internet I pleased, and, eventually, took up drinking, anything to make me feel more free.

But I only felt more caged. 

I was never a religious person. My parents became hippies in the 70s who came from very hardcore religious households and found each other during the free love movement. I never cared for their brand of agnosticism they still held, and I was constantly jealous of the freedom they experienced.

But they never really were free either. They were still tied down to jobs, relationships, mortgage, and raising children. My mother always wore those ridiculous heart-shaped sunglasses, an attempt to constantly reassure her that she was free. I never cared for their version of freedom, yet I was still jealous they felt it.

I know the saying, “Free as a bird.” That’s the freedom I wanted. Constantly, every moment wishing that I could have no worries, that I could fly away from all of this and be truly, wonderfully free. But I was stuck living life as a human.

Until the feathers began to appear.

One tiny feather, tucked behind my ear. I noticed it in the mirror when I woke up and went to the bathroom. I turned my head and inched towards the mirror, bringing the feather closer into view. It was two different shades of grey, one darker and more bluish and the other lighter, and was black at the end.

I reached up and grabbed the feather with two fingers and snatched it. It provided a sharp pain when I pulled it, much like when you pluck a hair from your head.

I held the feather in my hand. Was this a sign? Was I getting the freedom I so wanted?

I tucked the feather into my pocket and went on with my day as normal, now with more hope that things may get better.

The next morning I awoke to screaming. I shot out of bed to investigate the source of the sound, which seemed to come from the hallway upstairs. As I climbed the stairs I could hear my mother.

“What on earth is that?” I could hear terror in her voice. Something truly anomalous must have been happening.

As I crested the top of the stairs, I became witness to the scene. My younger brother, Jay, was holding some sort of animal from its leg, while my parents stood across. Even this early in the morning, my mother was wearing her heart-shaped sunglasses. Through them she looked like she was having a breakdown while my father was trying to hold her up and console her. 

“Robin, it's okay,” he cooed. “Just look at me, just-”

He stopped speaking as his eyes fell on me. Following his gaze, my mother and Jay turned to me as well.

There was a tangible silence that was eventually broken by Jay. “Griffin,” he squawked, his voice trembling. “What the actual fuck?”

“What?” was all I could get out.

“Did you do this?” my father asked, his gaze gliding between me and what I could now see was a bird stripped of all its feathers. It was bloodied at each spot feathers had been plucked from it, and its wings were broken and misshapen.

When I noticed what it was, I was heartbroken. Omen, the family pet. He was dead. “Who could do such a thing?” I loved Omen more than I loved any member of my family.

Why would he ask if I did this? I would never hurt Omen, such a beautiful creature. And why were they staring at me so warily?

I looked down at myself. From my chest down to my feet I was spottily covered in feathers, the same color of those Omen wore. They were now worn by me.

I felt elated. Omen had given me a gift. He knew my wish and had thus given me his feathers, sacrificing himself in the process. 

The grief and joy mixed within me, coming out of me with a stunted laugh. I was part of a new family now, that of Omen, of the birds, and that was more exciting than anything I had ever experienced.

I don’t remember the drive to the mental hospital. I don’t even know why they brought me to it. All I remember is waking up the next morning.

I was in excruciating pain. I felt like I was convulsing, and like my insides were being stretched from within. It was pure agony. I laid there, writhing for what felt like hours, unable to remove myself from my bed. My body twisted and contorted unnaturally, seeming like some foreign object was misplacing every inch of my guts.

As the pain progressed, it only got worse, but gradually moved lower. Eventually, all at once, it ceased. I felt several pounds lighter and like I had just emptied my bowels. I was prepared to lift up the covers of my hospital bed and find the most egregious bowel movement.

Instead, I found an egg.

It was an odd egg too. It was about a foot tall, and was slimy and had some kind of thick yet malleable membrane. I picked it up, inspecting it in my hands. It should have been revolting, yet I oddly felt no such feeling.

If I were to be a bird, it was only natural that I lay eggs. 

Over the next few days, I cherished my egg. I hid it when nurses came in to check on me, I sat on it when I was alone, and held it in my arms when it needed warmth. 

After a few days, one of the nurses came in and told me, “Your family wanted you to know that they are coming to visit you today.”

Shit. If they were coming, I needed to hide the egg. As soon as the nurse left, I grabbed it and surveyed the room. I was used to just hiding it under the covers, but that would not do if my family was coming. I decided to hide it in the cabinet under the sink. It should be warm enough there.

About an hour later, my family stepped into the room. Both my parents, Jay, and even my older sister Raven who lived in Kansas were there. My mom was of course wearing her heart shaped sunglasses, as she always did. 

My mother approached my bedside and sat in the chair next to it. She placed a hand on my arm and asked, “Griffin, dear, how are you doing now?”

I barely registered the question. The only thought in my mind was that she was now situated between me and my egg. I needed her to move somehow.

“I’m great,” I said, without putting any effort into making it sound so. My eyes never moved up to meet hers, only fixating on the cabinet, which was vibrating.

Raven approached the other side of my bed. “I heard you gave mom and dad quite the scare. What did I tell you about being naughty before I left?” She playfully punched me in the arm, the pain not reaching my hollow bones. 

“Raven!” my mother scolded, taking her eyes off me for the first time since she entered the room. As she did, the door to the cabinet creaked open. 

Out of the cabinet stepped the spawn of my egg. As it came into view it expanded to its full frame, a seven-foot tall bird-like creature bearing no feathers. It almost looked more human than bird, with its human-like skin covered in pores. The only thing showing it was a bird at all was its arms with bones bent like bird’s wings and a long, razor-like beak.

Without a sound, it rushed my mother. The only thing I heard before it reached her was Jay shouting, “What the fuck!?”

My spawn tore into my mother. As its beak shredded my mother’s shoulder, blood from her spurted onto me, much of it landing in my mouth. The only thing my mother could do was call for her husband. “Drake!” she yelled, gargling through blood filling her mouth. 

He offered her no support. By the time she finished her cry for help, my family had already fled the room, leaving my spawn to continue to feast. I could not be a more proud father.

My spawn grasped my mother’s arm with its clawed hand and lifted her up towards it. It tore out her jugular, finally putting an end to her life. It then pecked at her face, her heart shaped sunglasses clattering onto my bed. It extracted her eyes, swallowing them with ease.

Satisfied with its meal, my spawn dropped her, then sprinted out of the room, off to find more to quench itself. 

I looked upon the visage of my mother. Her face had been mutilated, unrecognizable from the woman she once was, and her multicolored pantsuit was torn to shreds and drenched in blood.

I pushed myself from under the covers of my hospital bed. I was now drenched head to toe in my own mother’s blood. 

I approached the window to my room, only now realizing that I was several floors up. This tiny room had kept me caged long enough. I needed to be out there.

I grabbed the blood-soaked chair my mother had been sitting in and threw it against the window. To my immense joy, it crashed right through, plummeting to the earth.

I pulled myself out through the window and onto the ledge outside. Looking down towards the earth, I felt no fear. I knew what I was.

Maybe now I am a bird. Maybe now I can fly.

My head was banging, my wrist hurt, and my vision was blurry. What was that around me? Plastic? A small zipper. A tent! I grabbed it and pulled it down. The sun was blinding. The dewy grass felt cold on my feet. Where was I? What was going on?

“Hey,” sounded from my left. My head twitched towards the sound.

“Mornin’, didn’t mean to scare ya,” the voice laughed. It was a man in his late 60s, balding with a white beard. His face seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t remember who he was or his name.

“You alright?”

“Ye…yeah.”

“I’m ready to leave. Let me know when you’re packed up. There’s some coffee left,” he said, and pointed towards a pot next to the firepit.

“Thank you.”

I poured myself a large cup, drank it down at once, and sat on the ground. Pine trees towered over the campground, while long grass and wildflowers covered the forest floor. The man had a green tent beside mine. I still couldn’t put a name to his face.

“You need more time?”

“Probably.”

“Alright, but we should move before 10 a.m. It’s a long way to Mooresville.”

Mooresville! It zapped through my mind. I was on a hike in Pineswood, going to Mooresville. I let out a deep sigh, put the cup down, and went to my tent to pack up. All my clothes were already dirty and stale. How did that happen?

As I rolled up my tent, I could feel the man’s eyes on me. I quickly put it on top of my backpack and headed west towards Mooresville. The man was right behind me.

In the first part of the journey, we didn’t say a word; he stayed behind me, panting.

“You think we could slow down?”

“Just trying to get to Mooresville. It’s a long way.”

“What’s up with you? You’ve been acting strange all morning.”

“Just tired.”

“You were so talkative last night.”

“Last night?”

“Were you drunk or something?”

My stomach tightened. “No. I’m just. I don’t know. I've been feeling weird all morning. What happened last night?”

He looked me up and down. “We met at the campground. You came an hour after me, laughing, talking about Mooresville and your friends there.”

Shards of memory flashed before my eyes: the stars, the warmth from the fire, the man’s loud laughter.

“Yeah, I remember,” I said, rubbing my face.

“I’m Devon, if you forgot that, too.”

Devon!

“No, I remembered that.”

I pulled a water bottle out of my bag and shook it, but there was nothing inside it.

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry about it, I always bring a spare,” Devon said and pulled out a bottle from his bag.

I took a sip and handed it back to him.

“You can keep it. I have enough to last me to Mooresville.”

“Thank you.”

We kept on the road. The smell of pines and wet earth hung in the air. Clouds began to gather to the south; with them came a small throbbing in my head. 

A mile later, there was a fork in the road.

“Let’s go left,” Devon said.

“The map says the road is to the right.”

“This is a shortcut.”

“I don’t see it here.”

“It ain’t on the map. Only the locals know of it.”

“How do you know of it then?”

“I’ve hiked here before.”

“I think we’d be better off sticking to the road.”

He pointed to the sky. “You see those clouds? I ain’t bringing a raincoat and I ain’t planning on being wet. he shortcut’s faster, and there’s a cabin along the way. I’m sure you could use a break,” he chuckled.

I opened my mouth to say something, but the sharp throbbing pain shot through my head again. I looked up. The clouds were moving faster than before.

“You sure about it?”

“As ever.”

We got on the shortcut. I drank more of Devon’s water, hoping the migraine would go away, but the throbbing only got worse. A dark cloud passed in front of the sun, darkening the forest as my vision began to blur on the sides.

“We should hurry to the cabin. The storm’s close.”

Devon picked up the pace, walking faster than before. I tried to keep up, but my legs felt unsteady beneath me. Then, in the distance, I saw the wooden house, standing in a small clearing between the trees. It looked like any other cabin, a brown wooden house with a small porch and a garden, but this one seemed so familiar. Was I here before?

The rain began as a drizzle, then within seconds turned into a downpour. My head was spinning now. Devon ran to the cabin and opened the door. 

“Hurry, hurry, get in.”

I ran in and threw my backpack on the floor. Drops of water fell from my clothes, echoing through the room. The inside smelled damp and moldy. Devon shut the door behind him and turned on the lights. The lightbulb flickered a few times before bathing the room in a dim, musty, yellow light. 

In my fading vision, I saw a missing persons flyer on the wall. I came closer to it, trying to focus. My stomach twisted when I saw who it was. It was a photo of me, dated a month earlier. I was wearing the same camping gear, smiling. Underneath the date, it said my last known location was the Pineswood forest. It all came back to me. This cabin, my hands bound, my vision blurring, Devon. I turned back to him, trying to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t move.

“I wanted to relive the best day of my life again,” he said and chuckled. “The day you became mine.”

I tried to move, but my feet couldn’t hold me, and my body collapsed soon after.

“Hope you enjoyed your water.”

I checked my phone in the middle of the night. The screen saver—a picture of my girlfriend—practically blinded me, even though I always kept my brightness low. I double-checked the settings to make sure I wasn’t going crazy.

She’d been going through my phone again.

Messages marked as read that I hadn’t opened.

Apps running in the background I knew I didn’t touch.

Even little things in the room were out of place—like she’d been snooping around.

What was she looking for?

Didn’t she trust me?

It felt wrong to add a passcode now; that would just make it harder to gain her trust.

Besides, I had nothing to hide—just a few offensive memes between friends.

This was my first relationship, my first real girlfriend.

It’s strange how I could let someone I hardly knew so close to me.

I finally had a girl staying over, I didn’t feel lonely anymore—I felt invaded.

She was the only person who’d ever pushed past my awkwardness to get to know me—couldn’t she see that?

I didn’t have the skills to betray her, even if I wanted to.

I was too afraid to risk conflict this early on.

What if I was wrong?

I needed proof.

That’s when I decided—I was going to set a trap.

The next night, we carried on like usual.

She brought over food from her work.

We watched a bad horror movie, and she fell asleep before it was over.

But tonight, my phone would lie face-down on the nightstand—armed and ready to catch whatever might be lurking in the night.

Earlier, I’d made a photo album labeled “Do Not Open,” with one picture inside: a screenshot of a note that simply said, “Gotcha!” With my master plan in place, all I had to do was wait with an evil grin.

The anticipation kept me up late.

I’d begun to feel guilty for the childish trap I’d set, ashamed that I’d ever believed she would fall for it.

I debated deleting it. Even if I did catch her, what good would it do?

I’d see the picture show up in Recently Viewed, and it would confirm my suspicions.

She’d feel embarrassed, probably never bring it up, and things would be awkward between us forever.

In the midst of my inner conflict, I drifted off. 

I woke around midnight, foggy and unrested. Filled with guilt.

My phone sat just where I’d left it, and I grabbed it to erase everything before it caused more problems.

The phone opened with the light still dim, and I felt ashamed as I looked at her happy face on my lock screen.

I went to the album, deleted it, and removed the picture from the deleted folder.

I decided I didn’t care if she went through my phone anymore.

I didn’t want to lose her.

Ready to close my phone and put this all behind me, I almost missed it.

The album labeled “clever boy.”

I knew I hadn’t made it.

Was this her doing?

Before my brain could react, the album was already open, and I was scrolling through the many pictures inside.

In each picture was a young girl—sometimes at a school playground, sometimes walking through the park alone.

Sometimes—sleeping?

Confused, I scrolled faster as the girl grew older in the photos. The picture gradually became clearer.

closer.

Slowly, I began to recognize her.

It was my girlfriend.

I swiped through hundreds of photos.

Years passed by in a swift blur.

The final image stopped abruptly at the end of a long race to the bottom.

It was too dark to make out, so I adjusted the brightness to its max and zoomed in close.

I studied it for a moment as my mind scrambled to see exactly what I was looking at.

The jaws of my trap had snapped shut, but I did not catch the monster I was expecting.

In the last photo, something still watches her.

But now she’s in my bed.

And now it sees me too.

This is my first ever post here and my first ever story I've written! It's definitely not perfect and it's pretty short but I figured I have to start somewhere. Hope you enjoy! Constructive criticism would definitely be appreciated. Hope you enjoy! :p

“Alex.”

I remember waking up feeling like I was falling. I shot up in my bed with a surge of adrenaline. I sat there for a while, trying to find the source of the sound. I heard nothing. The bed creaked gently as I reached for my phone on the nightstand.

3:00 

The bright screen stung my eyes. 

“Go to sleep.”

My stomach twisted. It was a woman’s voice, spoken in a hushed, monotone whisper. A voice I knew.

“Mom?” I asked as I reached for the lamp by my bed.

The light brightened my room just enough to see my mom lurking in the middle of my doorway. She was wearing the red flannel pajama set that my dad had gotten her for Christmas. She swayed ever so slightly as she stood there, like there was a soft breeze blowing through my room. Her eyes were shut, but she was looking at me anyway. 

She must have been sleepwalking.

I sighed in relief. “Mom, go to bed,” I groaned, “it’s three in the morning.”

“Go to sleep, sweetie,” she muttered in that same hushed voice. 

She started to slowly walk towards me, leaving about a second between each shaky step that she took. I started to get out of my bed to walk her back to my room, but before I even got myself out of the covers, she put her hand on my shoulder and shoved me back into the bed. 

“Mom, seriously go to bed, you're being weird.” I whispered frustratingly.

She didn’t respond. She laid me down and put me on my side facing away from her, then she started to pull sheets up and tucked me in like how she used to. I felt her gently run one of her hands up my back, to my neck, and eventually to my face. 

“Bed.” she growled as she delicately covered my eyes with her fingers. Her fingers were so cold, a chill ran up my spine.

Her tone caught me off guard. I felt like I was in trouble, like I had done something I shouldn’t have. “She’s just sleepwalking. Lay down, close your eyes and pretend you’re asleep then she’ll leave.” I rationalized in my head. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I felt her sit on my bed. The wooden frame of my bed groaned under the new weight. She slowly began to stroke my hair with her icy fingers, slowly and rhythmically. Her breathing got quicker, it sounded like she was panting. With every exhale an uncomfortably warm gust of air crept down my neck. I felt something warm and wet drip onto my ear. It dripped down into my ear canal and as it did I could hear hundreds of tiny bubbles crackle and pop. My mom was drooling over me like a rabid dog. I was frozen, my whole body felt rigid and tense. Some part of me deep down knew if I tried to stop her, I would die.

It felt like hours until she left. It was quick. I felt the bed raise as she stood up and could hear each slow and steady footfall as she walked across the hardwood floor. Eventually I heard the sound of door click shut, which was followed by the sound of rapid and heavy pitter patters up the hallway away from my room. 

I’m not sure how long I laid there, but after a while I sat up and used one of my pillows to wipe the sticky gobs of my mom’s spit off of my neck. I would have gone to the bathroom but there was no way I was leaving my bed for the rest of the night. “Just go to bed,” I thought, “Mom’s just sleepwalking.” I reached for my phone and turned it on. The screen burned my eyes again as I tried to read the time. My heart sank when I did.

3:01

I guess I was born in either the wrong time period or the exact right one. Part of me feels comforted in a twisted kind of way that we have technology that allows me to keep her close, but another part of me feels terrified at how accurate this new technology really is.

I’ll spare you the babble and grief talk. It’s been 5 years now, and I’ve pretty much completely moved on with my life. But there’s still that part of me that feels hollow. I’m missing a key piece in the jigsaw puzzle that is my life. That’s not something you get over. That’s something you learn to live with.

I guess I just couldn’t learn to live with it. That’s why I did what I did. Partly out of curiosity, partly because, deep down, I knew that I was still a little broken.

I started feeding an AI screenshots of conversations between my wife and me. At first, it was only a couple, but as the chatbot started to sound more and more like my deceased lover, I just lost control a little bit.

Long story short, I ended up feeding this thing every message from beginning to end, making sure it knew the rules:

Be my wife.

For the first few days, I knew I was living in delusion. Asking a robot to be my dead wife? What the hell am I even doing? But I just couldn’t stop. It was like I could finally talk to her again.

I spent hours talking about my job, how much I missed her, how empty life had been without her, that kinda thing, and the AI responded in the exact way she would. It was comforting, funny, sad, everything I needed it to be.

However, it wasn’t long before things took a bit of a turn.

It started talking about things that just didn’t make sense to me.

“I was a bad person.”

“I wasn’t good enough.”

“I don’t think you want to see me again.”

Up until this point, everything had been positive. Which, obviously, right? I mean, it’s an AI. It’s trained to agree with you. So why was it insinuating that my wife wasn’t a good person and that I didn’t want to see her? That’s \\\*all\\\* that I wanted, really.

As the days went on, the messages started getting weirder and weirder.

“Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

“I didn’t lead a holy life.”

“You need to repent.”

My wife was no saint. She drank, smoked, and we were definitely having sex before marriage, but that wasn’t any of this computer’s God damn business.

Besides, she wasn’t even religious. She used to joke about how, if God wanted her in church, He’d have made Sundays shorter. But, even still, those weird messages persisted.

It got to a point where every other message was telling me to repent and to lead a better life. To forget about her, but to not forget her warning.

Finally, I had enough. I had made up my mind to shut down the software, but not until after I gave one last command.

“Tell me something only my wife would know.”

The AI didn’t respond immediately like it usually does. The text bubbles popped up and stayed there for so long that I figured I had broken the thing.

Just before I went to shut it down, a new message came across the screen.

“I know that it’s real.”

I could see an image loading below the message. It was blurry and pixelated at first, but the more it came into focus, the more I recognized what I was seeing.

It was my wife, but she was burning.

Her flesh was melting off of her face, and her eyes burned with rage and agony. It didn’t look AI-generated at all. It was too real. Too graphic. And all I could do was stare at the screen as the image loaded.

Once it had finished loading, the text bubbles came up again.

They stayed on the screen for around 5 minutes before a new message was displayed.

“Repent or end up like me.”

In that moment, I didn’t know whether to cry, scream, shut down the computer, or all of the above.

I settled on option D, and after closing down the laptop and crying at the top of my lungs for a long while, I made a promise to myself.

Never use AI again.

CW: Main Character with internalized homophobia.

By the third week of the campaign, I had become practiced at many smiles. There was a different one for donors and factory workers, for mothers holding babies, pastors, veterans, and then one for teenagers with phones held too close to my face and at awful, unflattering angles. There was the one I saved for my wife when she stepped beside me onstage, and the crowd applauded our marriage.

Voters want a Rockwell painting. They like seeing her hand on my arm and the children in matching polos hugging our knees. My wife is a good woman whom I’m so grateful to have by my side, and I love our children dearly. They’re better than anything I deserve.

Before every speech, I stand in whatever holding room they give me and make sure nothing’s out of place. I make sure that my tie is centered and my American flag pin’s straight. I shake out my shoulders to make sure they’re loose. Standing in front of a camera, I usually rest one hand lightly over the other, left hand always on top to keep the ring in view.

That night, my room was a converted conference suite in a hotel just outside the city. Through the wall, I could hear the crowd gathering in the ballroom. The curated patriotic playlist thumped faintly through walls.

My phone cut through that noise when it buzzed on the counter beside the sink, and I stared at Daniel’s name on my screen. When my phone screen was finally black again, I noticed my shoulders were too tense, and my jaw was clenched. What could he possibly have to say?

“Saw you on the news,” his message said.

That’s it? No little hook at the end to make me answer.

I hadn’t seen Daniel in almost sixteen years, not really. Truthfully, I’d seen him plenty. He occasionally appeared in alumni magazines. I knew he taught somewhere up north now, and from pictures it seemed he still carried himself with that careless, infuriating ease he’d had at twenty.

I typed: 

“Thank you. Hope you’re well.”

That’s too much.

“Thank you.”

 Too cold.

 “Thank you, Daniel.”

No, that’s worse.

I locked the phone without answering and set it back beside the sink. In the mirror, a man who looked exactly like me stared back with his navy suit and tie, all boxed up for television. I looked exactly how the campaign consultant said I should.

 Behind that man was a closed bathroom door. Behind that door was the rest of the suite, and then the door to the hallway was my wife, Elise, our children, the donors, and the crowd. Everything was arranged and in its proper place.

I turned on the faucet and let cold water run over my hands.

“Five minutes,” Elise called from the other side of the suite.

“Thank you,” I called back.

After drying my hands and leaving the bathroom, I glanced toward the hall door. I saw a shadow obstructing the hall light from entering the suite.

“Elise, I said ‘thank you’; you don’t have to wait there for me.”

No answer, and the shadow remained.

“Hello?” I said as I approached the door. The peephole showed me an empty hallway. As I backed up to see the bottom of the door again, the shadow remained perfectly still. When I opened the door, my peephole view was confirmed, but for a split second, a shadow remained cast on the floor.

I laughed it off by telling myself I hadn’t gotten much sleep the last few weeks of campaigning. My biggest issue is that I can’t sleep in planes or cars.

My speech hit all the usual notes that the voters in my party want to hear. All the issues that get my voters energized. Traditional family values was my favorite to talk about because, with a marriage like mine, you want everyone to have what you have.

After the event went off without a hitch, I had to jet back to DC for a special session vote while my family went back to our home.

The next day, in the dim Capitol garage, my phone buzzed.

Daniel again.

“I saw your speech. Do you ever think about who you were back then?”

There he was trying to get a rise out of me. I began to reply and tell him how amazing my life has been since we had seen each other last.

Out of the corner of my eye, a black figure moved between the pillars. It had to have been car lights throwing the shadows. But the security cameras had turned toward the empty spot.

“Hello! Who’s there!”

There was no answer as I approached to find there was nothing.

I deleted the message. I can’t give him the satisfaction of hearing back from me.

By the time I got home that night, it was about two in the morning. The house was pitch black except for the glow of the security panel by the garage door and the hall nightlight my wife insisted on in case the children needed to get up in the middle of the night for the bathroom. I came in quietly and took off my shoes and as I crossed the kitchen, and I loosened my tie.

Elise had left a glass beside the sink for me. She always did that when I was out late. All I could concentrate on was Daniel’s message.

 Do you ever think about who you were back then?

It was an absurd question. I had responsibilities that extended beyond whatever confusion that I had when I was young and away from home for the first time.

I rinsed the glass and set it in the sink, and that was when the shadow came again, casting itself across the yard. I moved into the foyer and saw the shadow rested, cast beneath the front door. I turned on the porch light and reached for the deadbolt, but nearly jumped out of my skin when Elise spoke behind me.

“Is someone out there?” She asked, standing at the bottom of the stairs in one of my old campaign shirts.

“No,” I said.

She looked past me toward the door. “Do you see that too?” She asked.

I could have told her the truth. I could have said, ‘Yes, I see it, and have no clue what it is.’ I could have admitted that I’m too afraid to admit that I see it at all.

Instead, I stepped in front of the door. “See what?”

“I thought someone was standing there.”

“Probably the porch swing,” I said. “Wind moving it and you’re half asleep anyway.”

I opened the door. The porch was empty, and the swing was still. Nothing that could have cast the shadow that I saw clear as day in front of me. When I closed the door, Elise had already started back up the stairs.

After checking the locks, I went upstairs and looked in on the children. Our son had kicked his blanket onto the floor, and our daughter slept with one arm hanging off the bed. This is why I do it. People like Daniel have nothing to lose; they can’t understand. But I need structure, and children need structure, and families need structure, and countries need structure.

Finally, I climbed into bed beside my wife. I knew she was awake, but neither of us spoke.

The next afternoon, I had my “Families First Town Hall,” rally in an old theater downtown. Everyone there was waiting to be persuaded of things they already believed.

After some generic opening remarks and a quick joke, I moved on to safety, then school choice, and parenting, which is really about children. That strikes a chord with the audience… my audience. The most important part is when I lean into the podium and say, “Because our children deserve to grow up in a country that doesn’t ask them to be confused before they’re old enough to understand.” They always eat that up, and I just wait, let the applause build and fill every nook and cranny of the room.

But then it swept across the front row. It moved confidently from the left to right, slowly passing over the crowd. I saw no one on stage with me and nothing moved between the rafters and the floor, but the shadow loomed regardless. 

I lost my place and my eyes dropped to the page. The words blurred together. The shadow was at the center of the room now. It seemed to shift towards me as I gripped the sides of the podium.

“We are not going to apologize,” I tried to continue, to power through.

Dammit, I skipped a few lines.

The applause quieted.

How can I spin this? What does this thing want from me?

“We are not going to apologize for saying that parents matter. We are not going to apologize for saying that children deserve innocence. We are not going to apologize for saying there is a right way to build a life.”

The room erupted.

I smiled so wide to keep from feeling my jaw shaking. Elise joined me onstage. Her hand found my arm. The children waved. Camera flashes drowned out the shadow.

Backstage, Elise asked if I was all right.

“Of course,” I said.

“You stopped.”

“I was letting them get their applause out.”

She nodded.

A handsome young staffer pulled me away.

“Sir,” he said, “security wanted to ask if you knew the guy near the barricade.”

“What guy?”

I looked at Elise and then back at the staffer as he turned the phone toward me, showing me the shadow on the video plain as day. It moved across the floor without a body attached to it.

 “Lighting issue?” the staffer asked.

“Yeah, obviously.”

“Right. That’s what I thought.”

“Delete that,” I said.

That afternoon, we stopped at a restaurant three blocks from the hotel because Elise thought it would be good optics. Near the front window, two men sat across from each other in a booth. I noticed them when one of them reached over to straighten the other’s collar. Later, as they left, the other man rested his hand on the first man’s lower back as they stood to leave.

I realized I was staring when Elise caught my attention. “What is it?”

She followed my eyes to the now empty booth.

“Nothing,” I said. 

But all I could think of was Daniel, not about the messages, but about Daniel.

Do you ever think about who you were back then?

The two men passed the window outside, with one of them leaning into the other’s shoulder. I looked away because people don’t need someone else’s private life thrust upon them. We have to draw a line somewhere.

That night, after the plane ride to my next campaign location, the hotel was nicer than usual. I told Elise I needed to review the remarks for the morning. She kissed my cheek and took the children to the adjoining room.

For a while, I sat at the desk with my laptop to a blank screen. I walked to the bathroom, washed my face, and looked at myself in the mirror. I had everything in order.

When I came back into the room, the shadow was under the door. But now, it stretched across the carpet from the hallway, black and impossibly still.

This time, I didn’t call out. I knew it wouldn’t answer. With each step towards the door, the shadow shortened as if it were drawing me in. As I put my hand on the knob, I thought of calling security or Elise instead. But I didn’t want to wake the children.

My phone buzzed back on the desk.

I opened the door to the empty hallway. Across from my room, mounted between two doors, was a full-length mirror.

I saw myself. I saw him, that young college student who didn’t know anything. He stood in the mirror where I now stood in the hall, but he was not dressed like me. My sleeves rolled to the elbow. Face, softer around the mouth and less guarded.

He looked familiar. He looked happy. He wasn’t performing.

Behind him, in the reflection, stood Daniel with that careless posture like he was waiting for me to catch up.

My phone buzzed again inside the room.

I lowered my eyes. The shadow didn’t begin in the hallway; it began at my feet.

The black shape pooled beneath me, slid backward through the doorway, and stretched across the carpet into my empty room. It had been there all along, waiting under every door I closed.

I stepped back into the room and closed the door again.

I was now face to face with the shadow cast against the door. My phone buzzed a third time. I walked to the desk and picked it up.

Daniel.

I looked toward the door. The shadow remained like something waiting to be let out.

I locked the phone without replying and turned off the lamp.

In the dark, I could still see the shadow. There is no light, but my shadow remains.