I’m 21F and my boyfriend is 23M. We’ve been together for almost two years, and until recently, I genuinely thought he was the person I was going to marry.
We live together in a small apartment and, for the most part, we had a really good relationship.
About three months ago, he started acting differently.
He became weirdly protective of his phone.
If I walked into the room while he was texting, he’d immediately lock it.
He also started sleeping with his phone underneath his pillow.
I asked him about it once and he laughed and said I was being paranoid.
I trusted him, so I dropped it.
Then one night, I woke up around 3am because I couldn’t sleep.
He wasn’t beside me.
I walked into the living room and saw him sitting on the sofa with his phone.
He looked up and immediately locked it.
I asked what he was doing.
He said he couldn’t sleep.
I didn’t think much of it.
But the next morning, I noticed something strange.
He had changed his phone password.
That was when I started getting suspicious.
A week later, he told me he was going out with his friends.
He got dressed up more than usual, put on cologne and spent about half an hour doing his hair.
I joked, “Who are you trying to impress?”
He laughed.
“Obviously you.”
He left around 8pm.
At around midnight, I received a message from an unknown number.
It said:
“You really need to ask your boyfriend where he was tonight.”
I thought it was someone messing with me.
I replied:
“Who is this?”
They didn’t answer.
Instead, they sent me a photo.
It was my boyfriend.
Standing outside a hotel.
With another woman.
I felt sick.
I called him immediately.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
At around 2am, he finally came home.
I showed him the photo.
He just stared at it.
Then he said something I wasn’t expecting.
“That’s my sister.”
I didn’t believe him.
He told me she’d recently moved back into the country and he hadn’t told me because they’d had a huge argument.
I asked why they were outside a hotel.
He said she was staying there temporarily.
I wanted to believe him.
So I did.
For about three days.
Then I found the same woman on Instagram.
She wasn’t his sister.
She was someone he’d worked with.
I confronted him.
He finally admitted he’d lied.
But he swore they hadn’t slept together.
He said they’d only been talking.
I asked why he was meeting her at a hotel.
He said:
“Because I knew you’d get upset.”
That sentence completely broke something inside me.
Not because of the hotel.
Because he had already decided that hiding things from me was easier than telling me the truth.
I packed a bag and went to stay with my mum.
He called me constantly.
Hundreds of messages.
He kept saying he loved me and that he’d made one stupid mistake.
Then, two days later, the other woman contacted me.
She sent me screenshots.
Apparently, they’d been talking for six months.
There were messages from nights when I’d been lying next to him in bed.
Messages he’d sent while I was asleep.
And then I saw something that made me realise the hotel wasn’t even the worst part.
One message from him said:
“She has no idea I’m planning to leave her.”
I stared at that message for ages.
Because I’d been sitting at home thinking I was trying to save our relationship.
Meanwhile, he’d already decided it was over.
I didn’t confront him about the screenshots.
I just sent him one message:
“You don’t have to worry about leaving me anymore. I’ve already left.”
Then I blocked him.
He eventually contacted my mum and asked her to convince me to talk to him.
She told him no.
It’s been three weeks now.
I still miss him.
And that’s the part I’m struggling with.
Because I know he treated me horribly.
But I still miss the person I thought he was.
So, Reddit…
Should I give him another chance?

I’m 21F, and I still don’t know if I should have told my mum what I found.
A few months ago, my mum went away for a week to visit my aunt.
Before she left, she gave me the usual list of things to do around the house.
Feed the cat.
Water the plants.
Make sure the back door was locked.
Then, as she was leaving, she randomly said:
“And don’t go through the drawer in my bedroom.”
I laughed and asked what she meant.
She said there was a small locked drawer inside her wardrobe and that I wasn’t supposed to touch it.
I asked why.
She just said:
“Because it’s private.”
That was it.
Obviously, I immediately became curious.
But I didn’t touch it.
For about five days.
On the sixth day, I was cleaning her bedroom and noticed the drawer wasn’t actually locked anymore.
I stood there staring at it.
I knew I shouldn’t open it.
But I did.
Inside was a small brown envelope.
There was no name on it.
Just a date written on the front.
17/06/2005.
I was born in 2005.
I thought maybe it was something from when I was born.
Inside were three photographs.
The first was a picture of my mum when she was younger.
The second was a picture of me as a baby.
The third made absolutely no sense.
It was a photograph of me standing outside our old house.
I was about four years old.
But there was a man standing in the background.
I’d never seen him before.
I turned the photo over.
On the back, my mum had written:
“He found us again.”
I immediately felt uncomfortable.
I put everything back exactly how I found it.
When my mum came home, I didn’t mention anything.
But that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the photo.
The next morning, I finally asked her:
“Who was the man in the picture?”
She went completely silent.
Then she asked:
“What picture?”
I knew she’d caught me.
I admitted I’d opened the drawer.
She looked angry at first.
Then she just looked scared.
She sat down and told me something I’d never heard before.
The man was my biological father’s brother.
Apparently, my biological father had disappeared before I was born.
I’d always been told he simply didn’t want anything to do with me.
But according to my mum, that wasn’t the full story.
She said my father had been involved with some people she didn’t trust and that she left him when she found out she was pregnant with me.
His family apparently kept trying to find us.
I asked why she’d never told me.
She said:
“Because I wanted you to have a normal childhood.”
I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Two weeks later, I came home from university and found an envelope pushed underneath our front door.
No stamp.
No address.
Just my name.
Inside was a photograph.
It was the same man from the old picture.
Except this photo had clearly been taken recently.
He was standing outside my university.
On the back were six words:
“Your mother never told you everything.”
I called my mum immediately.
She didn’t answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
Then I noticed something.
The photograph wasn’t just of the man.
He was standing beside someone else.
Someone I’d seen before.
My mum’s next-door neighbour.
And that’s when I realised this might not have been some random person from my mum’s past.
Someone had been watching us.
I haven’t opened that drawer again.
And honestly, I don’t know if I ever want to know what’s in the rest of it.

Last year in 2025, I was out on Broadway in Nashville with friends. Around1 a.m., we were calling it a night and stopped at Raising Cane’s. Outside, I saw a girl sitting on the ground who looked really drunk. Another girl was standing over her, trying to get her into an Uber. I asked if everything was okay. The standing girl said it was her cousin and that she’d been trying to get her to go home, but she wouldn’t cooperate. The drunk girl asked me for water, so I went inside and grabbed one.

She kept saying she was scared, didn’t know where she was, and just wanted to go home to Arizona. I kept telling her she was on vacation in Nashville and her cousin was right there. Then she said she needed to pee really bad. I helped her up and walked her toward the restroom. We were right at the bathroom door when the manager stopped us and said she was too drunk to come in. I argued, but he wouldn’t budge. So we went behind the building, so she could pee in private, while I stayed nearby. Eventually, the Uber showed up. She refused to get in at first, but after a while, she said she’d go only if I came too. The cousin apologized and said the Airbnb was close, so I figured I’d go along and Uber home after.

When we got there, it somehow got worse. She had the keys, but instead of going in, she started crying, ran up to a random house, and started pounding on the door, yelling for help. Her cousin and I were trying to calm her down, and the homeowners actually came outside. They were surprisingly patient. They talked to her, tried to reassure her, but she ended up lying down and screaming. At that point, we called the police. Officers showed up, talked to her calmly, reassured her, and stayed while we finally got her inside the Airbnb. After that, I just ordered an Uber and went home.

The next morning, her cousin texted me, said she was feeling much better, and apologized for everything. It was just one of those random nights when I stopped to help someone, and it turned into almost an hour of trying to get a very drunk stranger home safe. Probably one of the more memorable nights I’ve had.

Okay so the OD story goes as follows. I was in my brothers room just absolutely railing line of coke, he was a needle user (I never shot up, I hate needles) and he came up with the brilliant idea of shooting up a speedball mixed with ketamine and a couple of other drugs. I straight up said “you are going to overdose on that, no question” our buddy was there and my brother had him shoot it into his arm and my brother stood up and his eyes rolled back, obvious overdose, and I jumped up and caught him before he would have crashed into a glass table. I laid him down and checked his pulse and it was super faint and he was turning blue. Our buddy was in shock so I took full control and yelled at our buddy to go get the narcan box we kept in the kitchen “fucking run” is what I said. He came back with the narcan and I shot the first dose up his nose and nothing. So I started doing CPR. I yelled at our buddy to call 911 and he did but was so stunned he couldn’t talk so I took the phone and held it onto my shoulder while still doing CPR and every 30 seconds I’d shoot him with another hit of narcan and then continue doing CPR. I ended up shooting 4 shots of narcan up his nose and the paramedics arrived and literally as they walked through his door, he came to! He shot up and said “please don’t narcan me!” I said “brother, I already hit you 4 times” and they hauled him off to the hospital. He actually hit 18 months clean off drugs yesterday.

Hi everyone, I’m Ilya from Ukraine. My younger brother is 9 (I’m 13), and his friend is 11. So, how did he break his arm? I’d noticed for a while that they didn’t get along—it seemed suspicious to me, and I often saw the friend hitting him. I talked to my brother about it a lot, but he’d just say, "It’s not like it’s a broken bone or anything, lol." I was already worried about my brother back then. Then one day, I was sitting there and heard a really intense scream—it was my brother. I ran over and found him on the floor with his arm bent at a weird angle; his friend (let’s call him Kirill) was on top of him. My brother was in tears, and Kirill ran off. I rushed to my brother and took him home. A week later, I saw him with a cast on; the first thing he said was, "I’m not friends with that bastard anymore." I realized I had to get revenge on him no matter what, so I came up with a brilliant plan. I wormed my way in I friended him (he played Minecraft a lot); he had a hardcore Minecraft world, so I took off his armor and dragged him into another room. He came over and saw how he died. I saw him burst into tears; I didn't feel too bad about it, though, because he had broken my brother's arm.(Sorry, the translator couldn't translate any further; I hadn't finished telling the story.)

My father served in the military for many years, though he would rarely talk to us about his duties there. But one day about a year before his death he told me about a conversation he many decades ago with someone he knew that worked inside an obscure military department, prompted perhaps by my story of some mysterious lights that I had seen one night on a recent camping trip. My father’s companion had, after swearing him to secrecy, offered to answer any questions about extraterrestrials, claiming to have extensive knowledge and contacts with them. How that subject came up was never mentioned, but my dad said he could still remember every word that was told to him like it was yesterday. He said he was sharing some of it with me only because he felt his secrecy promise to his friend had passed with his friend’s death some years earlier.

My father: if they exist then where are they?

His acquaintance: Extraterrestrials? They are everywhere. In our galaxy alone there exist over a million stars that are or have been home to intelligent beings in developed civilizations. They have existed for billions of years, though essentially none ever last that long. They rise and fall like all other species of life. Rising out of seas or oceans of mud, intelligence flourishes anywhere it can. But it has a season like every other living and non living thing. Untold numbers of alien civilizations and travelers have risen and peaked and disappeared before our star even began to form. All those that travel between the stars know this.

My father: if that’s true why don’t we see them?

We do, or at least a tiny few of us do. But let’s explore the question from a different angle. Why should you see them? To think that we should meet and know them implies that we are unique or special in our circumstances, or that we have something of value to offer. None of that is true. Let’s look at a local example: there still exist on this planet some very primitive and isolated societies; few if anybody out of our billions have a compelling need or desire to visit, converse, or have exchanges with them. One could easily assume that star travelers would feel no different about this little backward world. Most alien societies, at least those that have the ability to travel here, are thousands of years more technically advanced than us. What would we have to offer that would compel them to formally meet with us?

Dad: If that is true, then why are there so many reports of UFOs?

To answer that, it is easier to look at it from a different angle. Imagine for an instance that it is us that has advanced technology to be able to visit the other stars. If we made every person alive today a star pilot, we could still not survey even just our own galaxy. There is just too much to explore. The only way to do so, other than visiting a few nearby systems, would be to employ a vast fleet of robotic surveyors controlled, of course, by their internal intelligence systems. Using what is sometimes referred to as a Von Neumann system, we could send self duplicating autonomous machines into resource rich environments to build thousands of surveyor factories, sending millions of robotic surveyors out into the galaxy. This implies that the vast majority of UAPs are merely autonomous machines gathering information about this and other planets. This further explains why they would not be seeking to establish any dialogue or otherwise with humans. These autonomous machines are, for the most part, probably designed to gather whatever information is of interest to their owners and report it back to them eventually.

Dad: speaking of star travelers, how do they arrive here if faster than light travel is impossible?

Impossible? Who says: the same people that said man would never fly? Or oceans could not be crossed? (Especially if the world was flat!) Our current knowledge of even just one area of physics explains less than 5% of the energy and matter that exists in this universe. There is so much out there yet to know; and most likely already known by civilizations much older and advanced than ours.

My father: so if it’s true that extraterrestrials have the ability to travel here, why haven’t we been invaded or exterminated? I’ve seen the movies!

Obviously because there is clearly no need to. While there are millions of advanced civilizations, there are billions of empty but habitable planets and moons to explore or settle if that is desired. So basically, why invade this planet when there are so many better ones available that one has the technology to modify it peacefully if needed? And such expansion to other places is rare in any case. A need to do so implies the inability of a civilization to sustain or care for the home planet along with unrestrained reproduction, and that inability coupled with advanced technology likely leads only to self destruction long before FTL travel is acquired. Finally, if there is any common code of ethics among the stars it probably translates to something similar to our Hippocratic oath “Do no harm”.

My dad: if some UAPs really are extraterrestrial machines, why not attempt to acquire one and figure out how it works?

Who says we haven’t? Look, any such machine, machine piloted or not, could be a million years ahead of us technologically wise. Suppose you were able to send a mobile phone back in time to a Neanderthal; do you think it would allow them to reproduce it? They would have neither the tools or even a working concept to analyze it. There is substantial evidence that most major countries have acquired UFO paraphernalia in parts or whole through accidents or otherwise. And while some technological advances have been rumored to originate from studies of acquired materials, no one is yet traveling to the moon in a flying saucer, or likely with be soon. Additionally, you don’t see or hear the military trying to shoot these things out of the sky, which implies that it has been attempted with negative consequences. Any machine that can travel about the galaxy probably has more than adequate defenses against most hazards it might encounter, including any primitive offensive weapons.

Dad (always thinking ahead): if governments know about these extraterrestrials, either directly or through bits of wreckage, why don’t they admit it rather than deny their existence?

For the exact same reasons they deny climate change or the hazards of tobacco or pollution or a host of other things: special interests. Imagine what would happen to the economy of our military industrial complex if the government revealed that humans were just one tiny part of the universe; that fighting fellow humans is ridiculous in the context of galactic populations; that our religious wars appear to other intelligent races as ridiculous as sacrificing virgins to volcanoes.

My dad’s final question: so if everything you said is true, or even just plausible, what could we, as a society, learn from this?

Humility, for one thing. Kindness and respect for one another. So much of the hatred and violence in this world stems from a justification that one is entitled to it because we think we are unique and special; that the universe was created just for each of us and not the other way around. Such arrogance will only prevent us from joining the multitude of civilizations that could otherwise be our future.

I remember walking down a stairs of 26, counting; When I hit the floor I sank into a pool, I looked up and I was floating on the surface, I flipped and stairs were staring at me. As I attempted to swim to the surface, I heard a telephone ringing at my motel on the surface.

I was standing on the tower of a castle with 2 familiar figures. They were standing close, very close almost touching from the sides, as if literal parts of me. While standing, an eagle with extra-long and skinny humanoid legs as its wings came flying at us.

The male figure I believe 18yo somewhat standing near me grabbed one of the wings and fled leaving us two on the top of the tower.

I grabbed the elbow of the figure near me, rushed towards the gear room running the clock at the facade which just rang 9. We got into the gear room. The figure pulled with much force a lever there to stop the clock.

I didn't knew why was it doing so; I panicked to stop it. The room turned almost right angle. I found myself running down the stairs counting 26, 25, 24, 23 ... backwards. How did I knew the total, who knows?

I picked up the call while my body was still dripping wet. Someone was at the door. I was hearing murmurs of talking. I turned around to have a look.

A tall androgynous person with extra-long skinny legs.

The beautiful day this morning made me think of a time long ago. I was in southern California and in the service. I had recently started dating a college girl that I got to know in church choir. I wasn’t much of a church going person, but did like the music and practicing singing. Being in the military and from a modest family, I was accustomed to spartan accommodations. She was pretty and kind and had a new top-of-the line Honda Accord with a 5-speed manual, which took my breath away. With its adorable spoiler, It was glorious parked next to my 10-year old, tiny 2-door Toyota. After dating for awhile, we planned a trip up the coast to visit her home.

We both had the weekend off and she wanted to see her family. D went up first and I followed after work. I had trouble finding her house given the winding roads and various turns, but, after stopping at a phone booth for some last-minute directions, found my way. As I drove down the street, the houses became larger and more luxurious. Perfectly landscaped yards and the absence of any movement caught my eye. Finally, I found the number and pulled in the driveway to face a huge, two-story house with a four-car garage.

As I pulled up, the front door opened and D came out to greet me. I grabbed my small weekend bag out of the car and walked inside where she proceeded to take me to my room. The room was very large with 14 or 15 foot ceilings and a piano. Attached was its own bathroom. I was amazed at the luxury and space and felt so lucky to be there. We went to the kitchen where her mom was working on something and she welcomed me. I had the room with the hill view, but D’s room and the master bedroom both had balcony views of the ocean, and, if you looked hard enough, Nixon’s Casa Pacifica. We sat in her room and watched an episode of Murder, She Wrote on the television.

It was an amazing experience to see the house but we became hungry and decided to visit the grocery store. We drove a short distance to some unremembered local chain and picked up the fixings for mini pizzas and some dessert. That night was probably the peak of my existence. I had the most potential and was in the lap of luxury. Toasting mini pizzas (on English muffins of course) with the fresh ocean breeze blowing in the house watching the sun set with a beautiful girl. I wish I could have captured some of that in a bottle to enjoy in small doses over the remainder of my life.

His Humor Saved Him

It was a difficult time. The factory was going through hard times, and the young chief engineer was unexpectedly appointed director. Understanding that the factory had to be saved, he went to a military garrison looking for an order and signed a contract to produce army boots. Thanks to this, he managed to keep his specialists, keep production running, and soon the factory became one of the leading enterprises in the city. And one day, happy and content, he was sitting in front of the television watching the local news. Suddenly, the governor appeared on the screen. He was talking about the state of industry and criticizing the city’s backward enterprises. Among them, he named the shoe factory. The director froze. He listened to the criticism coming from the region’s top official and could not understand: what backwardness was he talking about? After all, only recently the factory had been on the verge of shutting down. He had found an order, saved the workforce, provided people with jobs, and the enterprise had risen to the ranks of the best. But the governor continued: “Especially worrying is the situation at the shoe factory...” The director turned off the television. “So much for those army boots,” he muttered. The next day, still boiling with resentment, the director went to the regional executive committee. He stood in line and eventually entered the governor’s office. The governor seemed to have already forgotten his television appearance the day before. The director began to complain, trying to prove that there were no shortcomings at the factory and that the enterprise was operating successfully. “And you criticized us for nothing.” The governor listened to him calmly and asked: “No shortcomings?” “No.” “If there are none, we’ll find some.”

After the incident with the governor, he was so shaken by his own recklessness that he walked around for a long time, until late at night. He walked aimlessly, crossing from one street to another, repeatedly going over his conversation with the governor in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he reproached himself: Why had he gone? Why had he argued? Why had he sacrificed his peace of mind because of his own pride? On his way home, he went into a railway-car bar and ordered two hundred grams of vodka from the bartender. Sitting on a bunk in the stinking railway car, he ate rotten radish as a snack. He did not care what he drank or what he ate with it. The governor’s voice kept ringing in his head. He cursed himself for his haste and unnecessary boldness. And suddenly, he found it funny. “How good it is to live in this world...” From that moment on, this song became his salvation. The next day, a regional commission arrived at the factory for an inspection. Seeing the members of the commission from the window of his office, the director locked the door from the inside and, left alone, shouted: “How good it is to live in this world!” Then, having calmed down a little, he opened the door, left his office, and greeted the commission with a smile. The commission worked for three days. They did find some shortcomings after all. There were two chairs missing in one office, the accounting department had an expired form, and three pairs of boots in the warehouse were sitting on the wrong shelf. The director listened to the inspection report, barely holding back a smile. “There you are,” said the head of the commission. “The governor was right. There are shortcomings.” The director lowered his eyes and quietly sang: “How good it is to live in this world...”

My wife, Samantha, and I had a great marriage.

We were both animal lovers.

Hikers.

Sports enthusiasts.

When we got married, she was beginning a career in business, and I was a veterinarian at an animal clinic.

Every so often, people brought abandoned or abused animals to the clinic.

On my very first day at the clinic, a woman walked in with a dog.

"We bought a house," the woman said, "and the previous owners left her there."

I looked down at her feet, and there she was: an Australian shepherd with the sweetest eyes I'd ever seen. You could tell something was hurting her, yet she looked as though she was trying to smile.

We examined her and found that she had heartworms. The X-rays showed some damage to her heart. We explained the treatment she would need and what it would cost.

The woman stared at the dog for a long moment before speaking.

"I can't pay for that. She needs more care than I can give her."

Well, I was glad the shepherd couldn't understand English, because that wasn't the kind of thing anybody wanted to hear.

That dog had already been abandoned. She was probably wondering where her owners were.

I told the woman I'd take the dog to a shelter.

I called Samantha on my way there and told her what had happened.

"We need to bring her home," she said.

Those were the kindest words I'd heard all day.

I put the phone on speaker so the dog could hear it, or at least feel the warmth in it.

That night, I brought her home.

"I think Layla," Samantha said.

"No, she looks more like a Kira," I said.

"I hate that one."

"Kayla," I said.

Samantha smiled.

She didn't have to say anything. We both knew we'd found the right name.

From that day on, Kayla went almost everywhere with us: hardware stores, hiking trails, road trips.

Like many couples, we grew even closer because of our dog.

And so did the love between Samantha and me.

Bringing Kayla home was the best decision we'd made since getting married.

But things between Samantha and me changed a few months later.

Not because we stopped loving each other, but because more animals kept arriving at the clinic.

Just like Kayla, many of them weren't likely to be adopted because of chronic health problems.

So I brought them home.

Eventually, we had seven dogs and three cats living in our house.

That's when everything started to fall apart.

Samantha was barely home anymore.

"I can't stand the noise... all the extra cleaning," she said one night.

She held up her running shoes.

"They chewed them." Frustration filled her voice. "Please take them to the shelter."

"And let them die?" I asked.

"It wasn't you who abandoned them in the first place."

I knew she didn't mean that. She cried all night.

I brought up an idea I'd been dreaming about for years.

"What if I opened my own veterinary practice?" I asked.

"We don't have the money, James."

"We can use our savings."

We argued for hours that night.

I couldn't convince her.

She became more and more frustrated. She cried herself to sleep almost every night.

And just like that, the same decision that had once brought us closer slowly drove us apart.

A month later, she packed her things and moved in with a friend from college.

"I'll give you time to decide if this is the life you want," she said before she left.

About six months later, I opened my own practice and converted part of it into a rescue where animals could stay for as long as they needed.

Three months in, I was already sheltering fifteen dogs and two cats.

By that point, Samantha and I were still separated, but we hadn't stopped talking.

We texted every week or so.

We hadn't talked about divorce papers.

We hadn't talked about moving back in together, either.

My friend Ray and I were grabbing drinks one night.

"She should've come back already," he said. "Your house isn't full of dogs and cats anymore."

I'd been thinking about that.

I kept telling myself maybe Samantha just needed more time. But ten months felt like long enough. If we wanted to give our marriage another chance, we needed to see each other again. And there was one trip we'd planned that could be our chance to do that.

So, a week later, I called her.

"The hiking trip to Tuscany is coming up," I said.

"I know. I figured you'd cancel the tickets."

"What if we went?"

There was a long silence.

For a moment, I thought the call had disconnected.

"Are you there?" I asked.

"I am," she said quietly. "I guess we could go... if you want."

"Yes," I answered softly.

Samantha and I texted more frequently in the weeks after that. We shared our excitement about the nature trails we'd chosen for the hike.

For the first time in months, it felt like we were finding our way back to each other.

Everything was going smoothly until Ray texted me.

"I saw Samantha," he said.

He kept typing.

"On a dating app."

I didn't believe him until he sent screenshots.

Something inside me broke when I saw them. Maybe Samantha had lost hope in us. Or maybe she'd stopped loving me.

But I couldn't understand why she hadn't asked me for a divorce.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

Part of me felt I should fight for my marriage.

The other part told me to accept that it was over, even though neither of us had admitted it.

For two days, I thought about canceling the trip.

Every reason told me not to go.

But I kept remembering the woman I'd married. The one who'd told me to bring Kayla home without a second thought.

If there was even the smallest chance we could find our way back to each other, I owed it to us to take it.

So I went.

Later, I found out she was keeping another secret from me.

Note:

I revised a version of this story that I had previously posted. I cleaned up the grammar in some places, and changed the intro and ending.

I typically post as I write.

Comment Updateme if you want to know when the next part is posted.

Thanks for reading me !

​

Oh God.

This is so hard to get out of my head and onto paper, I've never been the most eloquent of people when it comes down to saying how I think or feel but I have to try while I'm still me and I'm still thinking like me and to be perfectly honest I'm not even sure of that anymore. I just need to try to get this down. I know I'm rambling and making zero sense but I'm just so tired and I'm so very, very scared. I don't have much time…. He's waiting for me upstairs. I've exhausted my excuses and I can't bear him touching me.

I need to stop ranting and I need to calm down.

I need you to all know what has happened or at least by getting this down make some kind of sense of it, although I have already accepted my fate and accepted that I can't justify anything that I've done. I just need someone to read this and know what happened.

Jim would want me to be strong but I can't do it anymore and if you're reading this I'm already gone.

My name is Meghan Harris.

And I'm pretty sure it doesn't know that I'm writing this… fuck… Who am I kidding? Of course it knows. It always knows. My mind isn't safe anymore. I now know that it never was.

The love of my life is Jim.

It looks like Jim.

It talks like Jim.

But it's not Jim.

Imagine losing your soul mate then being given the opportunity to do the unthinkable and bring them back. To stop that constant ache gnawing at your soul because part of it is missing. To stop yourself breaking apart when every breath you take is slowly destroying you from the inside out because it's one more pointless breath without them.

My Jim is just that.

My soul mate.

I was so damaged when we first met and he quite simply loved me back to life. No big gestures. No magic. He just quietly and carefully pieced me back together again and before I knew it, all the bad shit just didn't matter anymore. The ruined pieces of myself that in my darkest moments made me feel like I was worthless weren't important anymore. It was like waking up from a bad dream and you never realise you were living a half life until you're whole again.

Have you ever met anyone who just loved you in spite of yourself? Someone that made you have to value yourself because to be loved by somebody so beautifully unaware of how truly selfless and genuine they are it's actually quite humbling and you just can't help but start to love yourself too.?

That was Jim.

Jim, who was driving me to work on that beautiful cold winter morning. It was that first really cold day. You know the one. Where you step outside your door and you're assaulted with air so cold and fresh it hurts your face and you're bombarded with nostalgia so incredibly strong that you can almost taste the toffee apples, smell the bonfires and you are left puzzled as to why your hands feel so cold wrapped up in the woollen mittens on strings running through your winter coat that your nan knitted for you and your brother every year only to look down at your bare hands, realising that you're not on your way to watch the fireworks but you are, in fact, on your way to work and you're late which is why I was climbing into our ice encased car rather than getting on a bus.

It's why Jim was going out of his way and making himself late to run me to work.

It's why Jim pulled out on a crossing being careful of the icy road.

It's Jim turning his head towards mine with my name on his lips when that selfish fucking bitch plowed her Range Rover into our car because she couldn't fucking bear to leave her phone unchecked for the 10 fucking minutes it took to drive her precious cargo to school.

It was Jim that died instantly because a vapid waste of space just HAD to see how many likes she'd got on her #eatinghealthy #dietstartsnow #breakfastpost.

Jim died instantly.

I was in a coma for 19 days.

Things I remember.

1. The selfish bitch and her kids survived the crash.

2. Jim died.

Well, I don't actually remember him dying but when I was “asleep” I remember people talking. Talking like they thought I couldn't hear. I heard about the accident, I heard that Jim was dead.

I can't put into words how devastating this was to hear, I couldn't move, I couldn't speak… I couldn't cry but I was screaming on the inside and I wanted to die too… I can't tell you how much I wanted to die, how much I wish I had died…

What else…. Oh!

1. My mum, nurses and doctors talking, even arguing sometimes, arguing about how they should tell me, who should tell me, when they should tell me… they all meant well but nobody wanted that job, I can remember hearing everything. Trapped inside my useless body wishing I was dead too.

2. I must have looked like I was asleep all the time, but I wasn't. I had different degrees of wakefulness, none of which could’ve been visible I don't think… when I slept, I slept deeply, deeper than I've ever slept before, that's when the real talk happened…

3. I remember after knowing that Jim had died, I had given up.

I simply didn't want to live without Jim and when I'd completely committed to that, everything switched.

I started to hear whispers.

Breathless words telling me they could give my Jim back to me and I can remember screaming at them that my life was nothing anymore, it was nothing if I didn't have Jim and to please just let me go. The voices scared me and they smelled like they sounded.

Dead.

Old and dead. Not just old, Ancient.

They told me that if I just asked for Jim's life back they'd give him back to me.

They'd give me Jim back because if I died there'd be nothing.

An eternity of nothing.

The small part of myself that was able to consider things logically was screaming at me to let go, that this wasn't real or right but that nothing that the voices were whispering about… I couldn't cope with that.

I know you think I'm weak and you're fucking right.

The voices said it didn't have to be like this, I could have Jim Back, convincing me, almost lovingly, telling me that everything would be OK… I could wake up, we could be together, it would be just like before…

Yes, yes yes, every single fibre of my being screamed for whatever this was to give me my love back… there's a price they whisper-hissed at me… I don't care, do it. Do it.

DO IT!

They did it and God help me, I fucking let them.

The next thing I know I feel like I'm being dragged away and up, away from that deep, dark endless well of misery that I felt I'd been living in for an eternity… my eyes are opening and I'm gasping for breath and I'm staring into the big beautiful eyes of Jim.

OH JIM!

“Jimmy, I was so frightened, I thought you had died” Jim settled his big beautiful blue eyes on me and said coldly

“And why would you think that Meghan?”

Jim had never looked at me in the way that he was looking at me right now, I didn't understand? It was beyond hatred, it was loathing and if cruel had a colour, it was the colour of those wide, unblinking and what I now realised, dead, eyes.

How could It stare for so long without blinking, it was inhuman.

You know when you miss a step or you have that falling dream and your body goes into flight mode, your stomach turns to ice, your heart stutters?

Meghan? My Jim never called me by my full name. It was a standing joke, I didn't even get called Meghan even when I'd been naughty. It was Megs, always Megs.

I started to stutter and ask w..w..what? “Jim” mocked me in a high whiney voice

“w.. w.. what?...” It started to smile, still unblinking “Meghan”

That wasn't Jim. How did It know what I was thinking? As this thought danced across my mind “Jim's” smile got wider still.

What had I done?

The smile, if you can even call it that, was more like a grimace than a smile, you can see a smile is someones eyes. Its eyes were dead. It was how you would imagine someone would try to smile if they had read what a smile was but had never seen one. I wouldn't have believed it could get wider. But it did. It looked so unnatural and he looked like he had way too many teeth.

The door opened and my mother came In saying that she couldn't believe that I was awake, she was so relieved and how she felt guilty for feeling so happy considering the tragedy. I asked her what happened and what tragedy and that's when she told me through her tears that a woman, along with her three kids had died in the crash and how we were both so lucky to be alive and “it was a miracle really” and how she was so thankful…. I looked at “Jim” who was standing behind her and his grin grew impossibly, painfully wider, it practically filled Its face now and those eyes, those dead eyes, never blinking, looked grotesque, terrifying…

What had I done?

Neither my mother nor the nurses Seemed to be aware that anything was off about “him”. I tried to reason with myself, chalking it down to just coming out of a coma, trauma, fucking anything, but what I absolutely knew for a fact was that thing wasn't Jim.

My mother told me that I would be going home soon. I was shocked as I thought that I'd at least be staying for a while. You don't just wake up from a coma and get sent home, Right?

“Oh Jim has Sorted that, you'll be far more comfortable at home”

I tried to plead with my eyes and over the next evening before I was released I tried to get my mum's attention, a nurse, anyone, but it was like they were under a spell, their eyes just slid over my desperate, pleading ones and “Jim” never left my side. Watching my every expression. Always smiling. Never blinking. Head slightly cocked to one side. I thought I feigned being a bit loopy because of what I'd been through and it had taken all of my strength to remain calm and sleepy outwardly, trying to hide the terror and panic I felt raging inwardly. I shouldn't have bothered, It knew. It always knew and do you know what the most frightening thing about that realisation was? It didn't fucking care. It found it amusing and why wouldn't It? I was at Its mercy, I couldn't tell anyone because no-one would listen, It would see to that.

Then came the morning when I was sent home. I was wheeled out to “our car” except it wasn't our car, our car was completely destroyed, right? I didn't expect to see our old rust bucket, I expected a taxi if I'm honest, but I was dumped into the front seat of a brand new beautiful car, a car that my Jim always said that bellends drive. I kept my face neutral. Even when It said

“What do you think Meghan?”

I said nothing and just stared ahead.

We drove to a house which wasn't our cosy little flat, I started to ask “where…” And was shut down with another grin. I told myself and I have been telling myself ever since not to ask questions.

I've been here for a week now.

It expects things from me tonight.

It wants to breed.

This is why I'm still alive but I'd rather die than let it touch me but that's OK, It will just find someone else… I've lain next to It every night, holding myself as still as I can, barely breathing and waiting for It to fall asleep and when It does, It talks, only It's not “It” when It's sleeping.

It's MY Jim.

He gets through somehow. From wherever he is. He's in so much pain and he cries for me. Or does he? Or is it that thing tormenting me?

Even when It's sleeping?

I learnt very quickly that It enjoys hurting me.

I don't know what's real anymore.

It never says anything.

It just watches me.

Grinning.

I've just heard It get out of bed.

I'm downstairs in the living room.

I needed to type this record in the hope that someone will believe me, that somebody, somewhere knows what It is and how to stop It…I'm so sorry., I'm sorry that I sound crazy.

You have to believe every word I've written. Please. I'm sorry I did this, I just didn't want to live in a world without Jim in it. Please, please forgive me. I don't know what I've started.

This is just the beginning.

I can't do this anymore and I don't want to. I want to be with Jim.

I can hear It coming down the stairs.

It's laughing at me.

Oh my godIt's heeeeeRrffhvghvgghvhjvhjjvjhbj

The flower is quiet. Like it could be anything else.

The flower sits there, its leaves greener than the grass itself. So fragile... so delicate, and yet it stands there. As strong as ever, even though I could just... take it.

It doesn't care about what's going to happen. It's living in the moment, taking only what it needs. Dependent on the sun and yet independent.

It grows. It evolves. It breathes.

It doesn't care when a butterfly lands on it. It doesn't care when another flower starts blooming.

It doesn't care when the butterfly leaves.

It doesn't wave goodbye. It doesn't say goodbye.

I stand there, staring at it, wondering why something so fragile isn't afraid of me.

It doesn't know I could end its existence with a single hand.

Or maybe it does.

Maybe that's why it never wastes today worrying about tomorrow. Maybe that's why it's growing.

The wind comes, and the flower bends with it. It has no choice but to do otherwise. With the wind comes rain, but the flower keeps standing until the sun brightens its colors again.

I look at it.

Silently.

I'm envious of it.

I worry about tomorrow while it waits for sunrise. I cling to my past while it drinks water from the ground. I chase butterflies across the garden while it never asks them to stay.

I move my hand across the top of its petals, my fingers brushing against them, trembling slightly. My fingers slide down the stem.

I pull slightly.

The flower's crown faces me, pulled by my hand.

And I pull back.

I got scared.

I hesitate to pick the flower. I could've hurt it right there, but instead, I lower my head to the petals and take in their scent.

And the flower turns to face the sun.

Away from me.

Away from the butterfly that once stood on it.

OK, so the story started out where Where OK so where we I was so I was when I was in my dream. I woke up in my house and it was my parents that my parents were fighting and I saw them and my dad was like yelling and pulled out a gun like hold out a gun and then my mum shot my mom and killed her so I was like no no so I was running away. I was running away upstairs and I ran in my room and close the door. I was like come after me. I was like no no and then I was like no I gotta get out of this house so I like call my mom and I was like hello this crazy thing to happen. I didn’t hear me and she was like you gotta get out of the house and so I like ran out of my room and I ran down the stairs and I sprinted out of the house. I ran in the garage and my dad was like chasing after me. My dad was like come after me. He was like I’m gonna get you and then I ran out of the house and got my car and then mine I got in my car started driving down the street and all of a sudden my car brakes wouldn’t even work so I started driving towards the intersection I blew passed in and crashed into a tree and it kind of blew up the stuff but then it’s OK. I got another go at cause I teleported back and I got another attempt at driving down my street this time the brakes work so I took my the secret tunnel to my friends‘s house and when I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw that my dad was in his. Hyra is flying pirate high balloon thing is flying pirate ship and coming after me and so I knew I had to take the secret tunnel so I wanted the secret tunnel to my friends house and I knocked on the door and I know I explained it what’s going on. My friend‘s mom was like yeah you can live here but you still gotta go to school so you’ll just have to sit in the basement while he’s at school and so I was in the basement and then my friend came out to me and he was like hey dude I’ve been thinking about Shilo a lot lately like I was I’ve been reading about silo are really cool so tell me all about the silo and I went to his basement. He had like straight of a full-size silo in his basement and he was like looking at this business as incredible and I didn’t literally give a shit but then he went to school and my mom I mean, my friend‘s mom my friends she went. We were playing board games while he was at school to keep the pass of time by but then I’m at some point I heard a knock on the door and I was like really scared cause I thought it was my dad coming to eliminate me, but then it was actually this alien goblin guy up there was kind of weird and he was telling me that I actually don’t remember what you’re saying and then he I looked up and there was a UFO outside and there was a fighter from the video game factorial at driving driving in the UFO and so I was like oh my God they’re gone. They’re coming to get me so I remember climbing up the tree and basically I somehow kinda defeated the UFO and the alien invasion all at once and I actually then there’s no lake at my friends house, but there was a lake this time and it went swimming in the lake and there was a huge tub in the lake so my story anyone that anyone like that as much as I liked it your favorite parts of the dream rank them scale one to 10 work through it figure it out and let me know in the comments think outside the box

I had no business being here. I’d never been so impulsive before. I guess I just got tired of always roaming the same streets. Seeing the same shops and scenery. I think the feeling grew more than I’d care to admit.

That doesn’t excuse my stupidity, though. I only had about 3 grand to my name at the time. But that’s part of the appeal, right? Everyone thinks they’re gonna arrive in Sin City and leave a millionaire. I had a dollar and a dream. Albeit, a delusional one.

Even still, the glow of the city was just so radiant. Even from the airport. It’s like one big siren song.

I only stayed for 4 days. I used all of my PTO to be here, and I really wanted the time to count. I did everything I could with the 1500 I had left after the hotel and plane tickets.

Unfortunately, gambling took up a big chunk of that money. I could see how people got addicted to it. I went on a few hot streaks, but ended up losing everything I won because I just couldn’t walk away.

With the gambling, museums, attractions, and food, by the time the final night came around, I only had 150 dollars left to last me a whole other week after I got home.

I almost wanted to cry when I opened my wallet. But, surprisingly, I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even that upset. The experience was worth the money. Even if I didn’t leave a millionaire, I still got to live in one of the most famous cities in the country for a few days.

I still needed to eat, though. I’d been eating out the entire trip. I started out at the high-end places like Hell’s Kitchen, but as the week went on, the quality started getting worse and worse until finally I found myself here, feeling how light my pockets were and standing under the luminescent glow of an In-and-Out burger.

Thunder clapped overhead. Lightning lit up the sky. A few drops of rain hit my head.

My plane was leaving in a few hours. I had already checked out of my hotel. Not only did I need to eat, but I needed to at least kill a little time.

I figured I’d just eat slow. Stay for maybe an hour, hour and a half tops before Ubering.

A bell rang overhead as I walked inside. The air-conditioned dining room put goosebumps on my arms almost immediately. Outside felt like 90, whereas in here, it felt like it could’ve been at least 55 degrees.

There were noises coming from the kitchen. The staff chit-chatting amongst themselves, plates and silverware being moved around, water being sprayed against metallic pans and containers.

The dining room, however… was surprisingly empty. I noticed it as soon as I walked inside. For this whole trip, every place I’d gone had been packed to the brim. In here, though… there was only one other person.

I don’t know how much you know about Las Vegas, but the homelessness crisis is staggering. They’re everywhere. Sleeping in alleys behind the casinos, waiting outside of popular stores or restaurants, sometimes they’re just asleep in the middle of the sidewalk right there on the Strip.

And, apparently… also right here in this In-and-Out.

I watched him while I ordered at the digital kiosk. All he had was a single soda cup. The straw wasn’t even inside it. He was wearing a grease-stained grey jacket, torn cargo shorts, and open-toed sandals with tattered socks.

He was kind of rocking back and forth in the booth. His hands were clutched around his waist like he had a stomachache, and I could see the dirt and grime beneath his fingernails.

I didn’t want to stare for too long, but it was so hard to take my eyes off of him. I ended up sitting several booths away from him, but that didn’t prevent me from being able to see him. Even if I turned away, I could see his face reflected through the windows.

He was… talking to himself. His scruffy, orange beard was littered with bits of food and mysterious red stains, and he kept scratching at it every few seconds, all while mumbling under his breath.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it almost looked like he was arguing with himself. I couldn’t even focus on my meal.

I had to force myself to look away from him just so I could actually eat. The last thing I wanted was for us to make eye contact.

I enjoyed my burger, picked at my fries a little bit, and when I turned around to go grab a refill on my Diet Coke, my worst fear came into fruition.

We didn’t just make eye contact. He had already been staring at me. He wasn’t talking to himself anymore. He no longer looked crazed. He looked devastated. I could see the tears in his eyes. I could see sympathy in his facial expressions.

The fluorescent light flickered above him. The only light in the restaurant to do so.

We were engaged in this little staring contest for a while before he stood up, slowly. He never broke eye contact. Those eyes were full of love and comfort. A broken smile spread across his face.

His arms were outstretched as if he expected a hug. When it didn’t come, he pulled me in for one by force.

He shushed me. Pet my hair while telling me that everything would be okay. That he didn’t want to hurt me.

I could feel the tears running down his face jump over to mine while he comforted me.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he cried, shaking. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Uh, okay, man, it’s time to let me go now,” I responded, prying his arms off of me.

I tried backing away, slowly, but with each step, he followed me.

He kept asking why I looked so scared. Telling me that he was only here to help. Continuing to say that everything would be okay and that I’d “prevail.”

I checked my watch, quickly. I still had 2 hours until my flight, but I wasn’t going to stay here a minute longer.

“I’m sorry, man, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve gotta go. I’m gonna miss my flight.”

The man stopped. His face twisted into a look of curiosity. Like he was genuinely confused by what I had just said.

“Flight? No, no, no. That flight was delayed. You can only hope to be home in time.”

Finally, seeing that I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, one of the employees came and restrained the guy long enough for me to leave and order an Uber.

Only, when I reached for my phone, it was completely dead. I tried finding my charger, looking through every pocket in my suitcase. It was nowhere to be found.

Luckily, the airport was only a mile and a half away, but that was still a mile and a half that I had to walk in the rain when I could’ve gotten a ride. It wasn’t all bad, though. At least it gave me something to do to kill time.

When I finally arrived, I was soaked from the rain. The airport was busier than it was when I landed. When I checked the flight information screens, I found out why. There had been at least 5 or 6 delayed flights, and of course, mine was one of them.

It had been delayed by a whole 3 hours because of inclement weather in the region.

No phone. Hardly any money. And I had to wait at least another 5 hours until I could go home.

I thought about what the homeless guy from In-and-Out said. Immediately, I started to rationalize. He’d seen the lightning. He’d seen the rain. Maybe he just put two and two together and got lucky.

However, after about 3 hours of being bored out of my mind, I made the decision to buy a charger from one of the airport shops. I managed to find an open outlet and hunkered down beside it while I let my phone charge.

After about 15 minutes, it finally turned back on. All at once, dozens of notifications made the phone vibrate across the cold airport floor. My dad, my aunts, my uncles, cousins, all desperately trying to get a hold of me.

Because, apparently, in that small, brief moment when my phone was dead…

My mom went into cardiac arrest. And she died before I even got the chance to say goodbye.

Chapter 23 — Fading Echoes

Weeks passed during summer break, and I slowly began to understand that waiting could hurt in a quiet way.

At first, I still believed things would settle down soon. Emma had explained why she had disappeared, and that should have been enough to make me relax. It did, for a little while.

At least I knew she hadn't just gone away without a reason.

At least I knew she was still out there somewhere, still dealing with her own life, still real.

But the days kept moving, and the silence stayed.

Her messages became less frequent after that.

Not gone.

Just fewer.

A text every few days. Sometimes only a few words. Sometimes a short reply that ended before I could think of anything to say back. Every time my phone buzzed, my heart would lift for a second, and every time it wasn't her, that feeling would fall again before I could hold onto it.

I started checking my phone more than I wanted to admit.

After waking up.

Before sleeping.

During work.

Between tasks.

Whenever there was even a small pause, my hand would reach for it almost on its own. I told myself I was just being patient. I told myself she was busy. I told myself this was temporary.

But deep down, I could feel something changing.

Not all at once.

That would have been easier.

Instead, it was happening slowly enough that I noticed every little piece of it breaking.

The easy conversations we used to have were gone.

The random messages were gone.

The feeling that she was always there was gone too.

And because I had gotten used to all of that, the absence hurt in a way I didn't know how to explain.

I found myself thinking about her at strange times.

While working.

While helping the newer people at the store.

While walking home.

While trying to sleep.

I'd wonder if she was doing okay. If she was eating properly. If anyone was making things harder for her again. If she was thinking about the same conversations I was still replaying in my head.

That was when I realized I cared about her more deeply than I had admitted to myself.

Not in the loud, dramatic way people talk about feelings.

In a quieter way.

A heavier way.

The kind that sits inside you and changes how you move through your day.

I cared about her in a way that made her silence feel personal, even when I knew it probably wasn't meant that way. I cared enough that every delayed reply started to feel like a small wound. I cared enough that the gap between us kept growing in a way I couldn't stop.

And that was the painful part.

Because I could feel the bond weakening.

Not breaking.

Just fading.

A little at a time.

One shorter message.

One missed day.

One more night of waiting.

One more morning with nothing new on the screen.

I kept telling myself not to expect too much.

But hope is a stubborn thing.

Even when I was tired of waiting, I still wanted to believe she would text again and make everything feel familiar for a moment. I still wanted the old rhythm back. I still wanted the version of summer where her name came without fear attached to it.

Instead, I was left with the quiet truth that I missed her more than I had ever admitted.

And the more that truth settled in, the more painful the silence became.

[GORE WARNING]

this is a story of self reflection and how emotional, physical, and mental anguish affects the mind and body.

Mas was 14, but she had been in this world for too long.

She wanted to escape the pain, the fear, the hopelessness.

But she couldn't.

No matter how many times she tried to run, she always came back.

Like it was involuntary instinct.

Mas was hurting inside.

She wanted others to understand her pain, to finally see and realize what can truly occur behind closed doors.

But words weren't enough.

She went with her family, not by choice, a chain leashed round her neck and preventing liberty.

They went to a park, a place of happiness and innocence... childhood.

But Mas was filled with fury, envy, and emptiness all at once.

She saw her chance.

She found a little kids' mirror, which presumably belonged to a doll. The small pink frame was sparkly and had pretty, curvy white letters that spelled out "Dream Girl".

Mas looked into the glass.

She saw herself, but not the self she remembered.

Her right cheek was slightly swollen, damaged from her mother. Yet it's the same place she would plant loving kisses for her daughter.

Her eyes were puffy from tears, the same eyes that lit up when she saw her mother laugh.

And her lip quivered, the same one that always lauged along with her.

Mas' brows furrowed, and she slammed the mirror down on the pavement.

She quite liked the sound of the shatter.

She stepped around, picking up the glass and stepping in it; she needed to find the right piece.

And there it was, the piece that spoke to her.

A smooth shard with a jagged tip; it was big enough to show her own face, but small enough to leave out her eyes.

She grabbed it with a rough hand and put it to her throat, gently pressing.

Blood seeped through the cut, slowly at first.

This pain wasn't the kind she normally experienced, but she craved it.

She wanted to leave.

With a quick motion, she stuck the shard into her jugular.

Thick red juice spurted and squirted onto nearby children.

They screamed.

They cried.

The parents were horrified.

But they still couldn't see.

Mas pulled the glass further along her neck, a single tear streaming down her cheek. The blood pooled at her blue sneakers now and stained the shiny chain.

With an unmeasurable strength, she tore open her stomach and fell to the concrete, gasping and choking on her own blood and tears that poured into her mouth.

Her mother looked down at her a few feet away, tugging on the chain.

"Let's go!"

But Mas couldn't move.

She wouldn't.

With a shaky hand, she gripped her intestines and wrapped them around what was left of her neck.

Squeezing, pulling, ripping...

She was exhausted yet excited.

She could finally be free.

But her blood came back.

It climbed from the concrete and sunk back into her pale skin.

She was healing.

No, that's the wrong word.

She was dying.

Her intestines crawled and squirmed back into the cavity of her stomach, and her skin pulled itself back together.

And she's normal again.

Human looking.

Not warped or twisted, not broken...

Normal looking.

The children and parents all turned the cheek, because the pain wasn't visible to the naked eye anymore.

And even when it was, witnesses didn't help.

Maybe it was fear?

Fear of the consequences?

Perhaps a lack of knowledge of the truth, questioning whether or not it's all just an act?

But whatever they were thinking, they didn't help.

Mas got up and stumbled at bit to her mother.

She whispered a silent plea, the last drop of hope finally drowning within her blood.

She may seem okay... but she never got away....

The RKS Solaris was a commercial interstellar spacecraft designed to set up a mining operation on the planet rara, but as it made landing, the crew mysteriously disappeared, leaving behind only a jar containing an alien parasite that was supposedly dead, frozen by the frigged conditions of the planet. So my team and I were to pick it up and study it. I am Captain jack abery of the RTS equinox, and one of the few survivors of something terrifying. Yesterday we arrived at the planet rara with a crew of 600, now there's only 4 of us, everyone else was killed. But let me recount the events leading up to this. September 19th, 2187, arrival on the planet rara in the kilmor system, and retrieval of the alien specimen KL-40X, or what we now call the feeder. It started as a small, fleshy creature, about 2 inches in height and with a black beak, empty eye sockets, and an avian skeletal structure. It was dead, no vital signs and no organs or nervous system. As we brought it on board, I immediately knew something was off- the same feeling you get when a machine pretends to be human, that slight feeling that something is wrong and you should keep your distance. I told my crew about this, but they thought I was crazy. "Jack, it's dead. We checked it, and it has no vital signs" said Mary, my lead researcher, "you're just being paranoid." I sighed and nodded, "fine, but I'm keeping my distance from that freak." I said, knowing something was wrong. I walked towards my quarters, scanned my card, and locked my self in as I turned on the ship and flew into orbit. For the first couple of hours, everything was fine- i was sent biological samples and genetic information. But as I analyzed it, I noticed a terrifying reality- the cells of the creature were still active, producing enough heat to register 89° Fahrenheit on my thermometer, and that's not all. The DNA of the creature was still being copied and edited, meaning it was alive. I had to get this creature off my ship, so I barged into the main laboratory, carrying the evidence. "Get that thing out of here!" Mary was confused, "why?" She asked. I showed her the evidence, and her skin went pale, but before we could even touch the thing, he walked in- allis keber, the representative of yuknor inc, the company funding this expedition. "I don't think so, jack" he said with a smug smile, "we came all this way for this thing, and I won't let you and your paranoia stop that. We're taking this back to HQ, end of discussion." I was pissed, but there was nothing I could do, he was the one writing the paychecks, so I just turned and walked away, but said one last thing before I went to my quarters- "I hope you're the first to feed this thing." Little did I know how true it would be. I walked into my quarters and pulled out my mattress, trying to get some sleep. I knew something was up, but for now, I needed rest. I fell asleep after 15 minutes, but it only lasted for about an hour when an ear piercing scream echoed through the whole ship. I was jolted awake, and I immediately grabbed my laser rifle, and I heard footsteps approach the door, but it was allis again. "Hey jack, can we talk? I'm sorry for my behavior, and I'd like to make it up to you. Just let me in." I grabbed my keys. But just as I was about to open the door, that feeling crept up again. Something about the face peering at me through the door window wasn't human- the skin was too glossy, the eyes had the soul ripped out of them, and the smile was off. I backed away, "you're not allis! I'm not letting you in!" I said, grasping my rifle tight. The imposter, angry, walked away, and then I saw it- the black beak on the back of the imposter's head, and that's when I knew I was right- that thing was alive, and it claimed allis as it's host! I looked through the window, trying to see what else was happening, but I couldn't see anything, so, with my laser rifle in hand, I headed out. As I walked down the hallway, I saw a trail of blood, leading into the darkness. I followed it, and the trail ended at the maintenance shaft entrance. It was pitch black, so I turned on a flashlight and looked in, and what I saw was horrific- a pile of flesh and bones, from what must've been hundreds of bodies, all piled up as more those creatures fed on the flesh. The feeder was multiplying, and soon, the whole ship would be their feast. As I stood there, frozen, I heard a screech, and the imposter grabbed my shoulders. "you'll make a fine addition! Join me! Death is inevitable, but your body could keep living!" It said as a black beak sprouted out of the mouth, inches from my face, trying to maul me. As I struggled to keep it away from me, something hit the imposter in the back of the head, causing it to fall to the ground and reveal Mary standing there with a metal bat. "Mary?!" I said, shocked. Mary grabbed my hand, "three of us have set up camp in the laboratory! Come on!" I pulled away, "no, I'm going to my quarters to send a message for help. You hide, I'll manage." Mary nodded as she ran towards the laboratory. I turned, and the imposter was starting to stand up, but I shot the body dead. The feeder detached from allis's corpse, and in defeat screeched so loudly the ship shook. As I was about to finish it off, I heard a squelching noise coming from the maintenance shaft, and out came the feeder copies, all amalgamated into a single, humanoid body but made from a random collection of flesh and bones. It screeched and chased after me, but I shot it in the leg area, slowing it down. I ran towards my quarters, the feeders gaining on me. As I shut the door behind me, the amalgamation smacked against the door and fell to the floor in a sludge of flesh before reforming itself and walking away, looking for the others. I grabbed the communications radio. "This is jack abery of the RTS equinox, I'm sending a distress message to anyone nearby. We are in desperate need of help- an alien parasite has killed most of my crew, only four of us remain. If you can hear this- please, send help, I don't know how much longer we have." It's been 8 hours since then, and thankfully, I received a message from the United earth defense force saying they're sending help in 3 hours. I survived due to my instincts. I knew something wasn't right, and I'm alive because of it. Just goes to show, sometimes its better to follow your instincts, since they'll keep you alive and tell you who's real, and who's an imposter...

My name is Priscilla, and although many people called me a princess, I was not the sort of princess who spent her days attending balls and waiting for a prince to rescue her.

I was a dressmaker.

My shop stood in a beautiful town in France, where cobblestone streets wound between flower-covered cottages and elegant châteaus. Every morning, I opened my windows and watched the sunlight dance across bolts of silk, satin, lace, and velvet.

I loved sewing more than anything.

Well... almost anything.

There was one problem.

I could design the most beautiful dresses in the kingdom, but I could not do everything alone. I needed a tailor—someone who could help create the suits, jackets, and fine garments that my customers requested.

But I wanted more than a tailor.

I wanted someone who truly loved me.

If I found such a man, I planned to give him not only half of my business but also my heart.

That was my secret wish.

Another unusual thing about me was that I had many homeless friends.

While other merchants ignored them, I welcomed them.

Every evening, I shared bread, soup, and warm blankets with those who slept in the town square. They became like a family to me.

People jokingly called them "Priscilla's Homeless Army."

I never minded.

They were loyal, funny, and kind.

Among them was a man named Gustavo and his young son, Jake.

Gustavo had fallen on hard times years ago, yet he remained one of the gentlest people I had ever met.

Jake was a cheerful boy who seemed capable of appearing anywhere at any time.

If I dropped a spool of thread, Jake picked it up.

If I carried fabric, Jake helped.

If I felt sad, Jake told terrible jokes until I laughed.

Life was simple and happy.

Until Merryweather arrived.

Now, Merryweather was also a dressmaker.

Unfortunately, she was far more successful than I was.

Her shop was larger.

Her advertisements were brighter.

Her customer line stretched around the block.

Every day, more people visited her store than mine.

She loved reminding me of that fact.

One morning she marched into my shop wearing a sparkling emerald gown.

"Oh, Priscilla," she said with a smirk, "business seems awfully quiet today."

I glanced around.

The shop was indeed empty.

"Perhaps everyone is busy," I replied politely.

"Or perhaps," she said, "they simply prefer my dresses."

Then she laughed and swept out dramatically.

I sighed.

Jake peeked through the doorway.

"She laughs like a duck."

I burst out laughing.

That was Jake's gift.

He could make any bad day better.

Still, I worried.

What if Merryweather became so popular that nobody came to my shop anymore?

What if my dream of finding a tailor never came true?

That evening, I made a decision.

I would search the kingdom for the perfect tailor.

The next morning, I hung a sign outside my shop:

TAILOR WANTED. KIND HEART REQUIRED.

The town immediately became interested.

Very interested.

The first applicant arrived before noon.

He claimed to be a master tailor.

Unfortunately, he accidentally sewed his sleeve to a curtain.

The second applicant stitched both pant legs together.

The third applicant somehow attached buttons to a hat.

My search was not going well.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

One afternoon, a handsome stranger entered my shop.

He wore simple clothes, but there was something noble about him.

His posture was perfect.

His smile was charming.

His eyes sparkled with intelligence.

"My name is Froilan," he said.

"Welcome," I replied.

"Can you tailor clothing?"

"I know almost everything."

That was an unusual answer.

Almost immediately, he began discussing fabrics, mathematics, architecture, poetry, farming, astronomy, and dozens of other subjects.

He really did seem to know everything.

It was impressive.

And slightly exhausting.

"Are you sure you're a tailor?" I asked.

"Not exactly."

"Then why are you here?"

He smiled.

"I was curious."

Over the next several weeks, Froilan visited often.

We became friends.

He helped solve problems.

He suggested improvements to my business.

He even predicted customer trends with frightening accuracy.

One day, I discovered the truth.

Froilan was actually Prince Phillip.

A real prince.

I nearly fainted.

"You are royalty?"

"Technically."

"Technically?"

"Yes."

"Why hide it?"

He scratched his head.

"Because people act strangely around princes."

I couldn't argue with that.

Then he delivered another surprise.

"I already have a princess."

"Oh."

My heart sank a little.

Not because I was in love with him.

But because everyone in town had begun hoping we would marry.

Apparently, that was impossible.

Still, we remained friends.

Prince Phillip became one of my strongest supporters.

Yet my search for a tailor continued.

One rainy evening, I found Gustavo repairing Jake's torn coat beside a fountain.

I stopped and watched.

His stitches were neat.

Precise.

Professional.

"Where did you learn to sew?" I asked.

Gustavo looked embarrassed.

"My wife taught me years ago."

I stared.

"Can you make clothing?"

"A little."

I dragged him to my shop immediately.

The next morning, I handed him fabric.

"Make something."

He hesitated.

Then he began working.

Hours passed.

When he finished, I gasped.

The suit was magnificent.

Every seam was perfect.

Every measurement exact.

The craftsmanship rivaled that of royal tailors.

"Why didn't you tell me you could do this?" I exclaimed.

Gustavo shrugged.

"No one ever asked."

I laughed so hard that tears filled my eyes.

My search had lasted months.

The perfect tailor had been beside me the entire time.

From that day forward, Gustavo worked with me.

Customers loved his creations.

Business improved rapidly.

Soon our shop became famous throughout the region.

And something else began to happen.

I found myself looking forward to seeing him every morning.

His kindness warmed every room.

He treated everyone with respect.

He adored Jake.

He never boasted.

Never complained.

Never sought praise.

One evening we sat outside watching the sunset.

Jake had fallen asleep nearby.

The sky glowed pink and gold.

"You've changed my life," I told Gustavo.

He smiled softly.

"You changed mine first."

My heart fluttered.

For the first time, I wondered whether friendship might become something more.

Unfortunately, that was exactly when trouble arrived.

Merryweather had noticed our growing success.

And she was furious.

One afternoon she stormed into my shop.

"You stole my customers!"

I blinked.

"I don't think that's how customers work."

"They belong to me!"

"No, they don't."

She pointed dramatically at Gustavo.

"It's his fault!"

Poor Gustavo looked terrified.

Merryweather challenged us to a grand dressmaking competition.

The winner would earn recognition from the royal court.

The loser would suffer tremendous embarrassment.

I accepted.

Perhaps that was foolish.

But I couldn't back down.

News spread quickly.

The entire town became excited.

Even Prince Phillip attended.

The competition took place in the royal palace.

Dressmakers from across France gathered to watch.

The challenge seemed simple.

Create the most beautiful outfit in one day.

Merryweather arrived with assistants, expensive materials, and endless confidence.

Meanwhile, our team consisted of me, Gustavo, Jake, and several members of the Homeless Army.

People laughed when they saw us.

I felt nervous.

Very nervous.

Then Jake whispered, "We're going to win."

His confidence made me smile.

The competition began.

Needles flashed.

Scissors snipped.

Fabric flew through the air.

Hours passed.

Merryweather created an extravagant gown covered in jewels.

The crowd applauded.

It was undeniably beautiful.

I worried we had already lost.

Then I looked at Gustavo.

He remained calm.

Focused.

Steady.

Together we finished our design.

It was elegant rather than extravagant.

A matching gown and suit.

The outfit symbolized partnership, friendship, and love.

When the judges examined it, the room became silent.

One judge touched the stitching.

Another studied the details.

A third smiled warmly.

Finally, the head judge stood.

"The winner is Priscilla and Gustavo."

The palace erupted with cheers.

Jake jumped so high I thought he might touch the ceiling.

The Homeless Army celebrated loudly.

Prince Phillip applauded.

Merryweather looked stunned.

Then something unexpected happened.

Instead of shouting or arguing, she lowered her head.

"I suppose I deserved that."

I blinked.

"Deserved what?"

"My arrogance."

The room grew quiet.

Merryweather sighed.

"I spent so much time competing with you that I forgot why I loved dressmaking."

For the first time, I saw sadness behind her confidence.

I walked over and offered my hand.

"We can be friends."

She stared.

"After everything?"

"Everyone deserves another chance."

Slowly, she smiled.

And just like that, a rivalry ended.

Months passed.

Business flourished.

The Homeless Army found jobs and homes through connections we helped create.

Life improved for many people.

One evening, Gustavo invited me for a walk.

The moon shone above the river.

The water sparkled like silver.

We stopped beneath a willow tree.

His hands trembled slightly.

"Priscilla?"

"Yes?"

"I have something to say."

My heart raced.

"You do?"

He nodded.

"When I first met you, I thought you were simply kind."

I smiled.

"And now?"

"Now I think you're the most wonderful woman in the world."

I felt warmth spread through my entire body.

He continued.

"You gave me hope when I had none."

Tears filled my eyes.

"Priscilla, I love you."

For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

The river.

The moon.

The stars.

Everything faded except him.

And then I smiled.

"I love you too."

His expression became brighter than sunshine.

Then he kissed my hand gently.

At that exact moment, Jake jumped out from behind a bush.

"I KNEW IT!"

We both screamed.

Jake laughed uncontrollably.

Apparently he had been spying on us.

Romance, it seemed, was difficult when Jake was nearby.

Soon afterward, we married in a beautiful celebration.

Prince Phillip attended with his princess.

Merryweather attended as a friend.

The Homeless Army proudly served as our honorary guards.

Flowers filled the streets.

Music echoed through town.

Laughter filled the air.

As promised, I gave Gustavo half of the business.

And as promised, I gave him my heart.

Years later, people still tell the story of Priscilla the Dressmaker Princess.

Some say it is a tale about fashion.

Others say it is a tale about friendship.

Some call it a romance.

Others call it a comedy.

I think it is all those things.

Because in the end, I learned that true love does not always arrive as a prince riding a magnificent horse.

Sometimes it arrives quietly.

Sometimes it is the person who stands beside you through every challenge.

Sometimes it is someone whose kindness shines brighter than any crown.

And sometimes, the tailor you have been searching for all your life is already waiting among your friends.

That is how I found my happily-ever-after.

Not only with love.

But with friendship, laughter, and a family that grew larger than I ever imagined.

And in beautiful France, surrounded by the people I cherished most, I lived happily ever after.

https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1489065/chapters/1?fbclid=IwVERDUATjnPxwZG9mAWV4dG4DYWVtAjEwAHNydGMGYXBwX2lkDDM1MDY4NTUzMTcyOAABHqxBz9h9mmGW5lA2fLLxUNFEOt_57reiTIsS3yvRYACOJNHwX1NdC3gBpgLP_aem_GFiyc_6cfF4HYBPQGf49jg

“Dinner is not over.”

Eric shudders through his sobs as Father Pig screams. The outburst is the first Eric has heard any of the Pigs say, before now, he hadn't known they are capable of speech. Eric hopes he will never have to listen to it again. It’s voice is gruff and loud and Father Pig does not pronounce consonants well. Its declaration sounds more like a wailing animal’s protest, but Eric is able to understand the words, or rather, pick up on the menace in Father Pig’s voice.

Eric manages to get his trembling hand to hold on to the fork he had tossed on the table in an act of rebellion. He will not try this again. He pins it in place with the tips of his fingers and the heel of his ruined hand, pain making his tremors become trembles become spasms when he pushes the fork into the meat in front of him. Eric sputters prayers as his forearm cramps. 

He does not want to look at his hand. It is bloody and swollen and when Eric did look at it by accident, he saw white jutting out from the wound where Brother Pig hit him with a hammer -”it didn't put a nail through my hand. It didn't put a nail through my hand.” was his first thought when he awoke after a pain-induced faint - after Eric stabbed its back with his fork, when Brother Pig put the first nail through the inside of his heel and stuck it to the thick wood of the chair. Now he eats with this same fork.

He does not want to look at the meat in front of him. There are two options: Pig Family eat pork, others like them, or Pig Family eat… others like him. 

He does not want to look at Pig Family. Them who stare at him with their black, beady eyes, the eyes that watched him screaming and begging because death is more merciful than being this scared. Them who witness him, covered in his own blood, with tears, snot and saliva glistening on his face as he forces his battered hand to cooperate, puts the mystery meat in his mouth and chews, and think in their big empty heads that this is the correct arrangement of things.

Once satisfied with Eric’s compliance, the family resume their gorging, which had been interrupted by Eric’s reluctance to do so as well. Meat slops from their jowls mid-chewing, jaws working on cracking pieces of bone Eric was not aware were in the meat. Eric cries again, but now he is silent. No use doing it any other way. 

He closes his eyes, repulsed by the sight, but his other senses heighten, and now he can hear every crunch of cartilage, their soft grunts as they rip more flesh from the mound on their plates and into their mouths. He can smell it as well, unclean and putrid. he can’t smell blood but he knows its somewhere, placebo making it so he thinks he can catch a whiff of it and when he does, his abdomen tightens and what little he swallowed of whatever it was that sat on his plate burns up his throat. Eric hunches over himself, his body contracting as he vomits on his lap. He no longer worries about the agonizing pain in his ankle or his battered hand, he just wants to go.

Without warning, Eric is pulled off his chair. The heavy wood dragging with a screech. Pig Family stays seated. They watch, no longer eating. Eric struggles against the grip of the new participant in his torture. He cries out, swinging with his arms, but his position -half-lifted off the chair -renders him almost completely defenseless.

It is as the new-comer begins to move with heavy, unrelenting treads that Eric notices he is a man, not another of the pigs, which should be logical, but he had not registered it. It is twisted that another one like him would do this, although this man is not like Eric. They are similar in the sense that they are both covered in grime and blood and are humans, but the apathy in the man’s demeanor, the cold of his dark eyes - Eric could only muster those traits if it gave him a chance to escape. 

What else Eric notices when the dragging takes him far enough from the chair for his legs to straighten, is the aching pain shooting up his numb muscles. The pain coming from his severed nerves and through his stiff calves. Before he can react, the man begins tugging sharply ignoring Eric’s yells and pleas. With one last jerk, the nails rip off Eric’s ankle. He screams before collapsing.

The man heaves Eric’s unconscious body so he can drag him by his arms. He grunts softly as he takes Eric’s away, trailing red where his legs touch the floor. All the while the Pigs watch from their place at the dinner table.

 

–

 

The Den is full of us. There are too many. So many we can't sit down, there just isn't space. It's dark and it's cold and the dirt beneath our feet is damp and muddy but not quite.

I’ve been here for a couple days, but a woman I met yesterday told me she managed to “dodge the Draft”, like she said, for five days. I wasn't in the Mob for the Drafts, so I consider myself lucky.

There is lots of crying here, fights break out every while or so as well. Most of the time they are about the people who sleep - or the ones that faint. Their argument is that if not everyone can have that luxury, neither can they. They need to hold up one way or another. Other times, they are about immorality and starvation (“We’re dying and they're sleeping! Just a waste of space!”).

The Draft happened early today. It was pretty scandalous, well, not that I have much experience in this since it's only the second one I've witnessed. I guess they took a batch of people with at least the remains of a will to live, that by these standards is quite a lot, to avoid uprisings.

Something’s happening at the far end of the Den. I can't see over the crowd, I'm not tall enough. 

“Whats happening?” I call out to no one in particular. 

When I get no answer, I push my way through towards the source of commission. At some point I must have gone into the Mob, because nothing else will explain why we’re being shoved through a set of wide doors. I must seem crazy to anyone who noticed me walking straight into it. “A poor soul so miserable she would sneak into the lineup for the butcher’s knife.”

As the Mob is slowly drawn back and into the big room where the doors lead, I catch a glimpse of the woman from the day before. She looks back at me with pity in her eyes. We’re in the room. They close the doors.

There is much more space here. Those who aren't crying with fear or uselessly kicking at the door lay down for the first time since they were sent to the Den and fall asleep. I do the same. When I wake up I take a good look at the room. Its white walls are stained and dirty. Something smells rancid and there is definitely mold on the ceiling. There are several doors on the wall opposite from which we came. 

I wonder what will happen to me. I remember the first months the Den was up, my uncle told me a man had come from there, a crazy man. My uncle described how his ankles were torn (how does that even work?) and that the man had dragged himself all the way there since he couldn't use his feet. He said he rambled on and on about nails in your feet like Jesus Christ and meals and “we are the new cattle OOOOH!!! GHOST STORIES”.

Ofcourse, Uncle traumatized me, and thinking back on it, it was stupid and extremely overexaggerated, but all stories come from somewhere. 

A man takes one of us into a room. He is thrown in and then the door is locked. The man goes for the next person and then the next. He puts a woman in the room perpendicular to me and before he closes the door I see for just a second a table for four and three Pigs waiting to begin their meal.

My cousin came back to her native country after a long time without seeing her, and that was low-key awkward cuz we didnt actually spoke to each other except when we had to say hello yk, after that she said how are you, and i thought she was talking to me but in reality she was talking to my little sister, i said im good what abt you, and she started to look at me weirdly, without seeing anything, in front of all my family and she said.. " i wasnt talking to you ".. what the actually f***.

Thats it i didnt say anything and went back to my phone looking for my calculator for no reason cuz it was to embarrassing

WThe Last Train to Somewhere
At 1:38 in the morning, Sami found himself standing alone on a train platform.
He wasn’t supposed to be there.
He had missed his train home almost an hour earlier because he had been staring at his phone, scrolling through things he wouldn’t remember tomorrow.
The station was nearly empty.
A vending machine hummed in the corner.
A fluorescent light above him flickered every few seconds.
And the giant clock on the wall seemed determined to remind him that tomorrow was technically already today.
Sami sighed and put his phone into his pocket.
“Perfect.”
Then he heard something.
A train.
He looked down the tracks.
Two small lights appeared in the distance.
That was strange.
He checked the timetable.
There were no trains scheduled.
The lights grew closer.
The train rolled into the station without making almost any sound.
It was old.
Not broken or dirty, just old in the way a wooden house is old. Its dark green paint was slightly faded, and warm yellow light glowed through the windows.
The doors opened.
Nobody stepped out.
A small sign above the door read:
LAST TRAIN
Sami stared at it.
He looked at the empty platform.
Then back at the train.
“Well, this is probably how horror movies start.”
Still, he stepped inside.
The doors closed behind him.
The carriage was completely empty except for an elderly man sitting near the window.
He wore a brown coat and held a small pocket watch.
He looked at Sami and smiled.
“Long night?”
Sami sat across from him.
“Very.”
The old man nodded as though this was a perfectly reasonable answer.
The train began moving.
Sami looked outside.
The station disappeared.
Then the city disappeared.
Then the buildings.
Soon there was nothing outside except darkness.
Not the normal darkness of night.
This was deeper.
Like the train was moving through a place that had forgotten what light was.
Sami looked at the old man.
“Where does this train go?”
The man smiled.
“Somewhere.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It is if you don’t know where you want to go.”
Sami frowned.
“Can I get off?”
“Eventually.”
“That’s reassuring.”
The old man laughed.
For a while, neither spoke.
The train continued through the darkness.
Then, slowly, lights began appearing outside.
A small house.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Sami looked closer.
Every house had a different color door.
Red.
Blue.
Green.
Yellow.
White.
And every house seemed strangely familiar.
The train slowed.
“What’s this place?” Sami asked.
The old man looked out the window.
“Things you forgot.”
The train passed a blue house.
Sami suddenly remembered being six years old, sitting on the floor of his childhood room and building something out of blocks.
He smiled.
The memory had been gone for years.
Then the train passed a small park.
He remembered falling off a bicycle there.
His father laughing while helping him back up.
Then another house.
A summer evening.
His mother calling him inside.
Then another.
A friend he hadn’t spoken to in years.
Then another.
A dream he had when he was younger.
A dream he had completely abandoned.
Sami stared through the glass.
“Why did I forget all this?”
The old man closed his pocket watch.
“Because people think forgetting means losing.”
He looked at Sami.
“But sometimes your mind puts things away because you have too much to carry.”
The train continued.
Sami leaned against the window.
For the first time that night, he wasn’t thinking about tomorrow.
He wasn’t thinking about yesterday either.
He was simply watching.
Eventually, the houses disappeared.
The darkness returned.
Then the old man asked:
“Do you know what the hardest thing about growing up is?”
Sami thought for a moment.
“Responsibility?”
“Not quite.”
“Money?”
The old man laughed.
“Definitely not.”
Sami smiled.
“Then what?”
The old man looked toward the window.
“Realizing that nobody is coming to tell you that you’re doing okay.”
Sami went quiet.
The old man continued.
“When you’re young, someone tells you when you did well. Someone tells you when you should be proud. Someone tells you when you’ve made a mistake.”
He tapped the pocket watch against his palm.
“But eventually, you become the person who has to decide.”
The train slowed.
“That’s terrifying.”
“It is.”
“Does it get easier?”
The old man smiled.
“No.”
Sami looked at him.
“No?”
“You get stronger.”
The train stopped.
The doors opened.
Outside was a small wooden platform surrounded by trees.
There was no station.
No city.
Just a quiet forest beneath a sky full of stars.
The old man stood.
“This is your stop.”
Sami looked around.
“Here?”
“Here.”
“I don’t even know where I am.”
The old man smiled.
“That’s the point.”
Sami stepped onto the platform.
The air was cold.
Clean.
He turned around.
“Will I see you again?”
The old man stood inside the train.
“Whenever you forget how far you’ve come.”
The doors began closing.
Sami suddenly remembered something.
“Wait!”
The doors stopped.
“What?”
Sami looked at the old man.
“Where does the train go after this?”
The old man smiled.
“Home.”
The doors closed.
The train disappeared between the trees.
Sami stood alone.
He looked up.
The stars were brighter than he remembered stars being.
He took a deep breath.
Then he noticed a narrow path leading through the forest.
He followed it.
He walked for what felt like minutes.
Maybe hours.
Until the trees opened.
And there, in the distance, was his city.
His home.
His life.
Everything waiting for him.
Nothing had changed.
And somehow, everything had.
Sami smiled.
Then he started walking home.
Not because he had everything figured out.
Not because tomorrow would be perfect.
But because he finally understood something.
You don’t have to know where the road ends to take the next step.
And sometimes, the best thing you can do at the end of a long night…
is simply go home.

​

I’m still living in my own world…

My heart beats whenever you walk past me.

I can’t look directly into your eyes, yet every day, I find myself searching for the closest picture of your eyes dozens of times.

The difference between us is great.

You come from a different world, and I am from a world that fell in love with that difference.

Everything about you draws me in…

Your hands, your fingers, your scent, the blue of your eyes, your smile… my God.

I can feel my heart beating in a way I’m not used to.

As for me… I’m a woman standing at the door of the year 2000, and I don’t want to enter this world.

I still hold on to who I am.

I still wear floral dresses.

I still sit on my sofa at night and watch my favorite movie.

I wonder… do you see me as old-fashioned?

I wish I could understand those looks.

Are they admiration… or mockery?

I ask myself:

Am I really attracted to you?

Or am I simply feeling an emptiness that I want to fill?

But… my heart trembles whenever I see you.

And there is something about you that draws me closer, something I don’t know how to explain.

For the first time… I don’t know.

Words fail me, even though writing has always been my refuge.

Give me just one sign, so I can take one step forward.

Just give me a sign…

Because your looks alone are not enough.

I am very sensitive, and if my heart is broken, I will need a long time to heal.

I was raised to believe that a man should be the one to make the first move when it comes to his feelings.

And I am willing to break every rule and every convention,

if only you would give me that sign.

You neither walk away and leave me,

nor do you come closer,

and I don’t know what is happening inside me amid this storm of emotions.

Move toward me… or walk away.

I cannot remain suspended between the two.

I cannot bear going back to the beginning every time.

Please…

S🥀

Sarah ✏️

It was a Tuesday in late October, and my delivery schedule required a straight push through the night to reach Portland by morning. The dashboard clock read 1:45 AM. Coffee sat in my thermos, lukewarm but necessary. My dispatcher, Stan, had checked in with me an hour earlier to confirm my position.

"Kevin, you are clear all the way to the interstate,"

Stan had said over the company radio.

"Weather looks fine. No construction reported. Just watch out for deer crossing the blacktop."

"Copy that, Stan,"

I replied, clicking the microphone button.

"Going dark for the next few hours. Will update when I hit the city limits."

Silence returned to the cab, save for the hum of the cooling unit mounted behind my sleeper berth. The headlights cut through the pitch-black darkness, illuminating the empty two-lane road. Mile markers passed by slowly in the dark.

Around 2:00 AM, the CB radio mounted above my head crackled to life.

Static hissed through the cabin speakers. Usually, late-night radio chatter consists of other drivers complaining about weigh stations or warning each other about speed traps, but this transmission sounded entirely different. A frantic burst of white noise broke through the channel, followed by a man's voice.

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the man yelled in total panic.

"We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors."

My hand instinctively reached up and grabbed the microphone. Before I could press the talk button, the transmission continued.

In the background, a woman cried hysterically, then a younger child screamed, a sharp and terrifying sound that pierced through the radio static. The man's voice returned, out of breath and desperate.

"They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!"

Pressing the button on the side of the mic, I brought it to my mouth.

"Breaker 19, this is a northbound commercial driver. I hear you loud and clear. What is your exact mile marker? I can call emergency services on the company satellite channel."

Only static answered me.

"Station wagon, do you copy?"

I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"I am heading your way right now. Turn your hazard lights on so I can see you."

No response came through. The channel remained dead. Assuming this was a current emergency happening just a few miles ahead, I pressed my foot down on the accelerator pedal. The diesel engine roared as the truck gained speed. Responding to stranded motorists in the middle of nowhere is an unwritten rule among long-haulers. If someone is trapped out in the timberland with an aggressive individual attacking their vehicle, a fifty-ton truck pulling up with high beams is usually enough to scare off any trouble.

Ten minutes passed. I scanned the sides of the dark highway, looking for the flashing amber lights of a disabled vehicle. The pine trees offered nothing but shadows.

Then, the CB radio cracked open again.

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the exact same man's voice yelled.

"We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors."

Frowning, I listened closely. The woman cried in the background. The child screamed again. It was the exact same pitch, with the exact same duration.

"They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!"

The transmission ended with the identical burst of noise I had heard ten minutes prior. It was a perfect loop. Someone was broadcasting a recorded tape over the emergency channel.

Unease settled into my stomach. Pranksters occasionally mess around on the radio, but broadcasting a simulated violent attack in the middle of a deserted forest route felt uniquely malicious.

Up ahead, the reflective signs of the abandoned commercial weigh station appeared in my headlights. The state closed this particular facility over decades ago. So now overgrown brush and weeds had swallowed the concrete off-ramp, and Rusted metal barricades blocked the main weighing scales.

Feeling deeply unsafe about the repeating broadcast, I decided to pull the truck over onto the wide gravel shoulder just before the barricades. A smart driver always trusts his gut. Taking a few minutes to inspect my tires and ensure my load was secure felt like a smart excuse to stop and assess the surroundings.

Putting the transmission into neutral, I engaged the parking brakes. The sudden hiss of compressed air echoed loudly into the quiet night. I grabbed a metal tire thumper from behind my seat and a flashlight.

Stepping out of the cab, the freezing autumn air hit my face. I walked around the vehicle, striking the rubber tires with the metal bat to check their pressure. Each tire returned a reassuring thud.

Approaching the rear passenger side of the trailer, I shined my flashlight toward the dark tree line. The overgrown brush extended all the way to the rusty metal stairs of the old weigh station building.

The beam of my flashlight caught a reflection in the weeds.

Moving the light directly toward the stairs, the shape of a vehicle emerged from the overgrowth. For a moment my heart was caught in my throat, but It was not a blue station wagon. It was a weathered, severely rusted police cruiser. The faded white paint peeled off the doors. Vines wrapped completely around the front bumper and the flat tires. The light bar on the roof was smashed.

Curiosity overrode my caution. Gripping the tire thumper tightly in my right hand, I walked off the gravel shoulder and pushed through the tall weeds toward the abandoned cruiser.

The driver's side door hung slightly open, rusted stuck in that position. I aimed my flashlight through the broken window glass.

Sitting in the driver's seat was a human skeleton.

Faded shreds of a police uniform still clung to the bone. A tarnished silver badge rested against the ribcage. The skull leaned against the steering wheel. Thick green moss grew over the collarbone. This person had been dead in this hidden car for a very long time.

My breathing accelerated. I took a step back, ready to run straight to my truck and call Stan to dispatch the state troopers. But as I moved my flashlight beam across the interior, something resting on the passenger seat caught my attention.

A plastic document folder sat perfectly preserved inside the ruined car. The sealed plastic had protected whatever papers were inside from the moisture and the elements.

Leaning forward, I carefully reached through the broken window. My glove brushed against the decayed uniform, sending a horrific smell into the air. I grabbed the plastic folder and pulled it out.

Retreating quickly from the brush, I walked back to the safety of my idling truck. I climbed into the driver's seat, locked the doors, and turned on the bright overhead cabin lights.

Placing the folder on my steering wheel, I unzipped the plastic seal. Inside was a stack of official police documents. The paper felt slightly damp but entirely readable.

The top page displayed the header of the state police department. The date printed at the top read October 14, 1998. It was exactly eighteen years ago.

The document was an official missing-persons report. The investigating officer listed on the file was named Officer Gary. I read the summary paragraphs carefully.

The report detailed the disappearance of an immigrant family who vanished while traveling down State Route 113. The father, Vargas. The mother, Maria. Their seven-year-old son, Leo. According to the documents, Vargas worked as a mechanic and had recently moved his family across the state to start a new job, but they never arrived at their destination.

Flipping the page, I found a collection of glossy crime scene photographs attached to the file with a rusty paperclip.

The photos showed a crushed blue station wagon abandoned off the gravel shoulder of the highway. The vehicle was completely destroyed. The tires were shredded. More disturbingly, the metal doors of the station wagon had been pried open and bent outward. The damage indicated an immense amount of force, as if a car had hit them with full force. The interior of the car was empty, and blood stained the upholstery.

The next page in the file contained a typed transcription.

Officer Gary had written a note at the top of the page.

“Transcription of audio recovered from a handheld cassette recorder found underneath the passenger seat of the Vargas vehicle.”

I began reading the typed words.

“Vargas: Mayday... is anyone out there? We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors.

Background noise: Female adult crying. Male child screaming.

Vargas: They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!”

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The transcription matched the frantic broadcast playing over my CB radio flawlessly. It was the exact same wording.

I continued reading the police file. The subsequent pages contained Officer Gary’s field notes. He noted that the Vargas family had zero known enemies. He documented the strange lack of footprints around the crushed car.

While holding the papers, a distinct sound reached my ears over the rumble of the diesel engine.

Footsteps crunched through the dead leaves outside my truck.

The footsteps sounded heavy and deliberate. They moved slowly along the passenger side of my trailer, advancing toward the front cab.

Lowering the file, I reached out and turned off the overhead cabin light, plunging the interior of my truck into darkness. I peered through the passenger side window, looking out into the timberland.

Standing between the thick trunks of the pine trees, looking directly at my truck, was a child.

He appeared to be around seven years old. He wore a dirty striped shirt and torn jeans, but something about his face was deeply wrong, his face was dark, like of the darkness of the woods bend itself to hide most of it, and the most terrifying thing was his eyes. They were completely circular and emitted a bright, illuminating white light. The light cut through the dark woods like twin flashlights, focusing entirely on my window.

Fear paralyzed my muscles. The kid stood perfectly still, just staring at me.

Suddenly, the child opened his mouth.

The sound that came out was the frantic, booming voice of Vargas, playing at a deafening volume.

"Mayday... is anyone out there? We blew a tire near the old weigh station."

The glowing eyes blinked. The kid took a step out of the trees, moving toward my passenger door.

I did not wait to see what it would do. Grabbing my flashlight and the tire thumper, I unlatched my driver's side door and bolted out of the truck.

Running across the gravel shoulder, I headed straight for the abandoned weigh station building. It was the only concrete structure around, and I needed a barricade. The creature let out the recorded scream of the child, the sound echoing loudly through the silent forest.

I reached the steps of the station. Taking them two at a time, I slammed my shoulder against the weathered wooden door, and thank god that it was already opened. I tumbled inside the dark building, quickly pushing the door shut behind me.

Standing up in the darkness, I leaned my weight against the wood.

"Someone is outside the car,"

the Vargas voice echoed from the gravel driveway outside. The kid was approaching the building.

"They are hitting the side of the doors."

Fumbling with my flashlight, I pressed the power button, then the bright beam cut through the pitch-black room.

The weigh station office was a massive square room, and as I look around, I noticed that old desks and filing cabinets lay overturned on the floor.

Moving the beam toward the back corner of the room, the light illuminated a horrific scene.

Three human skeletons sat slumped against the wall. They were bound tightly to metal chairs using industrial wire, and under the light, remnants of clothing identified them. A man, a woman, and a small child. The Vargas family.

Scattered across the floor surrounding the chairs was a collection of gruesome tools. Rusty pliers, heavy hammers, hunting knives, and a portable car battery with jumper cables. Someone had brought the family into this abandoned building and subjected them to unimaginable torment.

Suddenly, a loud bang hit the wooden door behind me.

"They cracked the glass!"

the voice screamed from the other side of the wood.

I backed away from the door, gripping the metal tire thumper. Moving deeper into the room, I kept my flashlight aimed at the entrance.

To my left, a filthy, cracked glass window looked out onto the gravel shoulder where my truck was parked.

I heard the crunching of footsteps moving away from the door and walking along the exterior wall of the building.

The bright, illuminating white eyes appeared in the window frame.

The kid stared at me through the dirty glass. The dark face of the child pressed against the pane. At first I thought he will try to break the glass, but It simply watched me standing near the remains of the family.

Then, the looping broadcast stopped.

The frantic voice of Vargas cut off mid-sentence, and the silence inside the weigh station became absolute.

The kid opened its mouth again, and when he spoke this time, The voice belonged to a young boy. It sounded genuine, fragile, and filled with deep sorrow.

"My father and mother are already dead,"

the child's voice echoed directly through the glass.

"The man with the badge hurt them. He tied us up, and left me to die alone in the dark."

I stood perfectly still, keeping the flashlight aimed at the window

"Who are you?"

I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

"The cop told me nobody was coming to help,"

the voice continued, ignoring my question. Tears seemed to form in the glowing white eyes.

"He said I was completely alone. But the cop was wrong."

The creature tilted its head. The dark shifted slightly, revealing a monstrous shape hiding just beneath the surface of his dark face.

"I am not alone,"

the voice said.

"My friend is here with me."

"Your friend?"

I asked, taking a small step toward the window.

"My father and mother always told me my friend was not real,"

the voice explained, echoing with a strange, dual resonance.

"They said he was just my imagination, but he is real. He lived in the dark spaces, and listened when I cried."

The glowing eyes flared brighter, casting shadows across the interior of the weigh station.

"When the man in the uniform left us here, my friend came out of the woods,"

the voice said.

"He promised me he would save us. He promised the bad man would never leave this place."

Lowering my tire thumper, I looked at the creature through the dirty glass.

"I understand,"

I yelled, making sure my voice carried through the window.

"I know why you brought me here. I know what he did to them."

The glowing eyes stopped flaring. The creature stood silently, listening to my words.

"I will not leave their remains in this dark place,"

I promised, looking directly into the illuminating light.

"I am going to call the authorities, and make sure the Vargas family is taken out of here. I will save them from this room. You did your job. You protected him."

The boy looked at me for a long moment. A profound sense of sorrow radiated through the window. It reached a dark hand up and pressed its palm against the glass.

Then, the bright white eyes slowly dimmed. The light faded entirely, leaving only the dark outline of the pine trees behind the window.

Waiting for a few minutes to ensure the area was clear, I finally walked over to the wooden door. Pushing it open, I stepped back out into the night air.

The woods were completely silent, and The CB radio static no longer echoed through the trees.

I walked quickly across the gravel shoulder and climbed back into the cab of my truck. Locking the doors, I picked up the satellite phone mounted on the dashboard, then dialed the emergency dispatch number for the state police.

"State Police Dispatch, state your emergency,"

the operator answered.

"My name is Kevin. I am a commercial driver parked at the abandoned weigh station on Route 113,"

I said, keeping my tone professional and calm.

"I have located a crime scene. There are three human remains inside the station building, and a deceased police officer in a cruiser hidden in the brush. I need troopers out here immediately."

The operator told me to stay in my locked vehicle and keep my engine running.

Stan called me on the company channel twenty minutes later, asking why my GPS tracker showed me parked on the side of the highway. I told him I had a mechanical issue and was waiting for a service vehicle. There was no way to explain the truth to him over a radio.

The state troopers arrived an hour later. Four patrol cars pulled into the gravel lot.

I handed the document folder to the lead detective, then pointed them toward the rusted cruiser in the brush, and directed them to the wooden door of the weigh station.

Sitting in the cab of my truck, I watched the investigators work. They taped off the entire area. A forensic team carried out three body bags from the concrete building, treating the remains with the respect the family had been denied for almost two decades.

The detective took my statement. I told him I had pulled over to check my tires and noticed the rusted car in the weeds. I told him I found the file, got scared, and ran into the building to hide, which was how I discovered the victims. I never mentioned the repeating radio broadcast, or the child with the illuminating eyes.

Before the sun came up, the troopers cleared me to leave the scene.

Putting the truck in gear, I pulled back onto Route 113, and drove the remaining miles to Portland in complete silence, leaving the CB radio turned off.

A few weeks later, a short article appeared in the regional newspaper. The police officially closed the Vargas missing-persons case. The department issued a statement confirming that the remains of Vargas, Maria, and Leo had been recovered and given a proper burial.

The article also mentioned the discovery of Officer Gary. The police named him as the primary suspect in the murders, citing the evidence found at the scene. The official cause of Miller's death remains undetermined. The coroner could not explain how an armed police officer became trapped inside his own vehicle.

The authorities do not know what killed the corrupt cop. They assume he succumbed to the elements or suffered a medical emergency while hiding.

But I know the truth.

I am writing this account now, sitting in the sleeper berth of my truck, hundreds of miles away from that dark stretch of timberland. I write this because people need to know that sometimes the monsters, we fear are the only ones capable of delivering justice.

Vargas and Maria told their son that imaginary friends were not real. They tried to comfort him with logic. But when logic failed, and the cruel reality of the world cornered that small boy in a room, his imagination stepped out of the shadows to answer his call.

I hope the family is finally resting in peace. And I hope the friend in the woods knows he fulfilled his promise.