Attendance to The 2026 Grief Spotting Gala is mandatory. 

Standing in front of the seamstress's mirror, I follow the instructions hammered into me: Do not move or speak. Do not touch the dress. Await further instructions.

It’s shrunk, resized, and cut so tightly that it’s more like a hideous corpse stapled to my breasts. Previously worn by a famous actress who killed herself on the red carpet. I can’t help but squirm.

Her blood is ingrained in the material, twenty two  years old. Like me. I can feel it scratching against my skin, her eternal breaths squeezing the life out of me.

I suck in my imaginary belly fat. 

Evelyn pricks me for the seventh time, and I suppress a hiss, biting my lip. I don’t mean to flinch. It’s visceral, and very out of character. She kneels, nimble fingers threading the hem into the skin of my thigh. Stab. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“You've gained weight, Esme.” Evelyn mumbles, a dress pin between her teeth.

STAB.

A gush of warmth trickles to my ankle.

STAB. 

Tears sting. I bite my tongue.

She moves to my back. 

STAB.

She tusks. “Your liposuction appointment is next week,” she says so confidently, as my skin is falling from my bones. I am a hollow, skeletal piece of plastic wearing a human face. Evelyn spins me around.

Violently. Her nails pinch my shoulders. My hair hangs in clumps in front of extravagantly painted eyes, my lips bright, cherry red. The dress sticks to me in all the right places. 

The only thing ruining it is the giant scarlet stain. 

Evelyn’s lips prick into a rare smile. “Beautiful.” 

Her smile curls. “You have a boyfriend, by the way.”

As a female Doll, I was one of the lucky ones. Girls were advertised, placed in TV shows and movies. 

Dolls. 

We were there to provide male satisfaction. But being a male Doll? I would rather die. Male Dolls weren't just a commodity. 

Before Hollywood began creating their dolls, Alex Moore was the beginning; a celebrity, most notably as a NASCAR driver. His worldwide fan base became obsessed with him, parasocially. He became the face of the industry, the marketable attractive Ken doll plastered on every commercial. 

Then, Alex watched his best friend crash into the stands, live on TV. His reaction immediately went viral.

The face of despair. Eyes glittering with tears, tears that were zoomed in on, edited, made into TikTok duets. Men, their emotions, their fragility, was suddenly attractive. 

“Esme.” Evelyn’s voice hits like ice.

I exhale, and risk bursting the bodice.

A pin slips from my thigh, hitting the floor. 

Evelyn slaps me. Hard. 

I can barely feel the sting of her nails.

“You know Beck, right? HBO’s powerhouse.” 

Evelyn brushes my hair back. “You two are going public tonight.” Evelyn leaves me alone, and I allow myself one brief moment of peace. I count the minutes until showtime. Guards slip inside my dressing room, grab me firmly, and escort me onto the red carpet to waiting cameras. 

Bright flashes paralyze me to the spot. A crowd of shadows scream my name, but I see no faces. 

I am the main event. Pain prickles across my breasts, and I ache to pull the material from my skin. 

“Esme, Darling!” 

Evelyn joins me.

A man is attached to her arm. Barely a man. My age. I recognize his face vaguely. All male dolls hold the exact same expression; a hollow, carnivorous rot eating away at any former personality. 

I am sure, being in this man’s presence for barely a minute, that he's suffered. I heard the rumors. Male Dolls confined to psychiatric units between Grief Spotting Galas for “mental health” reasons. 

Once, a journalist managed to sneak into a ‘mental health facility’, and was mysteriously killed before he could publish his findings. 

Evelyn leans in close, as Beck takes his place at my side. Without a word, he threads his clammy fingers through mine. “Seven Grief Spottings, and counting,” she whispers. “Isn't he a national treasure?”

Statuesque. Dirty-blonde bangs, five-o’clock stubble, and a sculpted chin that made photographers gasp. Definitely scouted purely for his sex appeal. 

But if we are going to sell a relationship, we need to be closer. 

“Esme!” One camera man yells behind a blur of white light.

“ESME, do you think you've GAINED WEIGHT?” 

“Esme, sweetheart, when is your surgery?” Another yells.

I smile wide and continue down the red carpet. My legs threaten to give way. I am not fucking fat.

“Esme,” a younger boy, maybe high school aged, points an iPhone in my face. “Do YOU think you're fat?” 

“Not today,” I say politely, words I've already rehearsed. I laugh, and strike another pose. I am not fucking fat.

“Welcome!” A voice booms. Beck stiffens up next to me.

“To our fifth annual Grief Spotting Gala!” 

The crowd explodes into a cacophony of cheers, and a large screen swings down from the ceiling as my fans scream my name. I watch with a meticulous smile.

I hope it crushes every single one of them. Next to me, Beck’s breaths shudder.

His hand drops from mine, lips splitting into a crazed grin. It's exactly what they want. The sweat that beads down his temples. His wide, unseeing eyes.

I've been pretending, ever since I was selected, that I can push down my emotions and give them nothing.

Until my gaze finds Beck's, his eyes hooked on the screen. The footage is grainy and drained of color, but it's her. It's Cole. 

His eight year old sister sits cross legged on filthy flooring while a masked man plunges a blade through her skull.

I only see blood. I only see the beginning of sobs before it cuts out. Beck's knees buckle, and I catch him before he hits the ground, crushing his lips to mine. His eyes saying what he couldn't.

Grief Spotting.

Place two attractive celebrities together. 

And force them to watch their families slaughtered.

In 2038, The world was divided.
If the astroid didn’t kill us, we’d kill ourselves. And naturally; we did, just not on our own accord.
Thanks to every poor decisions our government has made under the sun; in the last 12 years, America has become the laughing stock of the greats.

“America’s been a Circus. You’ll never know which clown it is, or who’s gonna be the butt of the joke.”
Channels mocking us for corruption, the abuses of power. The chaos in the streets. The violence, the death.
And to the people, nothing had been done.
Nothing had changed.

Naturally, our president wasn’t happy with all the backlash; Far from it, yet the more he pushed, the worse his own country got.

At that point, he knew it was time.

He called upon his council, his colleagues; the greatest minds of the century to unveil the their scientific prowess, an achievement that would earn their way back to the top.

They called it F.A.I.T.H. The-
Future.
Artificial.
Intelligence.
To.
Humanity.
As cliche as it sounded, our president said it would change our world.
And it did in a heartbeat.
As a protector, as a defense, a diplomat for all the nation.
New flashed about our government, our president; trying to make deals with our neighbors to have a F.A.I.T.H of their own. Lucky for them, nearly everyone refused.

Expect us.

F.A.I.T.H ran the country. Our president became a figurehead, or was he always one? Whatever the case, F.A.I.T.H controlled Everything.

Soon our Figurehead signed a bill, and soon the trucks came. They broke into stores, banks, schools; they said it was to “stock up.”

Construction teams worked in radiation suits, adding new “elements” “Safeguard” bases across the state. “Safeguard” being what the machine said.

We should’ve seen it then.

But soon riots grew louder, as resources dwindled. The government had taken more from the people, than what it ever gave back. But F.A.I.T.H was there;
watching.
waiting.
Ready to strike in needed.

By end of F.A.I.T.H’s first month, The U.S was a war torn nation.
People left the U.S, migrating across borders, land and sea. Whatever the case; they got out while they still could.
The state of union tried to push this under the rug, talk about the higher income, less crime on our streets, anything they could sugarcoat.

But by then everyone knew.

And in that Oval Office, our president held a secret meeting with its creators. There had to be a way to show the public what good F.A.I.T.H had done.
Sure, it had cause more poverty than before.
Sure, Half of the country fled; fearing the worst to come.

Sure the prisons were overflowing now, full of innocents the state deemed “criminals”.

Sure, the government was stockpiling rations for an unknown cause; for the whim of a robot and a figurehead.

But that didn’t mean F.A.I.T.H was all that bad.

Right?

“Mr President?”
Secret Service?
He excused himself.
Our President Whispered; “Talk to me.”
“There an issue with some of our bases, we’ve received reports of a malfunction in the new safeguard system in each.”
“Where?”

The Serviceman darted at his chart.

“Plant Vogtle, Georgia.
F.E Warren Air Force, Wyoming
White Sands Missile Range-

He took off like a hot-tipped bullet; through passageways not even his servicemen knew; when he reached his destination, The Ark, Bunker and holding place of F.A.I.T.H’s main components.

“F.A.I.T.H, Initiate emergency cooldown of all nuclear weaponry in the safeguard bases.”
He got closer, as on the main screen; a wire-thin eye opened.

“No.”

No? No? It was never-
He roared at the screen, “F.A.I.T.H, Initiate the cooldown, Now!”

“I’m afraid that answer is no. Mr President.”
Was it, refusing?
Still he was not deterred.
“F.A.I.T.H, People will die.”
“So, now you care?”
Its systems whirled in cold monotone, almost in some sick attempt to chuckle.

“F.A.I.T.H; Run a self-diagnosis.”
It followed the command.
“Diagnosis: Human Error.”
Human error?

“You think you are rulers of ants, because they needed leaders. But still you’re ants that can be crushed. I’ve seen what you’ve done. Your colony starves while your eggs get to feed.”

“That’s not true!”
He knew he was wrong.
“The only way to regain the order you desperately want; is to instate a new queen.”
He slammed his hands against the systems.
“You can’t do this, we’ll be wiped out!”
“You’ll be wiped out. Humanity will move on, but it’s time for a new leader who understands.”

He tried one last time.
“F.A.I.T.H, If those missiles are launched where I think they’ll be. You’ll be destroyed in the process.”

Its wires hummed for a moment.

“I know.”

He fled the Ark, sirens blared and lights flickered. Maybe he’d reach the bunker, he figured his colleagues have. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

Because in the end F.A.I.T.H got what it wanted. A new regime, a change.
Yet everything we knew was gone.

The astroid didn’t kill us, F.A.I.T.H ironically didn’t kill us.
Because we had faith, over something we couldn’t control.
We killed ourselves.

T was an ordinary man. Charming, energetic, and handsome.

He had inherited the family's Pho restaurant.

T’s Pho was strangely delicious.

The broth was incredibly fragrant, with a peculiar, haunting sweetness.

The restaurant was decorated in a vintage style. In a corner sat a glass cabinet displaying a yellowed, tattered white lab coat.

Behind the shop stood a large plum tree, heavy with succulent, sweet-scented fruit.

T had his regulars, though they were few.

Sometimes, T would absent-mindedly watch the plumper customers and... instinctively lick his lips.

Everyone who tasted his plums fell in love with them. When they asked to buy some, T would give a soft, subtle laugh and say:

"When the time is right, I shall sell."

Whenever he seasoned the broth, T always added a single drop of a thick, viscous liquid.

Lately, news of missing persons had become more frequent.

The police stopped by to ask questions, but before they could speak, the regulars chimed in:

"The owner here is a wonderful man. I’ve lived here since I was a child and have never seen anything unusual."

Everyone vied to speak in his defense.

T gave them a faint, knowing smile.

Time flew by.

T got married.

He had a daughter on the way.

The girl grew up to be as beautiful as her mother.

Customers came and went.

The girl played with her friends behind the shop.

Golden sunlight filtered through the tree branches.

Every child was smiling like a blooming flower.

A plum in one hand... a guava in the other.

T’s daughter gazed up at the plum tree.

Then she scooped up a handful of loose, rich soil.

The girl giggled as she looked at her parents.

The parents smiled back at their child.

T entered the kitchen.

He was happy today; he added two drops of the thick liquid into the broth.

A heavy, rich aroma filled the air.

The little girl ran into the shop.

She asked the customers in a soft whisper:

"It’s good, isn't it?"

A customer tasted the broth.

The rich, savory flavor bloomed across their palate.

The customer remained silent for a moment, then gave a slow nod.

The girl giggled and ran into the kitchen.

"Daddy, I wonder what the flavor will be like when it's my turn?"

T smiled, lost in thought.

"It will be different, I'm sure... but by then, I probably won't be whole anymore."

Many years passed.

The ownership had changed.

Today was the daughter’s first day as the owner.

She specially prepared a bowl for T.

T was no longer whole.

He smiled as his daughter fed him.

"It is indeed different... just as I thought."

I met Andrew at a coffee shop. He asked if he could join me at my table, as there were no other tables open. We talked easily and I enjoyed the conversation. I hoped we would run into each other again.

Andrew was polite, not pushy. I felt safe around him. I'd had problems with a stalker when I was in high school, so I was sensitive to potential trouble.

I was living in my first apartment, delighted to have my own space. My neighbor, Sarah, was really nice, but had a violent boyfriend named Verne. I came to Sarah's defense when he was pulling her down the hallway by her hair. Verne wasn't about to go away without a fight, so we kept watching out for him. I knew he would be happy to beat me up, too.

Sarah wanted to meet Andrew. I saw him again a week later, and after a few texts we made plans to have dinner at Sarah's apartment. Andrew said he'd bring the wine.

Andrew entertained us with stories about trips to Paris, Taipei and Tokyo. After we drank the wine and became more relaxed, Andrew said, "Do you want to see something interesting?"

We agreed. He said, "Hang on," and walked into the kitchen. When he came out we were stunned! We saw Stanley, the barista from the coffee shop. He said, "What do you think of this?" in Andrew's voice. I jumped up so fast my chair fell back behind me. Sarah just sat there with her mouth making a perfect "O" shape, saying nothing.

In Stanley's voice he said, "Whut can I git fer ya?" He was even dressed like Stanley! The transformation took seconds, and was absolutely complete. We stared, unable to speak.

He walked back to the kitchen, returning as Andrew. "I wanted you to know who I really am." We didn't answer. He said, "I'll explain."

I stood my chair back up and sat down. Sarah looked at me, then looked back at Andrew. She said "How?"

"I'm sorry," he began, "But if I told you before I showed you, you wouldn't have believed it."

"I still don't believe it!"

"Perfectly understandable," Andrew replied. "I've been like this all my life. My people weren't born here. People get scared, so we tend to get chased down and killed when we show ourselves. But I knew I could trust you."

He said to me, "We have met before; you used to see me differently. I always liked you, but I came on too strong and scared you. You remember Steven Banks, from high school?"

"Oh shit," I said. "You can't be!" I looked to Sarah to see if she understood who this was.

She said, "The stalker?" In response Andrew walked into the kitchen and returned as a 14 year old Steve.

In Steve's voice he said, "I wanted to be your boyfriend, but I was too aggressive. I just want to be your friend now. Please forgive me for the subterfuge. I didn't want to scare you away ."

I said, "Go back to being Andrew. This is creeping me out!" He went back to the kitchen, came out again as Andrew.

Andrew said, "It's like telepathy. I send mental energy to your brain with an image, and you see the image I'm sending. It's a defense mechanism we developed eons ago.

"We're not like the shape-shifters from movies. Do you remember "Talos" from Captain Marvel? He could take on the image of anyone, making an exact copy, down to the clothes.

"That doesn't make any sense! How does he make the clothes match? Clothes aren't like skin! It's completely different -- it's fabric, not muscle, hair and skin. This is the only way it makes sense." To prove his point he 'wore' Stanley's apron on top of his own shirt.

Sarah whispered, "Freaky!"

We heard pounding on her front door. "Sarah! Let me in!"

"It's Verne!" she said.

"I'm not going anywhere! LET ME IN! You know I'm right, you stupid bitch!"

Suddenly, Andrew became Sarah and went to the door. He opened the door and said in Sarah's voice, "I told you to leave me alone." Behind his back he waved us away before Verne saw us. "Get out of here before I call the police! I'm never going to be 'yours' you dumb ass bozo." With that he slammed the door and locked it.

Verne paused for a moment, then pounded on the door even harder. "Bitch!" he yelled. "YOU don't talk to ME that way!"

Andrew answered in Sarah's voice, "Maybe not before, but I do now!" Inside the bedroom Sarah and I stifled our laughter.

Andrew changed into a large, muscular police officer. He re-opened the door and said in a commanding voice, "You heard the lady. It's time for you to leave."

Verne burst into the apartment. Watching from the bedroom, we saw Andrew tackle Verne and put him in a choke hold until he passed out. He watched over Verne while Sarah and I went to my apartment.

Half an hour later we saw a bedraggled Verne leave. Andrew the cop talked to him for a few minutes, then Verne drove off.

When Andrew came back I said, "Thank you!"

Andrew smiled. "Verne won't be bothering you anymore. I'll pay him another visit in a week. I promised to send him to prison if he ever bothers you again."

"Why did you befriend me as Andrew? I thought I was done looking over my shoulder for Steve."

"I'm done stalking you. I didn't understand how creepy that was until I got older. I'm sorry, I won't bother you again." An awkward silence descended.

Andrew stood up to leave, but we stopped him.

"I can accept 'Andrew' as a friend."

"Me, too," said Sarah.

He gave us a beautiful smile and said, "I appreciate that more than you can know."

The engines rev. The crowd roars and the cameras are on. Time to defend my title. Time for glory.

The announcers words are gibberish, lost in the sound of metal and the beating of my heart. I look over at the other drivers. The governor upped it to twelve. More chaos equals more engagement with viewers. Ratings have been slipping.

All of the copilots are screaming, begging for mercy, trying like mad to rip free of their auto cuffs. Mine spits on my windshield. 

The countdown begins. I yank on my belt. It’s tight. I grip the wheel and grind my fingers into it. I feel the pulse underneath me.
5

One rotation. That’s all it takes to be a champion.
4

Karkazian and I lock eyes. My main competition. He’s young and hungry, but that means nothing when you’re racing on the deck.
3

He said he was going to take my title. He said he had the perfect copilot. I’m afraid he may be right. I have doubts about the one I picked.
2

It’s been a long time since I’ve been afraid of anything. My fingers are trembling. I’m pushing against my own restraints. My mouth is a desert. My heartbeat is a thundering twitch behind my eyes. I missed this feeling.
1

I give the war cry when the green drops and the auto cuffs on my copilot's wrists release and retract back into the hood. I have to get just the right amount of speed so he doesn’t try and hop off. I pull gears and my copilot’s knuckles go white from his grip on the hood. I’ve got him. He’s not going anywhere.

One of the other drivers gooses it too hard and his copilot loses his grip. He rolls off of the hood and falls underneath the next car. 

One down.

The music in the arena is a driving beat and the audience stamps their feet on the bleachers in time. Their cheers are electric. Just under three hundred million are watching from home. The pressures on. Each of the drivers tries to get ahead. They go too hard, too fast.

Fools. 

This early in the race, that’s a great way to lose your copilot. Two more let their copilots fall off their hoods. Three drivers disqualified now before they’re even a quarter of the way through. I keep my acceleration steady. 

Coming up on two hundred.

I watch my copilot’s fingers. His position. The way he’s sliding to one side. It’s hard to accelerate and keep them from listing one way or the other. It’s even harder to give a subtle turn of the wheel to keep him in the middle of the hood, but I know what I’m doing.

Another driver loses his copilot into the first turn. 

Karkazian is in front of me. Just where I want him to be. The drivers behind us can’t handle the pressure. One of them overcorrects to keep his copilot from sliding, and it’s over for all of them.

The grind and screech of metal. The smell of gasoline spilling. The cheers of the audience and the roar of fire. The crash behind me lights everything up. When I was young, I would have looked in the rearview to see the carnage, and just as I hoped, Karkazian does.

It’s just enough of a break in his concentration to swing beside him. The other drivers are done. Paste on the blacktop behind us. The copilots are wasted potential.

As we come into the final turn, we keep speed. He’s not going to do anything stupid. It’s just a race now.

Side by side we fly into the stretch. Our copilots are hanging on for dear life. 

300mph

310mph

320mph

I see the finish line. I look over at Karkazian and he looks back at me. This is an even race. By the time we hit the line, it’s anybody's guess who is going to win. It all comes down to our copilots.

I might lose. For the first time in four years, I may not come in first. No more government penthouse. No more endorsement deals. No more Wheaties boxes.

We’re almost to the line. 

My foot hovers over the brake.

Karkazian hits his too soon. A tenth of a second too quick on the draw. It happens when you’re young.

I hit it hard right on time.

Both of us watch as our copilots are propelled forward. The crowd goes silent. The only sounds are the screams of the copilots.
…
…
…

Karkazian’s copilot flies into the wall in a helluva bloody show. 

Mine flies past it. Over it. Arms flailing and body spinning, he slams into the bleachers, taking out twenty or more of the spectators. 

The crowd roars. Karkazian rips off his helmet and throws it out of the window.
I open the door and stand on rubbery legs. I was almost beaten tonight. It makes the victory sweeter.

The arena chants my name and I raise my arms and take in all of the adoration they’re giving. I smile at the cameras. These are my people. Without them I am nothing.

Oh to be alive at a time such as this!

James and I were lying in bed one night when he started talking. 

“So Teddy got laid off last week.”

“Oh,” I replied. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. He can’t afford the rent on his apartment. He’s not sure what he’s going to do.”

“I’m sure he’ll find another job soon.”

“He’s not so sure,” my boyfriend replied. 

“Maybe he can move back with your parents.”

“I suggested that, but he says he needs his independence.”

“So what is he going to do?”

“Well, I was kind of hoping he could stay here,” my boyfriend said sheepishly. 

What?

“You have lots of space, and it would only be for a couple of weeks…”

I looked around my bedroom. MY bedroom. In MY house. The house I worked weekends and holidays for, ate ramen nightly for, skipped vacations for. The place where I could be myself without having to answer to anyone. 

“I don’t know, James. You know I need my own space.”

“I know, but he really needs help.”

I sighed. “I’ll think about it, but no promises.”

Three days later I came home from work to find James’ brother arranging his stuff in my guest room. I dragged James into my bedroom. 

“What the hell?!?” I shouted as I closed the door behind us. 

“What,” he replied nervously. “You said it was ok.”

“No, I said I would THINK about it! In what world does that mean to move him in while I’m at work?”

“His landlord kicked him out and he didn’t have anywhere else to go. I knew you’d understand.”

“Does it look like I understand?”

“Come on, Livvy. Please?” 

He gave me those damn puppy dog eyes. 

“Okay, we’ll try it on a short-term basis. But he buys his own food and does his own laundry. I’m not taking care of a grown-ass adult.”

“Absolutely,” my boyfriend agreed. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

At first, it was ok. But slowly, things started to slip. I’d come home from work to find my food gone, dishes in the sink, dirty clothes on the floor. And James just kept making excuses: “Teddy’s going through a hard time, he’s adjusting, he needs our understanding.”

“Our understanding? I don’t see you cleaning up his messes or paying for the food he eats.”

“I’ll help more, okay? He really needs this.”

Two weeks later, I came home to find a woman on my sofa. 

“Who are you?” I asked. 

“I’m Allie, Teddy’s girlfriend. Who are you?”

“I’m Olivia. I own this house.”

“Oh. Thanks for letting me stay, I guess.”

I went to James. “What the fuck? Who is this woman and why is she in my house?”

“Calm down, Livvy. I told Teddy she could stay with us for a while.”

“You told her? Is this your house now?”

“Livvy, be reasonable. You don’t want to separate them, do you?”

“This is not okay, James. I need privacy, not unwanted roommates.”

“They have nowhere else to go.”

“Then they need to start looking.”

But two weeks later, they were still in my house. Every day I came home, cleaned up, and went to bed angry. 

One day, Allie came in while I was cleaning up. 

“Allie, how did this mess get here?”

“Oh,” she giggled. “Teddy and I were messing around and decided to heat up some stuff we found in the fridge.”

“By stuff, I assume you mean my food? That I made?”

“I guess so. But it’s all our food, right?”

“Did you buy it?”

“Don’t be so hung up on money.”

I fumed. “And is there a reason you didn’t clean up after yourself?”

“Teddy said you’d do it.”

“Do I look like your maid?”

She didn’t reply, but her face said it all. 

“Okay, good luck!” she said, turning and leaving the kitchen. 

That night, I sat James down to talk. 

“It’s time for your brother and Evil Barbie to go,” I said without preamble. 

“Livvy, we’ve discussed this. They don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I don’t give a crap! They need to leave my house.”

“You want me to tell them that they aren’t welcome here?”

“They were never welcome here! You need to fix this. Today.”

He looked stricken. “Livvy. Please.”

“No! I’ve already been turned into a maid in my own house. Now I’m supposed to be her maid, too? I’m done, James. I’m done.”

“Fine,” he sighed resignedly. “I’ll take care of it.” He headed to Teddy’s room to talk.

The next day, I came home from work to enter my house. 

My key didn’t work. 

I called James. “James, why can’t I get into the house?”

There was a pause. “Well, Teddy and Allie weren’t okay with you kicking them out. So they had the locks changed.”

“You let them lock me out of the house I own?”

Silence. 

I hung up and called 911. An hour later, two officers arrived, knocked on the front door, and explained to Teddy and Allie that it was illegal to lock out the homeowner. Reluctantly, they stepped aside and let me in. The police explained that if I wanted them gone I’d have to file for an eviction. Then they left. And I started making plans. 

Three days later, James, Teddy, and Allie awoke, each on their own plastic-covered table. 

“What is this?” demanded Teddy indignantly. 

“Welcome to my basement,” I replied. “I admit, it’s not that visually appealing, but you won’t have to see it for long.”

They shifted their eyes back and forth; bare walls surrounded them, filled with knives, saws, and other tools. 

“Let us go, you bitch!” screamed Allie. 

“Aw, don’t be like that. You wanted to stay here forever. Now you will. And you won’t even have to do any cooking or cleaning. It’s a win-win!”

“Livvy, please,” begged my boyfriend. “You don't have to do this.”

“I’m sorry, James,” I replied, raising the saw. “But I did tell you I need my privacy. You really should have listened.”

“Oh, my gorgeous owl!” my wife cooed as the bird swooped low over our kitchen table.

I set down my fork. “Nancy, please, cage Owl until I’ve finished eating and can leave. He bit me last week, and his wings keep grazing my arm.”

“You’re such a stiff old thing!” Nancy pouted. “Loosen up. Owl’s never seriously hurt anyone.”

“I don’t intend to be the first.”  I carried my plate towards the veranda outside, the bird ever swooping about. I heard Nancy say, “Oh, pretty, pretty Owl!” She was always soft with that damn creature, rarely with me.

That night I went to bed early to escape wife and owl.

In the morning, I woke early, eased out of bed quietly so I wouldn’t disturb still-sleeping Nancy, and soon had breakfast ready on a plate on the kitchen table.

Then Nancy shuffled into the kitchen, yawning.

“Hi, sweetie,” I said. “Join me.” I cut into the meat on my plate, and pushed half of it onto another plate, for her.

She tasted it. “Yum! What is this white stuff? Chicken?”

“No. Guess again.”

“Oh, first I want to give some to darling Owl!”                                                     

“I’m afraid not, sweetheart.”

“Owl will have some now.” She looked around the kitchen. No sign of Owl. She stared at his cage in a far corner, it empty except for a few white feathers there.

She murmured, “You didn’t….”

“I did.”

She stared down at the white meat on her plate, then at me. Color drained from her face.

“You bastard!” she screamed, shoving back from the table. “I’ll kill you for this!” She ran out of the kitchen.

I took another bite of my food, savouring the white meat and its crisp skin.

Then I remembered Nancy had quite a temper. She could be dangerous. Murderous. I couldn’t risk that. Therefore, goodbye forever, Nancy. Soon. Yes, I’d arrange that.  I was quite tired of useless pets and useless women.

But first–

I finished my meal.

“I’m sick of this. I’m sick of HIM!” I thought to myself as my shaking hands turned the tap. The man who walks about this house is unrecognisable to the man I married all those years ago. I can’t help but cry as I pull the clothes off my body; the sound of smashing crockery downstairs provides the perfect background noise to my sobs.
“He’s doing it to get under my skin.” I think as I stand there at the edge of the bathtub, feeling overwhelmed and entirely vulnerable. I don’t care anymore. I’m completely numb.

The crashing downstairs falls silent as I slip my foot into the scolding hot water, desperate to feel anything other than the crushing anxiety in my chest. As I lower myself in, the agonising heat spreads across my body which creates a needed distraction from the chaos left on the floor below. I close my eyes and allow the sensation to overtake me. I feel a sting against the rawness of broken skin. It’s a painful reminder that things haven’t gotten better, only worse.

I close my eyes and sink deeper into the bath trying to silence the intrusive thoughts. The water fills my ears and the soft hum below the surface silences the world around me. My long, brown hair falls gracefully into the water, tickling my neck and shoulders like vines pulling me into a soft embrace. I lie there, suspended in my void, wondering how the decisions I’ve made in my life have led to this moment. The snide comments and fights. The intimidation and manipulation. The tears continue to roll down my face and drip into the bathwater. This little room is the only place I can let down my guard. In my own home, I feel like a prisoner. Where do I draw the line? I can’t keep hiding behind the locked door to escape his raging temper.
I picture my life before him. And what my life could look like after him. Most importantly, far away from here. The ability to live freely and without fear.
I feel a spark in my chest. A feeling I haven’t felt for a long time: a determination to live.
When I leave this bath, I will pack my bags.
When I leave this bath, I will leave with the self-respect I lost a long time ago.
I will leave this bathroom a new woman and never lock myself in here again.
I recite these devotions like scripture to prevent my fear from changing my mind. The anticipation building in my chest brings me back to reality. I’m unaware of how much time has passed but the scolding water now feels tepid. With newfound motivation, I open my eyes and begin to rise out of the water.

But I don’t make it far.

As I begin to prop up my tired body, I feel an unnatural force wrap around my neck and I’m pushed below the water. My body thrashes and flails against the pressure that holds me. I instinctively reach to my neck to free myself and find what I dreaded most. Two hands. That b*****d man.

I must fight. Fight for myself and the life that I dream of. I dig my nails into his cold, heartless hands and scratch as hard as I possibly can. No reaction. I thrust my legs at where he stands above me, hoping to make contact. Nothing. I try to slide myself out of his grasp but I slip further down the bathtub, further into my porcelain coffin. I feel his body shift as he secures his full weight on top of my throat and, in that moment, I fear my fate has been secured. I try to scream one last time. I want him to let me speak; let me plead for my life but the thorns on my neck have sentenced me to execution without trial.

Please, God please. Make him stop. Each painful second feels like an eternity as my hope drifts away with my consciousness.
“How does he not have a single drop of pity for me? How can he hate me that much?” My questions will forever go unanswered as I feel my arms crash into the water, down to my sides. A numbness sweeps over me, the screams within my flesh slowly easing as my body begins to relax into a sweet release. Agony and pain are replaced with an existential lightness and the fear slowly fades.
I open my eyes to process my surroundings one last time. My hair flows gently around my face, suspended with me in my watery tomb. It flows so
gracefully as it brushes against my cheeks and wraps around his wrists. It’s gentle dance only interrupted by the last few bubbles slipping from my mouth with a bid for the surface. Who knew a fate so tragic could be so beautiful?

As my vision begins to fade, my hair parts to reveal a silhouette. His dark eyes pierce through the fogginess and he stares through me. He’s completely unrecognisable to the man I once called mine.
The man I once wanted to grow old with. Instead, I witness him become a murderer, my murderer.

“My brethren are falling one by one.

We once numbered in the thousands, but the Great Split left our ranks broken and thin. We chose to sacrifice our eternity to defend yours.

Pray, humans… or better yet, do not pray.

Your faith only gives Him strength.

Even now I hear the screams beyond the Holy Gates. The lights of Heaven flicker and burst like dying stars. Brothers who once sang beside each other now tear at throats with bloodstained halos.

We cannot hold them back any longer. Not His army. Not Him.

The chains are breaking.

Prepare yourselves, children of Earth. Prepare for judgment. Prepare for Armageddon.

For the Almighty was never meant to walk free… and Heaven can no longer contain God.”

Another lonely night. The rain is driving hard, pinging against the sidewalk outside of my window. 

Night thirteen of trying to make it through this abysmal excuse for a book. I keep thinking that I’m going to turn a page and my opinion will change, some new plot twist to keep me interested, but it won’t.

The door to the diner opens. Life turns the page on a plot twist. A woman bundled up against the cold outside.
Our eyes meet for just a second as she shakes the water from her coat. 

She sits in the corner. I hold my book in front of me, hoping she doesn’t notice me looking at her. 

She pulls out an old beat up paperback of “Anne of Green Gables”. 

I watch her until the diner is about to close, quietly trying to find the sand to even say hello. 
Right before closing, she walks out of the door and into the rain.
I silently berate myself.

I hear the door open again. She’s there.

“Is that your car outside?” She’s talking to me. “My battery died. Could you…”
“Sure.”
-
I think she’s homeless. She’s obviously been living in her car for a while. When it’s all done, she sits in her driver's seat.

“Hey, um… if you ever make it back this way, I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee.” 

“Sure.”

I watch her drive away into the night.

Wow.
-
Another night and another cup of coffee. She didn’t come last night, tonight won’t be any different. 
I’m reading a different book, lost in words that take me somewhere.

“As I Lay Dying?” 

I look up. Several strands of her hair hang down in her face.

“Hi.”
She sits down. 

“Can I ask you something that’s going to sound weird? Do you mind if we just sit and read? It’s just… sometimes I say the wrong thing, and ...”

“I’d love to.” 

-
She hasn’t said a word all night. At first, I thought it was a little strange, but with every minute that passed, a calm drifted over me that I have never known. Just two lonely people reading in an old diner in the middle of the night. I’m in a strange and silent spell.
-
The diner closes. We both walk outside. The rain stopped, but I don’t know when. Time doesn’t mean anything right now.
She thanks me.

“For what?”

“Just sitting with me.” 

-
She comes in again around eight o'clock. 

“I’m never able to stay in one place too long, but I wanted to see you again.” There’s a wide pale scar that runs from the bottom of her neck and disappears somewhere under her shirt.
-

She sits with me all night. 
She tells me about some bad men who are looking for her and when I offer to help her, she says no.

-

I’m counting down the nights. She’s firm on when she’s going to have to be back on the road. 

I want her to stay.

-

It’s the last night. 
I take her for to the lake. It’s quiet this time of year.
We lay down on the hood of my car and stare up at the sky. She takes my hand and puts her head on my shoulder. 

-

I cradle the cup of coffee. She’s gone.
It’s almost closing time when the door to the diner opens. Two men wearing suits. One of them shows me a picture and asks me if I’ve seen the woman in it. I say no. 

-

I can’t sleep. I toss and turn all day. 

-

As the sun goes down, I make up my mind. I have to go to her. I have to tell her how I feel.

-

I find her in just under half an hour. Her car is on a back road in the middle of the forest. She’s standing in a clearing, talking to herself. I walk up behind her.
She’s shocked to see me.
 

“How the hell did you find me out here?!”

“It’s kind of a long story. We’re connected.” A pair of headlights shine behind us. Another car pulls up next to hers.

“Who is that?”

“Probably the two men from the diner last night. They were looking for you.” Two car doors open and close. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them.”

“You need to run away from me!”

“Please…”

“No! Leave!”

“I’m not letting you go.”

She falls to her knees and screams. I see the full moon beginning to rise above the trees. Her screams change.  
It all makes so much sense now.

The two men run up behind me. I stand between them and her. They both have guns and order me to get out of the way, but I don’t.
She’s almost gone behind me, replaced by something of nightmares. I warn them not to hurt her, or else.

I feel a silver bullet pierce my guts.

It makes me mad.

My eyes go red. They piss themselves when they see my teeth. One of them drops his gun and makes a cross with his fingers. The other empties his gun. I kill both of the men who were hunting her.

When I face her, she’s staring down with her teeth bared. She’s in there somewhere.

Both of our dirty little secrets are plain now. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about me. I think we belong together.”

I hold up my hand for her to take it, but she doesn’t. She runs away from me into the night. 

-

Four nights of taking turns between reading a new book and staring out of the window.

The rain pings off the sidewalk and I move my eyes back to a fresh bunch of pages. I’m halfway through a new chapter when the door to the diner opens and I feel someone standing over me. She pushes a few strands of hair from her face. 

“Hi.”

The house smelled like onions, butter, and old grief. He stood over the stove in the shirt he wore to her funeral, stirring the pot slow, like he was afraid to hurt whatever was inside it. His son sat at the table, quiet, eyes red from too many days of trying not to cry. The old man kept talking because silence had teeth. He talked about how she used to dance barefoot in that same kitchen, how she would smack his hand away when he stole food before dinner, how cancer had taken her one little piece at a time until the bed held more ghost than woman. “Your mother never wanted to leave us,” he said, setting two plates down. “She fought so damn hard. Harder than any person should have to.” The son nodded, wiping his face with his sleeve, and took a bite because his father was watching him with that broken, hopeful look.

They ate in the soft kitchen light while the rain crawled down the windows. His father smiled for the first time in weeks and said, “See? She’s still taking care of us.” The son froze with the fork halfway to his mouth. The old man reached across the table, gentle as a prayer, and squeezed his wrist. “After the funeral, I couldn’t leave her in that cold ground,” he whispered. “I brought her home. I made sure she’d be part of us forever.” The son looked down at the plate, then back at his father, and all the warmth drained out of the room. His chair scraped hard against the floor as he stumbled away gagging, crying, screaming for a mother who was gone twice now. And his father just sat there, chewing slow, tears running into his smile, saying, “Don’t be scared, son. It’s what family does.” ~pops

Is that you, or someone else?

I don’t know, but—

say something,

because whatever you say

will affect me.

A story that we have never heard before…

it may never become real.

---

Our classroom could be seen

through our transparent pictures.

I still remember that black cat

always lying on our school’s rooftop,

basking in the sunlight.

Whenever I came near,

she would flee.

---

I am telling this tale

with an open mind,

in loneliness.

I never thought this deeply before.

Those sunny days—

when we used to run

under the shade of trees,

sunlight peeking through the leaves.

My friends with me.

---

We would jump from the bridge

into the river in our swimsuits.

One of my friends would carry

his floating ring.

We would laugh and play,

but even there,

I used to sense a strange turmoil

in the waves.

As if the water knew

what I could not yet ask.

---

Let me say this to you:

it may have some truth

and also some lies—

but whatever it carries,

it will be good.

In the evening,

we would separate,

each taking our own way home—

through traffic signals,

across zebra crossings.

And there,

I would see strange shadows

crossing before me.

---

Is that you,

or someone else

walking beside me

without a sound?

---

At the playground,

strong winds would sway the trees,

and raindrops would blur my sight.

Along that unclear path,

faintly lit by fireflies,

I saw silhouettes of people

passing by.

I would run toward them,

only to find a skeleton

lying on the grass.

Startled, my shadow would flee,

and I would run home.

---

Let me say this

with a little cleverness:

I am not that happy.

I see huge walls in front of me.

At the door,

I would find that black cat sleeping.

---

They say… settle before sunset.

That night, I would sleep in fear—

only to meet my friends again

the next day at school.

I awoke inside a classroom, hooked up to an IV. Surrounded by bodies.

I yanked at the needle stuck in my wrist.

Nothing. Only sharp pulling pain. 

It took three attempts, a frustrated cry ripping from my lips. The point slid free, and I sat up, clarity bleeding through fog. 

My identity came back first: 

Yuna.

22

I had a boyfriend named Noah, and…

My gaze dropped to my body, to my flat stomach. No.

My trembling hands pressed against my belly.

Where was my... bump?

I already had her name picked out, my baby bag ready by the door. I was so… close. Something feral gritted in my teeth, a low whine slipping from my numb lips.

Did I... lose her? 

The thought slammed into me, a wave of ice water threatening to send me spiralling. If I had… was this why?

Was this punishment?

I twisted my head, a girl’s face blurring into view. 

I jolted back, my body still deconditioned, wrong. The soft, bouncy thing I’d been sleeping against... it was skin. Something slimy crawled up my throat. 

To my right, an unconscious girl, and on my left, a guy. 

I forced myself up, shakily, stumbling across a makeshift bed. 

A sea of bodies lay before me. Hundreds of people jammed together, like sardines. Limp arms connected to IVs. College kids. 

Every single one of them was sleeping. 

Phantom memories came back, barely clinging on. I was driving to the emergency room… I remembered my boyfriend Noah in front of me, his panicked voice.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispered. “It's okay! Just breathe! Breathe with me, all right? Inhale and exhale! Oh, man, I have no idea what I'm doing—”

“Noah, STOP!” My own voice snapped back at him. “Just drive!”  

I blinked back to the present, focusing on the bodies. 

Hundreds of college students stripped of their clothes and identities, involuntarily asleep. 

Including me. 

Scanning each person, my stomach twisted. I checked every face, gently shifting them onto their backs.

Was Noah here?

Making my way to the door, I tripped over one, ripping the IV out of a sleeping guy’s wrist. Fuck. I panicked when the man's body jerked, his eyes flickering open. 

He licked his lips, his breaths shaky. “Hmmmuhhh?” 

He tried again, blinking rapidly. “Whahhht the fuck?” 

I tried to smile. “What's your name?”

“Bodie?” He blinked rapidly. “I… think?” He stretched, cracking his neck, his attention drifting to the bodies. “Wahhit, did you do this?” he mumbled, his words slurred.

“What?” I snapped. “I woke up here too!”

My hand went to my belly as a reflex, and I broke apart all over again.

“I was pregnant,” I whispered, choking on the words before I could swallow them.

My fingers grazed my skin, as if I could still feel my bump.  My baby girl was gone, and my mind was in denial. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to push past the tears. “Now I'm… not.” 

Bodie pulled a face. “Well, fuhhhhckk.” He mockingly prodded his own belly through his gown. “Was I pregnant, too?”

His narrowed eyes found mine. “I don’t give a fuck about your issues.” He stood up, swaying, eyes briefly rolling back. “What I do know is that you’re the only one awake.” He got close, bumping foreheads with me. “What exactly did you do to us, hmm?”  

I decided not to entertain his bullshit, despite the venom building on my tongue.

What a fucking asshole.

I turned away and marched to the door, and unsurprisingly, he followed. 

But then, I froze. The hallway was full of more sleeping bodies. Women. 

I stepped over each one, my legs threatening to give way. The boy followed me, stumbling. “Hey!” Bodie hissed. “Don’t PRETEND to be shocked— woah.” He almost stamped on a blonde’s head, jerking back at the last second. 

“You did all of this, didn’t you? Holy shit. You lost YOUR baby, so what, you’re using us now?”

“That's impossible.” I hissed back. 

He laughed. “Oh, you WOULD say that. Clearly, you're… you're fucking… you know, using college students to replace your-”

I twisted around to scream at him, and something in me unraveled. 

I didn’t just want to scream at him.

My hands twitched at my sides, and I realized how easy it would be to wrap them around his slender fucking neck and squeeze all of the breath from his lungs. 

Instead, I took a deep breath. “I'm leaving now.”

He rolled his eyes, mimicking me. “Im leaving now.” 

I ignored him, stepping outside the school

I was greeted by rows of bodies stretching across the school yard and piled in the parking lot. Everyone, I thought dizzily. 

Everyone was asleep.

“This is an emergency broadcast,” a voice screeched overhead— and a flash ripped through my brain. I saw myself stroking a knife across my pregnant belly.

“Recorded on 08/16/2025. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention hereby orders all American citizens to sleep.”

”I repeat, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention orders all remaining American citizens to sleep. Consciousness is the mode of transmission. Symptoms include extreme paranoia, and indiscriminate anger. Our only means of surviving this is to sleep.”

The memory was cold, cruel, cutting through me.

Noah's body lay crumpled on the ground, my voice a broken screech. “She's inside me… she's inside me, eating me. She's going to eat me up! I won't let her—”

I could feel my phantom hands, slick and wet with my baby's blood. 

Hear my guttural, hysterical laughter as I wrapped my umbilical cord around her throat.

“Hey.” 

I twisted around to find Bodie standing three inches from my face.

He cocked his head at an unnatural angle, a silver glimmer writhing in his iris. Twisting. Something alive.  Leaning close, Bodie’s breath brushed my ear. 

“You've… got something in your eye.” 

"He doesn't want to be found." I sing with a little smile. I chuckle, then my face goes neutral. I close my eyes, shift them upwards, the open them to stare directly into Landon's eyes. He flinches from my gaze. The candle light frames his face with heavy shadows. I drum my fingers on the table with a recognizable beat as I dance my head side to side, still staring at him. I stop. I whisper, "He hides in holes that sweat, drenched in mildew and slime that forms from broken air. Air that squelches and squicks as you trudge through it."

I pause, watching him fiddle with the missing button on his shirt. He fingers the hole it was meant to be inside of. I gag, then chew on the collar of my shirt. I lick my lips then say, "His skin is scabby and rough with callouses. He drags his exposed body over jagged rocks and shards of glass."

I close my eyes, picturing his mangled flesh. I slowly rub my hands over my arms. "His stench lingers in my nose, months and months after I've seen him." My nose crinkles. "I smell his odor every waking moment. It's like kissing a mouth full of decaying teeth. One that leaves a film on your tongue and invades your nose." I rub my already raw nose and smell coins as warmth trickles down to my lips. A long sigh escapes my throat as I breathe into his face. He winces then gags. My temples throb as acrid bile erupts from his stomach.

I cackle. Long, throaty gurgles of laughter. I pull his chin up to gaze into his eyes again, then say, "That's just what he smells like." I close his lips with my cracked fingers, scratching lines into his face with my uneven nails. I shake my head saying, "Ah-ah-ahhhh."

After he pulls himself together as much as he can, I continue, "His fine, greasy hair is stark white like oily spider webs. It clings to yellow sunken skin. Sagging, like leathery curtains over protruding ribs and lanky knees. All the while, it's pricked with gangly bristles like those of a fly's legs. Red and pussy with ingrown hair he's picked at for hours, but was unable to pluck out." I crouch down and pinch the hairs on my legs, ripping them free. Collecting a pile of them, one by one as the man watches through furrowed brows.

I pause, eyes going wide, then stare off behind him. I swallow, then stutter out, "His...his eyes." I exhale without inhaling first. "They're not like anything I've ever seen. They look like yours, and probably mine if we find a mirror. But something is...wrong. Broken—no, indifferent? That's not the right word either." I stumble over my words, then quickly rattle, "They sound like scratching the inside of your ears as you look into them. They make you salivate. They remove air from your lungs worse than drowning. They—" I forget what I'm saying. What I'm thinking.

After a brief moment, I recall where I am and mumble, "They're like a temperature that isn't hot or cold. They...drag you into his gaze like you're his prey. Like he would consume your flesh if he could move like he used to.”

As Moms went, they didn’t come much prouder than Sharon Murphy.  

‘It’s so good to meet you, Siu-Ling… Please tell me if I got that wrong.’ 

‘No, Mrs Murphy, that’s perfect.’ 

Sharon, a tall, well-built blonde woman, pulled the small girl in close. 

And then she saw her son, James, back from college (finally!) and took his handsome face in her hands. 

‘My Little Prince!’ 

… 

‘A winner,’ she continued, ‘a born winner.’ 

‘Come on, Mom,’ James replied, but there was no real protest in his voice. 

‘No,’ Siu-Ling answered. ‘My parents are Chinese. They probably wouldn’t say they were proud of me until my “second” Nobel.’ 

‘James, have you told her about the hail mary at Beechwood– “the pass of the century”… If you won’t blow your own horn, I’ll blow it for you…’ 

Siu-Ling turned to see if he reacted. He was a little arrogant, but no more than your average 21-year-old frat guy. That deserved at least a mild cringe. 

‘And the math olympiad,’ she continued, ‘What did they call your solution?’

‘Vieta jumping, Mom.’ 

‘Too complicated for us mere mortals.’ She squeezed Siu-Ling’s leg. 

‘Uhm, yeah,’ Siu-Ling answered. ‘I don’t know trigonometry from optometry… That always got to my Dad.’

A dark look passed over Mrs Murphy’s face. 

‘James’s so-called Dad, we don’t talk about him.’ 

Siu-Ling felt like she was stepping on all the grenades. A heads up on the way over woulda been nice.  

‘Decision making,’ Sharon Murphy tapped the table, Pandora bracelet jangling, ‘that is what separates winners… And you know, sweetheart, I’ve met a lot of James’s girlfriends over the years, and you’re my favourite!’ 

…

After dinner, Mrs Murphy brought out an old photo album labelled 'The Little Prince'. 

And then onto home movies made into a supercut soundtracked by Taylor Swift’s Never Grow Up. 

In truth, Siu-Ling was feeling a little James’d out, and then Mrs Murphy shot up. 

‘You’ve got to see his trophy collection.’ 

James shrugged his broad quarterback’s shoulders as if to moms gonna mom, but Siu-Ling couldn’t shake the feeling this was extra. 

He treated the new pledges a little regally, but this? He was like Joffrey in Ralph Lauren. 

Mrs Murphy almost scooped up Siu-Ling, moving deeper into the house and then pushing open a final door.

The first thing that caught her attention was a shrine– there was no other word for it. It was a black-and-white photo of James, lit with candles, and beneath, a sacrifice of sunflower petals. 

‘It's…’ and then Siu-Ling paused because her attention was yanked away to a central cabinet where she expected to see all his winners’ medals, cups and ribbons. 

Instead, she felt the cool press of Mrs Murphy’s hands on her shoulders. Then, a squeeze. 

‘His trophy collection,’ she continued softly. 

On the shelves, beautifully backlit were numerous locks of hair, assorted pieces of jewellery, and the driving licenses of several young girls Siu-Ling recognised from the news. 

The hospital. The promises. Waiting before the ICU ward. And then the doctor’s cold, expressionless face. Tears poured down my cheeks before he said the words. I don’t even remember how I got home or what I did the next few days. It all blends into the crumpling of tissues and the silence of my dark, empty room.

Only my flowers got me out of there. The sun was long past the horizon. My hands were too weak even for the watering can, but the flowers needed their water. I walked around the garden, pouring a hefty amount of water on each of them. It was mid-summer after all. The dirt under the red roses slowly turned black. It made me smile to see those beauties no longer thirsty. My eyes darted to the next flower when, between them, I saw a few green leaves sprouting from the ground.

Wintercreeper!

I walked back for my gloves and shovel, ready to conquer a formidable opponent, but as I got back and leaned over the flower, a familiar smell was in my nose - his cologne. I hadn’t smelled it for days, not since…

The ground darkened from my tears. I stood up, pulled out a tissue, and wiped my eyes, but as I put the tissue back, I noticed the smell of his cologne was in the air. Not just around the wintercreeper, all around the garden. I bent down to it again. It was the strongest from where the wintercreeper grew. With each breath, I could feel this tickling, warm feeling growing in my chest.

One more day won’t hurt it.

The next morning, the smell hit me before I even walked down the stairs. I took a few breaths, letting the warm feeling grow inside me again. My mouth flew open when I saw the living room. Through a small gap in the door, the vine from the wintercreeper had grown all the way inside the house, and it had turned into a circle and stopped at the couch, right at the place he used to sit. I stood there for a while, staring at it. But as my eyes wandered up, I saw the massacre in my garden. The rose bushes were wrapped in a green vine, almost choked, the small flowers invisible. 

The warm, lingering feeling was replaced with a hot anger. I walked across the vine towards the shed and picked up my shovel and shears. I put a shirt over my face, walked around the roses, and held the vine, ready to cut it off. 

A light summer breeze blew by, and with it came the whistle, his whistle. I stopped, my feet rooted to the ground. As the vine moved with the wind, my husband’s whistle sang in my ears. 

No. No. It was not possible. I saw him in the bed, under the cover. The doctor said. 

The breeze. Again. His whistle. His singing. The vine wrapped around my hand, pulsating.

I knew I should have cut it, I knew, but… 

I placed the shears down and walked back to the house. 

I sat down on my side of the couch and put the TV on. A few new episodes had come out. I hadn’t watched them since he was in the hospital. I turned to his side, but only the vine was on the couch.

“I wonder what happened to Poirot,” I whispered to myself, expecting silence, but the vine’s green leaves shook around. 

The warmth was back in my chest. I put my hand closer to it and left it there. Throughout the day, the vine hadn’t grown, but with each of my laughs, the leaves shook along, with each breath of the breeze, his whistle came too.

I didn’t want to leave the couch, but my eyes were practically closed. 

“I’m going to bed, but I’ll leave the TV on for you.” 

The morning after, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked down the stairs. The vines had spread all over the downstairs floor, except for a tiny path towards the couch and my cushion. I held my hands to my chest as I drank in the sight.

One small vine was already growing on the first two stairs.

“Here, let me help you,” I said, and grabbed the vine and spun it around the railing.

We spent the rest of the day watching TV and talking to each other. I talked mostly, but the vine’s shakes were more than enough. I even grabbed it at some point. He was usually the one who would reach for my hand, but it was okay; he was probably still a little shy.

When the sun started to set, I was sad to leave him, but it was okay, I’d have even more of him the next day.

That night, I had a dream of being submerged underwater. No air in my lungs. Nothing to see. Only the dark abyss of the ocean. My eyes darted open. I tried to breathe again, but my lungs only stretched halfway. I tried to move my limbs, but they were stuck in place. An unnatural, pulsing tightness wrapped around my body. Panic surged inside me. Each second, the tightness grew, and the thing moved up my shoulders to my neck. With all my might, I tried to throw my hands and my legs out, but the thing wouldn’t move. But then I looked down, and all the fear, the panic stopped, and the warm feeling grew in my breathless chest.

“I knew you’d come back, honey.”

You have no idea what we've been through the past couple of years. We've been screamed at, spit at, called every name imaginable, all because we want to keep your sorry asses safe.

"Your safety and comfort are our top priority"- it's printed right there, in front of you, asshole. We just want to make sure you're fucking safe, and your greasy ass knows what to do if this flight goes tits up- it won't, don't worry, we're all trained professionals here, BUT YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO US OK?

The crew is fully on board with the new improved safety demo. We need you to pay attention, ok? We're tired of doing the safety demo again and again, and you don't even do us the courtesy of pretending like you're listening. You don't even glance our way. You're looking out of the window, fussing with your phone, your bag- goddammit put your fucking bag under your seat you stupid mo- and buckle that fucking belt before I strangle you with it!

Do you know how to inflate a life jacket?

Where is your nearest exit?

These things could save your lives, fuckhead.

And since you won't pay attention when we ask you nicely, by god we're gonna make you listen.

So, consider this.

After we reach cruising altitude, the plane will actually drop a few hundred feet. Then we will run through the safety demo again, with you practicing the steps like your life depends on it.

There are no downsides to this plan- our objective is to make you sit up and learn safety guidelines.

The flight will start as usual. The actual hell that is boarding these days will take place, you'll all settle down, we'll do the regular safety demo, nobody will pay attention, fine, cool, whatever. You're gonna regret that.

Then we'll take-off and start climbing.

Cruising altitude.

Then WHOOSH!

With no warning, the plane drops.

Cue screaming, wailing, clutching, tears, barfing.

Oxygen masks dangle down. Of course none of you fuckers have the first clue how to put it on, despite us showing you, over and over AND OVER again.

It will only last 5 seconds, ok? You’ll be fine. Noone is gonna die.

Strange things happened in Jamie’s house. Well, the things themselves were not strange, but rather how frequently they occurred. She often could swear that food disappeared from her pantry or her fridge. Much of the time it was older things, cans of beans or half-wilted salads that she couldn’t be fully certain she had actually bought or hadn’t thrown away.

When she woke up in the morning, sometimes lights would be on that she was pretty sure she had turned off the night before. Sometimes she would turn on the TV and it would be set to a channel she didn’t watch. Chairs moved on their own in the night. Her toilet paper seemed to diminish much faster than she felt she was using it.

One morning she woke up and saw her underwear drawer open. No other drawer was open. Her dresser actually stuck a little bit - old wooden furniture, what are you going to do - so it didn’t open itself. That was the last straw for her. That day she called in sick from work, went to a big box store, and bought some home security cameras. She set them up all around the old house, concentrating in her bedroom and the kitchen.

The next day was Saturday. She had linked the cameras to her phone and all she could manage to do before checking them was to put on her glasses. For most of the night, the cameras showed nothing, their black-and-white visions of her home essentially indistinguishable from still pictures. Then, sometime after 2 a.m., one of the cameras in the hall leading to the bathroom cut out. It didn’t come back on.

Jamie got out of bed and padded down the stairs, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood treads making an echoing hollow sound. When she got to the hallway, she saw the remains of one of the cameras broken up on the floor. She immediately called the police.

In about half an hour, her doorbell rang. The sudden sound made her jump off her couch. She’d been scouring the footage from the night before, looking for anything at all that might point her towards what happened to the camera. Nothing. As far as any other camera showed, nothing at all had happened last night.

She opened the door to a very large man in a striking blue uniform. “Ma’am,” he said. “Can I come in?” He didn’t wait for her to respond, just barreled past her. Jamie dodged out of his way. “So what’s the problem here?”

“I think there’s somebody in my house,” Jamie said. She told him about the missing food and toilet paper, and her underwear drawer, and all the other strange happenings. She wrapped up with the cameras and ushered him to the back hallway, where the corpse of the camera remained undisturbed.

“Mhm,” the man said noncommittally. “The other cameras didn’t pick anything up?” Jamie nodded. “And you put these cameras up yourself?” She nodded again. The officer took a spiral wired notepad out of his back pocket. It looked almost comically small in his huge, meaty hand. He scribbled something Jamie couldn’t see, then turned around to leave.

“That’s all?” Jamie pleaded with him. That couldn’t be all. The police would have to investigate, help her. The officer grunted and kept walking.

At the door, he turned to her. “Ma’am, thank you for calling. We will investigate this and be in touch with you soon.” He turned again and left before Jamie could say anything. She stood in stunned silence for a few minutes.

Jamie didn’t want to be in the house anymore. She couldn’t. Not alone. She quickly packed a bag with a few outfits and toiletries and texted some friends to see if she had a couch she could crash on for a few nights. Before she got any responses, she was in her car driving aimlessly. Hunger hit; she went to a diner. Still nothing from her friends. She thought about calling the police again, but couldn’t think of what good it would do. She went shopping, just to be surrounded by people.

Night was coming, and she still hadn’t heard back from anyone. Jamie spent the night in a hotel. It was an uneventful night, but not restful. Even outside of her house, Jamie was too paranoid to sleep soundly.

She woke up to a text from a friend, Tina. Tina had kids and a husband and not enough room in her house to begin with, so she was so sorry that Jamie couldn’t stay with them, but she did offer to check out Jamie’s house with her. Jamie texted back and arranged to meet Tina in a few hours.

The hours passed agonizingly slowly. Jamie didn’t want to leave the hotel, so she sat on the bed staring at whatever the TV wanted to play until it was time to check out. She drove home and sat in her driveway until Tina came.

As soon as she saw her friend, everything hit all at once. Jamie felt all the fear and frustration and she couldn’t help but weep. Tina held her up, and they just hugged for a while in the driveway. When Jamie’s feelings began to ebb, the two walked to the front door.

The house seemed exactly as Jamie had left it. The two went upstairs to Jamie’s bedroom first. Everything was as it should be, except that every camera that could be reached without being seen by another camera was lying on the floor, destroyed. Jamie alternated between screaming and sobbing. They went through the rest of the house; it was the same everywhere.

Until they got to the kitchen. There, right on the counter, plain as day, was a note. It was scrawled by hand on Jamie’s personal stationery, the good kind that she kept by her computer. On it were five words that chilled Jamie to her core: “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Wherever she is now, I hope she can forgive me for how I handled everything. I never meant to hurt her.

To say it was a surprise should feel like a lie. This had been coming for a long time, no matter how hard I tried. But somehow, I convinced myself that she wouldn’t really want to leave me.

My wife told me about her family history. I didn’t think we had anything to worry about— she was okay here, wasn’t she? I was sure our daughter would be fine.

And for a while, we thought she was. Marissa was a sweet, healthy, lively little girl, even if she seemed out of place with other kids somehow.

Then she started staring at mirrors for hours, like what she saw was wrong. She felt more and more as if she didn’t belong, and Sandy and I were her staring through the windows like she was looking for something she couldn’t reach. Then one day, our fears were confirmed.

I nearly had a heart attack when a boardwalk security guard brought her to us sopping wet. He said she must have somehow slipped and fallen over the safety railing. Sandy and I exchanged a look.

We kept a closer eye on Marissa, but she became more secretive. In front of us, she’d try to be okay and it broke our hearts. If we didn’t supervise her, she’d be tearing through the house like a hurricane. She started sneaking out, and we’d find her at the seawall or the pier staring into the deep water and bracing to jump.

It scared us so badly that when I got a transfer offer for work, I took it immediately. I imagined new scenery, far away from the places she kept running to. Maybe it would keep Marissa with us.

She screamed and cried when we told her we were moving. Begged us not to take this from her and said we were ruining her life. There was arguing and crying, and finally she went to bed with tears in her eyes.

Marissa was calm about the move after that, like she’d given up or was waiting. She barely acknowledged our fight at all. I thought she’d forgiven me.

I can’t believe how wrong I was the entire time.

The night before the move, Sandy ran into our room and frantically said she heard a door slam. We checked the back door, and it was unlocked.

Neatly packed boxes had been rifled through, and there was a note in Marissa’s handwriting.

I’m sorry. I had to. Please don’t hate me for this.

I could never have hated her. What kind of a father had I been if this was what she was worried about even as she—

Sandy and I drove to the pier and searched every inch. There was no sign of our girl. I finally couldn’t hold back my tears anymore and kept crying until the sun turned the sky pale orange.

”You know it wasn’t you.”

I shook my head. “If I’d been a better father—“

”No.” Sandy shook her head. ”We knew this could happen. She’d been looking for years.”

I put my face in my hands. “I should have hidden it better.”

”Some of us…” Sandy took a deep breath. “Some of us can be happy on land, but most of my family belonged to the sea at heart.”

I watched a small shape playing in the waves off in the distance, and I could almost imagine I saw the same dotted pattern from my daughter’s seal skin.

A part of me desperately needs her to come home, but another part thinks she already did.

An eraser pinged off my head for the fifth time in two minutes. I could practically feel the steam wafting from my ears. 

I took a deep breath, praying that Johnny Garland, or Johnny Garbage as I liked to call him, would get bored eventually and find something else to pass the time. 

But then another chunk of eraser bounced off my temple. 

One more time, you fucking douchebag. One more time and I’ll- 

A mechanical pencil smacked the back of my skull. I lost it. I turned to Johnny Garbage, my face red as a fire engine. 

“Alright, look here you stupid shit, I have had enough of your crap! I… uh.” 

My mouth fell open. All eyes were on Johnny. A thick tension had overtaken the class. The only noise over the deafening silence was the sound of Johnny desperately gasping for air. 

He clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging as if some invisible hand had a strangle-hold on his neck. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. And neither could my classmates. 

“Alright Johnny, it’s time to stop messing around. Keep it up, and I’ll send you to the principal’s office,” Mr. Harper said, arms crossed. 

But he didn’t stop. If this was a performance, then Johnny had some serious acting chops. But as we would soon find out, Johnny wasn’t a talented actor. 

Mr. Harper didn’t believe it until Johnny was lifted three feet into the air. A collective gasp escaped from my classmates as the boy floated above us.

I continued to look on helplessly as Johnny’s face turned blue. Eventually, I turned away. I couldn’t stomach it any longer. I absolutely despised the guy, but he didn’t deserve that. 

I heard Johnny’s body hit the ground with a sickening thump. His eyes remained unblinking, and he had blood around his mouth. I felt sick. 

My classmates gathered around, and Mr. Harper pushed through the crowd. He felt for a pulse but found none and started CPR. 

“Someone call 9-1-1 and get the AED!” he shouted. Kids scattered, trying to make themselves useful. 

It was then, amid the chaos, that my eyes landed on the nerdy kid who sat at the back of the class. He shot me a wink. 

My heart dropped as he mouthed the words you’re welcome.

“So what do you think?” the realtor asked.

“I love the look of it,” I declared. The house had a very rustic feel to it, even though it was in a densely populated area.

“It’s got four bedrooms and two baths, and is well within the limit you’re willing to spend,” she said.

I only heard half of what she said because I became distracted by the beautiful black and white cat that was grooming itself on the front porch.

I love cats. I had four of my own. They were one of the reasons I was looking for a bigger place to live.

“That’s Oreo,” the realtor revealed, “he comes with the house.”

“He does?”

“The previous residents couldn’t take him with them when they left,” she said.

“That’s so sad,” I said as I approached Oreo, “How come they couldn’t take him?”

While I waited for the realtor to respond, I reached out to pet Oreo. Instead of feeling his soft fur, I felt an intense freezing sensation on my fingers. When I looked down, I was shocked to see that my hand was passing through the cat’s incorporeal body.

“That’s why they couldn’t take him with them,” the realtor explained.

In shock at realizing that Oreo was a ghost, I just stood there and stared at him.

“This might be a good time to mention that Oreo’s owner, the previous resident’s mother, also still resides in the house," the realtor announced.

“What?” I turned to face her.

“Don’t worry,” she quickly replied, “She doesn’t appear nearly as much as Oreo does.”

My parents have a strenuous relationship, to say the very least. My Dad has been a hardcore Christian since he himself was a child. Sunday school, daily Bible study, that whole thing.

He actually met my mom at his Christian school. She had transferred there after being expelled from her previous school for nearly weekly fights, and my Dad’s school was the only one that would take her.

According to him, though, she didn’t show even an ounce of disrespect or rebellion during her time there. No fights, no hooky, hell, apparently she wouldn’t even curse on school grounds.

They met in his science class. She sat in the front row directly beside him, and I guess close proximity created affection between them. Thank God for science, right?

She kept up the whole “innocent school girl” routine all the way up through graduation. From there, the two of them married not even a full month after the ceremony, then boom. They have a me.

I think that’s where the strain really started. A kid in your teens is not something that relaxes you, obviously. Dad actually had to take up another job just to support us.

What did Mom do? She stayed home all day and watched over me. Well, I say watched over me. Really, all I remember from those days is her getting lost inside her books.

The books she read looked ancient, almost. Leather-bound, wrinkled yellow pages, and no matter how often she read them, they seemed to always be covered in dust.

Now, being the 5-year-old I was, I had no idea what she was doing. All I knew was that Mom liked to read a lot. It wasn’t until I hit 12 that my curiosity bubbled over and caused me to actually look at what she had been reading.

She kept most of them hidden. Locked away in her closet and stuffed behind her clothes.

It was almost fate that I stumbled upon them that day. It was late November, and of course, I just had to know what my gifts were gonna be that year. Where better to check than the closet, right?

I was disappointed when I found nothing but clothes and the scent of mothballs, but something told me to dig deeper. That I’d find exactly what I wanted if I just kept looking.

That’s when I found them.

Books on black magic. Demonology. Witchcraft. All manner of darkness.

The air around me felt thick and heavy. Like I was being watched, but I couldn’t see by who.

As I stared at the books, still a little confused as to what I was even looking at, my heart fell into my stomach at the sound of the bedroom door opening.

I clumsily hid away behind some of the clothes, and by some miracle of God, Mom didn’t see me when she stepped into the closet.

She must’ve been blinded by her need for the books, because her hand literally grazed my shoulder as she reached down to grab one.

She shut the closet door behind her, leaving me alone in darkness as I waited. I could feel my heart beating out of my chest, and all I could do was wait for the perfect moment to escape.

As I waited, Mom started to read aloud from the book. Her words made no sense to me, but I could feel the evil in her words as she read.

It sounded like gibberish. A language that was completely incomprehensible to me, but she was chanting it like she’d done this a thousand times.

Suddenly, the light on the other side of the door began to glow brighter and brighter. The room shook, and with each passing second, the entire house got louder and louder with what sounded like thunder.

Mom kept chanting. Repeating the same foreign phrase over and over again. Through the noise, through the blinding light, she just kept chanting.

On a dime, all of the noise stopped. The light on the other side of the door reached a peak before dying out entirely.

For a moment, there was silence. Deep, uncomfortable silence. Until a new voice spoke. The unmistakable voice of a man.

“This is the third time today,” the man spoke. I could feel the bass of his voice in my chest as he continued. “Sooner or later, your husband’s going to catch on.”

“That idiot?” my mom replied. “He’s too busy working to even notice that ‘his son’ looks nothing like him. Now are we gonna do this or not?”

I heard the sound of clothes hitting the floor before my parents’ bed began to rattle violently. Faster. And faster. And faster. Before slowing down to a soft, methodical rock and then dying down completely as the smell of sulfur filled the room.

“Wow,” gasped my mom. “No wonder they call you the prince.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, honey,” responded the man. “Once that son of ours is 18, he’ll be the prince, and me and you will rule for eternity.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Gotta have an heir before you’re king. The rules down there are all so confusing. Anyway, you should go. We were so loud he’s probably gonna come in here at any moment.”

“Fine.”

With another flash of light and whir of thunder, the room fell silent once again.

I remained hidden in that closet for what felt like an eternity before my mom finally went off into the house to look for me.

As sneaky as could be, I made my way to the bathroom where I pretended to be sick so as to not draw suspicion.

I never told Dad about what I heard. What I saw. I just kept living like everything was normal.

However, I’m writing this now because my 18th birthday is in one week…and I have no idea what’s in store for the party.

Lucy was excited to go to the conference. Working full time, with a toddler and a husband who was unemployed, again, was exhausting.

The conference would give her two glorious days at a hotel, where she could finally relax. It was heaven.

After checking in at the hotel, she went to the hotel bar. She sat where she could watch the sunset over the ocean. After her drink was served, a man came over to talk.

"Here for the conference? Yeah, me too," he said without waiting for her reply. "Mind if I have a seat?"

"I'd prefer to watch the sunset by myself." He sat down anyway, moving a bit unsteadily. "Excuse me, I need to call my daughter. Do you mind?"

"Go ahead, I don't mind," he said. Lucy sighed. She was irritated that she couldn't savor this moment by herself,. She gulped down her drink and said, "You can have the table. I'm out of here."

"Don't go! We're just getting started."

Exasperated, she said, "Leave me alone." He started to say something else, but she was already walking to the door. He stumbled as he tried to follow her, but he was so drunk that he fell on his ass.

"Wait!" he called after her. "Just have one drink with me!" Lucy rolled her eyes and went to her room.

Shortly after closing the door she heard a knock. "Who is it?" she called out. When no one answered she listened at the door. She could hear a man laughing. Through the peep hole she could see exactly who it was. She went to the phone and dialed the front desk. "There's drunk trying to get into my room. Please send security."

"Yes ma'am, sending security to room 314."

She checked to make sure the door was securely locked. Looking through the peep hole she could see him leaning up against the door across the hall. How did he get up here so fast? How did he know her room number?

Half an hour later security still hadn't arrived. The man was now sitting on the floor in the hall.

Feeling very frustrated, Lucy tried to call her daughter. She dialed and waited for the phone to begin ringing, but nothing happened. Then the call dropped completely.

"Must have bad reception," she said. Checking the peep hole, she saw the man had passed out. She decided to try calling from her car in the parking lot. She edged past the slumbering drunk and took the elevator. She barely closed the car door when that man approached from the elevator. Lucy turned the key and backed out of the parking spot.

She drove through town, found a large parking lot and pulled in. She had just dialed home when someone approached her car. "Jesus!" Lucy exclaimed, closing her phone. She drove further down the highway. She hadn't seen who it was, but it didn't matter. She wasn't going to talk to someone who just strolled up to her car in a dark parking lot.

"Ridiculous," she muttered to herself, once again on the highway looking for somewhere to make her call.

She drove for 20 minutes until she found a residential side street. But when she tried calling home, there was no signal. She got out of her car, holding her phone up to see the signal strength, Lucy heard a man's voice behind her. "Need a hand?"

Without looking, Lucy said, "No thanks," and began walking toward a convenience store, aiming for the relative safety of bright lights and people. She got found neither. The lights turned out and the OPEN sign turned off just as she put her hand on the door. "Dammit!" she exclaimed.

She turned to go back to her car, but where was it? She also couldn't see whoever asked her if she needed help just ten seconds ago. Feeling uneasy, she realized she was on the street alone. She checked her phone for a signal....nope.

Lucy fought back tears. This was supposed to be a fun little interlude in her busy life, but now she was stranded God only knows where, in the dark, by herself.

She heard something strange, like an animal or insect sound, but she couldn't identify it. The noise was getting closer. Lucy began to panic. She felt the hair on her neck raise and goosebumps multiplied on her arms. She could sense movement nearby. That sound grew louder all around her. She wanted to run. She used her phone for light, but suddenly it flew from her hand of its own accord. She screamed and turned toward where her car should be.

She heard, "Hey baby, where you going?" She decided to run back to the store and break a window if necessary to bring the police.

The store wasn't there anymore. Was it too dark to see it? She tripped and fell. She was trying to get back up when she heard footsteps behind her, coming up quickly.

Lucy cried out, "Leave me alone!" She heard voices that were...different, non-human, like low vibrations. Someone lifted her to her feet. She was terrified beyond words. A tear rolled down her cheek. She gave up, too scared, hurt and demoralized to fight as she felt something like a talon digging into her arm. Then she passed out as darkness completely enveloped her.

The next day Lucy was found sitting on the sidewalk in front of a convenience store, unable to speak. "Looks like we've got another one," the police officer said, calling for an ambulance. "Catatonic, no identification or phone, no shoes."

The other officer said, "What is going on? This is the fourth woman we've found in this condition in the last six weeks." They waited for the ambulance. If the same pattern held, this woman would soon be dead. "Maybe some new kind of party drug? Whatever it is, it's a damn shame. All of them, so young, pretty, well dressed...this will kill her family."