MISC #4 Voting Thread: Choose Your Own Adventure

Choose your favorite entry!


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    18
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Jorick

Magnificent Bastard
Original poster
LURKER MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. One post per week
  2. Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
  3. Prestige
  4. Douche
  5. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
Genres
Fantasy is my #1; I will give almost anything a chance if it has strong fantasy elements. Post apocalyptic, superhero, alternate history, science fantasy, some supernatural, romance, and a few fandoms (especially Game of Thrones) are also likely to catch my eye.
You've all had three weeks to pick your own path through writing an entry, so submissions are now closed and it's time for everyone to see what you came up with! Thanks to everyone who entered, we're looking forward to seeing how the votes shake out this month.

Remember that until the voting period ends and the winners have been announced your entry needs to remain anonymous, so don't go telling folks which entry was yours until the announcement is officially made!

The theme for March was:

Choose Your Own Adventure

Write a story that incorporates two or more of the following themes and elements:

  • Inept bureaucracy
  • Family you choose
  • Loss of innocence
  • Unrequited love
  • Lesser of two evils
  • Ends the same as it began
  • Unfamiliar lands
  • Strained relationship
  • Unnatural lighting
  • Childhood plaything

The prizes for winning are as follows:

MISC MANAGERS' PICK
One month of free Donator status complete with perks, a special victory ribbon under your avatar for a month, a spot in the MISC Hall of Fame thread to immortalize your win, AND for this month only, $20 in the form of a gift card/certificate to a place of the winner's choosing.

MISC COMMUNITY PICK
A special victory ribbon underneath your avatar for a month and a spot in the MISC Hall of Fame thread to immortalize your win.​

The Community Pick winners will be selected by the votes cast in this thread. If entries in the Community vote tie for first place, all of those entries will be rewarded with the prizes. Once the voting period is over and the Community Winner has been determined, this thread will also be used to announce the recipient of the Managers' Pick prize.

  • Please make sure to read over the rules for voting and giving feedback before jumping on in.

    Keep in mind that entries may contain graphic material. Only entries containing explicit sexual content will be marked NSFW.

    • All entries will be posted anonymously. Voters will need to make a selection based on the quality of the piece, not the name attached to it.

    • There will be two winners for each month of MISC: the Community Pick that receives the most votes, and a Manager Pick that will be decided in secret by the MISC managers. Each will receive separate but similar prizes for their accomplishment. On the rare occasion that there is a physical or monetary prize for the month, it will be awarded along with the Manager's Pick to avoid any temptation to pull shenanigans with the votes.

    • In the case of a tie in the public vote, each winner will receive the Community Pick prize package.

    • People who have entered the contest can vote, but they can't vote for their own entry or it'll be disqualified. Show some love to your fellow writers or don't vote, whatever feels right to you. Votes will be public knowledge so we can keep track of this.

    • You aren't allowed to tell anyone which entry is yours until AFTER the voting period is over. Doing anything to solicit votes is not allowed and will get you disqualified, and perhaps even banned from MISC altogether. Telling your friends "hey, I entered MISC this month, go read the entries and vote" is fine; telling people "go vote for #4, that's my entry" is not okay.

    • Voters are highly encouraged to read through every entry before voting. We know we can't enforce this, but try to give everyone a chance before picking your favorite.

    • The entry with the most votes at the end of the voting period will be declared the Community Pick for that month. However, if the community makes the same selection as the managers, then the second highest vote recipient will be named Community Pick; we don't intend to make the vote seem like it's playing second fiddle to our pick, it's just how it has to work so prize distribution makes sense when there are gift certificates or similar to be won, sorry! The winning entry will win fabulous prizes (fabulousness not guaranteed) and will win a permanent spot in the MISC Hall of Fame thread for all eternity (or until Iwaku explodes).

    • Voters are highly encouraged to post in the voting thread to explain their choice. Full reviews or critiques of the entries are very welcome, but please keep any criticism constructive and civil. Telling someone that their spelling errors and odd word choice made it hard to read is fine, but telling them that they write like shit is not okay.

    • Number/letter grades are also highly discouraged as they tend to be arbitrary and to vary widely in interpretation. This applies to any form of comparative grading. It is better to list strengths and weaknesses from the rubric for each entry based on its individual merit rather than assigning a grade.

    • If you would like, you may use the same rubric that the managers will be using, provided below. It's entirely optional; don't feel obliged.


    MISC MANAGER'S RUBRIC

    TECHNIQUE

    - Are there spelling/grammar errors or typos? Many, or just a few? How did it affect your ability to read and follow along with the story?
    - Is sentence structure and word choice varied? Does the writer show a good grasp of vocabulary and punctuation usage?
    - Are there any odd word choices or places where you stumble? Is everything clear and easy to understand?

    STYLE

    - Do you get a sense of the narrative voice when reading along? Is it consistent throughout the narrative?
    - Do the punctuation and sentence structure show a sophistication of style? Does it seem like deliberate choices were made to create a certain flow?
    - Is there use of vivid, engrossing description? Can you easily picture scenes in your head?
    - Does the story captivate your interest? Do you find yourself skimming?

    CHARACTERIZATION

    - Do characters have distinct, believable voices of their own? Is the dialogue natural or does it feel forced?
    - Do characters show complexity and depth of emotion? Do you get a sense of who they are and what motivates them?
    - Do the characters seem appropriate for the setting?
    - Do the decisions made or conclusions reached by characters within the scope of the story make sense? Do we learn more about them through their actions?
    - Are the characters likable or interesting? Do you have any strong emotion toward them?

    CREATIVITY

    - Are the plot and/or setting fresh and original? Do they show imagination?
    - Are there any new twists on old ideas or common elements? Has the writer surprised you?
    - Are there any subplots or underlying themes that you can identify?
    - Has the writer used symbolism, metaphor, allegory, or subtext?

    COHESIVENESS

    - Does the story adhere to the prompt? How closely? Is there any way you feel it deviates from the spirit?
    - Do the ideas involved seem fully developed?
    - Is there a plot? Do you get a sense of advancement in the story? Do characters learn or accomplish anything?
    - Does the story make sense as a whole and flow seamlessly from beginning to end? Is there anything that feels like it doesn't fit or is unnecessary?
    - Is the ending satisfying? Does it feel like a complete story?


That's all for the reminders and such, now it's time for the entries!

What The Shadows Know

|| The Case of The Blackout King ||

It was a dark and stormy night when the dame walked into my life. I remember it like it was yesterday. She was a tall glass of water after the rough day I'd had. A real bombshell, even dripping wet and shaking harder than palm fronds in a hurricane. Blonde, with eyes the color of the Mojave desert sand at sunset, red lips a choir boy would cry to kiss, a face built for the screen and a body built for the sheets. I remember thinking I was a pretty lucky bastard that of all the men in the joint that night, her gams came waltzing my way. Boy, was I wrong.
She pulled out a stool and dropped down beside me, popping a Virginia Slim between those perfect lips as she crossed one long nylon-clad post over the other. I'll admit, I was a little bewitched, but I also smelled trouble.
"Detective Gunn..." She started, her sultry voice rolling my name out like a red carpet, "I hear you're the man to see about a pest problem?"
Staring into my half-emptied glass of bourbon, I frowned.
"You got the wrong guy, Lady."
"You... you aren't Detective Maxwell Gunn? I was told you'd be here, tonight... nursing bourbon, black trench coat... Fedora?" For emphasis, she tapped the brim of my hat and I had to fight the urge to scowl. Turning away, I downed the rest of my drink, before waving the bartender over for a refill.
"I'm him." I said, flatly, "But I'm off duty."
With my glass filled, I pushed back my stool and rose to my feet. She stood up as well and I was surprised by how defiantly she met my eyes. For a moment, I was a little embarrassed, but I was also on my fourth glass and had a case of Dos Equis awaiting me at my ramshackled apartment downtown.
"Look, no offense meant," I continued, "But I'm not a PI... I work hourly, and my shift ended at ten. If you need to file a report, they can handle it at the precinct."
"You don't understand. I'm being stalked, Detective."
To avoid her piercing gaze, I tossed back the bourbon and turned away, "Lady, I'm not sure what you're lookin' for, but there's nothing I can do for you. Like I said... the precinct is right up the road. You can file a report there and someone will help you."
Slowly, the woman shook her head.
"If you won't help me, no one can, Detective." She turned on her heels and I watched her go, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that her words meant something more than I was grasping. I drank too much. I never drank on duty, but I made up for it when I was off. It was a vice, and I knew one day it would bite me, but some nights it was the only way I could forget. Forget that one case. The day everything went wrong.
It was my rookie year, and I had just moved to the city. I was seeing a girl named Kate. A breath of fresh air in the stifling world of law and order. Kate was that bit of my world the darkness of my job couldn't touch. Or so I thought…
It was the week before Christmas and the ring was burning a hole in my pocket. I've gone there to propose, but I knew walking up to her door something was wrong. The door hung open, the Christmas lights Kate had hung earlier trailing on the ground.
The lights were out and the inside of the apartment was pitch black. I called her name, but knew I would get no answer. I’d seen it before. As a rookie in homicide, it was crucial that you familiarize yourself with the caseload. At the top of that load was a nasty SOB the newshawks were calling The Blackout King.
He was known for leaving two very particular calling cards. I had found one when I walked into that darkness. The other when I felt for the light switch on the wall and my fingertips brushed the playing card taped over the toggle. I didn't have to turn the lights on to know that it was the King of spades. I also knew what that meant. Kate was dead.
I avoided that light switch like the plague, until backup arrived to cover the scene. I sat there in the dark, feeling my world falling to pieces until the team arrived. Jack Vestrow was that first to come in. He was my superior in every way. Apart from being my boss he was also six foot four and about a hundred pounds heavier than me. And because it didn’t make any damn sense, he went by the nickname Tiny.
"Hey. How you holding up?" He asked, but he seemed to know it was the wrong question, because as soon as he’d said it, I could see him dodging my gaze.
"She's gone, Tiny. The bastard took her."
"He's not gonna get away with it. we're gonna nail him this time, Gunn."
But we didn't nail him. Kate had been strangled to death and I couldn't do anything to avenge her. These days, all I had left was the booze. The booze and that burning desire for payback.

I left the bar that night feeling like the worst kind of creep, but halfway through my fourth bottle of Dos Equis, I stopped feeling much of anything. I woke up later in my Pop’s old armchair, to the sound of my phone ringing. The emergency line, never a good sign. With a groan, I rolled over, kicked an empty bottle out of the way and picked up my phone, flipping it open to answer.
"Gunn, here."
"Gunn. It's Tiny. He's back."
They were the two words I'd been waiting half a decade to hear and they had only one meaning. The Blackout King was back in town, and there was another body.
"Where do you need me?"
"20th and County Line, Apartment 5A at the Westberg Complex."
"I'll be there in ten."
As I made my way up the five flights of stairs, a strange uncomfortable feeling welled up in my chest that I couldn't quite explain. By the time I reached the apartment, the lights were back on and the CSI were already at work. When I entered the crime scene, I suddenly understood that the feeling wasn't dread, as I had first thought, but guilt.
The blonde lay face up on the plush blue carpet, dressed in nothing but a red negligee, her eyes glassed over, staring in fixed horror up at the ceiling. Her legs were curled under her, and an ugly black bruise had formed around her neck, where the cord had been wrapped that was used to strangle her. She was as much a knockout in death as she had been in life. It was the dame from the bar.
I knew I looked like hell, and I was sure I felt worse than I looked, so I wasn't surprised when Tiny approached with a frown. He handed me a cup off coffee, before he spoke,"Hell of a night, hmm?"
"To be honest, Tiny, I'm hopin' I'm still dreaming." I scratched uncomfortably at the five o’clock shadow itching my chin.
"...It's a damn shame, yeah? She's a real stunner."
"Yeah. Except she was a lot prettier last night. Damn, Tiny. This... this is all my fault."
"What are you gettin' on about, Gunn?"
With a sigh, I pinched the bridge of my nose, deciding I deserved the hangover and a whole lot worse.
"She came to me, last night, in the... While I was off duty. Said someone was stalkin' her. I... I blew her off, Tiny,. Told her to go file a report. She said I was the only one who could help her, but I just walked right out. And now, she's dead... and I'm responsible."
"Well, hell."
"I should've taken her seriously, but I was..."
"Toasted?"
"...Yeah, thanks."
"So did she say anything else? Who she thought it was?"
"Nothing. I didn't even give her a chance. Poor kid... Probably didn't even get out of the parking lot..."
"You can beat yourself up for it later, Gunn. We got bigger problems. Namely... this." Tiny held up a plastic evidence envelope containing a blood stained King of Spades.
"The blood is new...?"
Tiny nodded, "He's upgraded his calling card. We're having trace run on it... couldn't find any evidence that it's her blood. No cuts or anything..."
"You think maybe it's his?"
"If it is, I highly doubt we'll get anything off of it. The guy's too smart to give up anything that easy."
"He's playing games with us."
"He's good at them. It's been five years since we've heard so much as a whisper, suddenly he's back... and he's back swingin'."
"I gotta get him this time, Tiny. I can't... I can't let him get away, twice."
As Tiny put the evidence back into his kit, two other officers approached. Lucas Mirano had been on the force as long as I had, and held more commendations than anyone in our unit. He was a stickler for the rules, but he was a good guy, and an even better cop. With him was Dill Streuss, my partner for the last year and a half. Dill was a good guy, too, but a little too eager, even for a rookie. He was the sort of guy that gave the impression he was gunning for your job. Some days, I wondered how he hadn’t gotten it, yet...
"We got everything we need here. Just about ready to turn the body over." Mirano declared, and Tiny nodded.
"I managed to get some scrapings from under the victim’s finger-OH!" As Dill reached to hand the evidence container to Tiny, the little vile dropped to the floor, and as Dill bent to retrieve in, the contents of his coffee mug spilled out on the hardwood. He straightened quickly, his ears reddening. At least I had an answer to my question, "Sorry. I... uh... I got some scrapings from under her nails."
"Nice work, boys." Tiny said, "Let's get cleaned up and head back to precinct to see what we can make of all this..."
Before I followed the other officers out, I took one last look at the dame on the floor. It was my fault she was there, but it wouldn’t be like Kate, this time. I wouldn't fail to bring her justice. This time, I would put the bastard where he belonged…
Six feet under the cold, hard ground.

Dill was waiting for me at my car. When I approached, he jammed his hands into his pockets, leaning back on his heels.
"Big... big case we got, here? Huh? My first serial killer."
“Try not to look so excited about it, huh kid?”
Cheeks flushed Dill pulled open his door, and I slipped in after him, “Sorry, Boss. I forgot. He… he’s the creep who did your girl in, huh?”
“Same creep…” I muttered, popping down the overhead visor for my keys. As they dropped into my lap, something else floated down behind them. Brows pinched together, I plucked up the photo, feeling my stomach twist in a somersault.
“Boss? You alright?” Dill asked, but as he leaned over my shoulder to look at the picture, his breath hitched in a hiss, “Is that…”
“Pretty damn sure.” I growled.
She was blonde, green eyes - sultry, but soft - her pale skin streaked with dark streams of mascara ink. The photograph was just of her face, but I could’ve guessed her measurements from the look of her. She was his type… and she was alive. Turning the photograph over in my hand, I saw the scribbled writing Find her. Save her.
“Hell…” I heard Dill mumble, and I jammed the key into the ignition, the engine roaring to life.

Trace evidence on the photograph turned up nothing, but then, I didn’t exactly expect it to point us anywhere useful. Still, Dill and I spent the entire day searching - digging into nooks and crannies even I didn’t know the city had, showing off that picture like we were angling for a prize. At the end of the day though, all we had were more questions. By the time I dropped Dill at his apartment, parked my car at my own and walked the four blocks to O’Malley’s, the only question I cared to find answers to was whether I wanted my scotch on the rocks or not.

The bar was packed that night, which was probably why I didn’t see her at first, but at the gentle tap against my shoulder I turned on my stool and came face to face with the girl in the photograph. Somehow, I was less surprised than I expected to feel. Staring up at those green eyes, rimmed in red, I shifted uncomfortable and gesturing to the seat beside me, waved over the tender to order another glass.
She ordered a whiskey. Her voice was the sensual purr I anticipated, and as the tender set down her glass, she wrapped her hands around it and fixed me with a look that was almost expectant, “I’m April.” She murmured, then plucked up the whiskey and took a sip, “You’re Maxwell, right? Maxwell Gunn?”
“...And you need my help.”
“Damn. Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”
A sigh escaped the broad and in one gulp she swallowed her whiskey. I might’ve been impressed if I didn’t feel like I was shaking apart, inside. I understood it, now. How the murdered dame knew my name, knew where to find me. This wasn’t just happenstance - this was personal.
“I think you’d better start at the beginning.” I muttered, reluctantly pushing my own glass to the edge of the bar.

It was nearing midnight when April finally finished her story. She’d been walking home from work two nights prior when a paneled van had pulled up beside her and she was dragged inside. For twenty-four hours, she was held in a dark room, tied to a chair. Her assailant spoke to her through a metal door , covering his face to muffle his voice. He explained that when he released her, she was to come to O’Malley’s and ask for Maxwell Gunn. He told her that I was going to help her - that I was the only one who could. She concluded by telling me that when he untied her, he had cut her with something… Not sharp like a knife - more like a paper cut.
I didn’t need evidence to tell me it was the card from the crime scene, and I understood now what the bastard was doing...
Deciding sobriety was a smart man’s game that I was in no mood to play, I plucked up my bourbon and tossed it back. April had ordered a second whiskey, but the glass sat clutched between her palms, condensation running along the outside, leaving beads of moisture on her soft, honey-toned skin. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but notice she kept her nails short and rounded, no polish. He knew my type and I hated the creep for it.
“Anything you can tell me about the guy? What he looked like… how his voice sounded? Height, weight?”
“...I only saw him for a few seconds, and it was too dark to make out much detail. But I didn’t get the impression he was trying to hide so much as he was... “
“He was…?”
Frowning, she trailed her fingertip around the rim of the glass, “It was like he wanted me to figure it out. Like he was…”
“Playing a game.”
“Exactly.”
“Did he… do or say anything that gave you the impression he was…”
“Hitting on me? No. Hell, the way he talked? I thought maybe he was in love with you… Some kind of unrequited romance thing.”
“Hero worship…?”
“No. It… it was more than that. He knew you, Mr. Gunn. Pretty intimately.”
Swearing, I lifted my glass again before recalling I’d already drained it. Slowly, April inched hers over my way and I didn’t hesitate much before throwing it back. It did little to ease the lead in my stomach, however, and the fog in my brain was getting thicker and thicker.
“This isn’t about you, April.” I finally said, but when I met her eyes, they seemed to suggest she already knew as much, “I thought… I thought we were up against some run of the mill nutjob serial killer, but I’m afraid it’s more than that. Much more…”
“You’re the real target, aren’t you?”
“So it seems…” Rising from the stool and grabbing my coat, I looked down at April with a small frown, “Listen… I don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone right now, but I don’t want you to think I’m--”
“If you’re offering me a place to stay, Mr. Gunn, I accept.” She rose as well, her hands knotting together in front of her, “I don’t want to go home… and he was pretty clear what would happen to me if I went to the police.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something he said… I didn’t think about it till just now, honestly. He said that if either you or I went to the cops with this… he’d kill another girl in my place. I couldn’t tell if he was bluffing or not, but I didn’t want to bet on it… Still don’t.”
Swearing bitterly, I slung my coat on, “Maybe you don’t… but I’m a little tired of being some child’s plaything. Come on... I need to stop at the precinct.”

Later that night, I lay on my couch staring numbly up at the drop ceiling. Neon lights flashed outside, bathing the apartment in a noxious orange glow, but it wasn’t the strip club across the street that was keeping me awake. It was the tension in my chest, the creeping sense of anxiety. I knew I’d made a mistake. Pride, as it turned out, was as dangerous as my opponent, and I was having no luck against either.
April had tried to talk me out of it, but at the time it made sense, and I was so determined to prove that I wasn’t some patsy fool that I wasn’t willing to hear her out. I had marched into Tiny’s office, tossed down my gun and badge and announced with assurance that I was taking a leave of absence.
We’d made the trip back to my place in silence, but when I’d shown April to my room and announced I would crash on the couch, I could tell she was angry. Angry and scared, and she had every right to be. I was surprised then, when I heard the creak of floorboards and pushed up on my elbows to see her standing halfway between the bedroom and the couch. Even in the unnatural lighting, she was painful to look at - blond hair swept up into a bun, wearing one of my button downs like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. She met my eyes and stepped closer and I swore under my breath. I should’ve told her to go back to bed. That it was all emotions and tension and it was a horrible mistake, but as I swung my legs round to the floor and yanked her into my lap, the only thing that made sense was that if I didn’t kiss her, I was sure I was gonna die.
Somehow, despite my fumbling, we made it from the couch to the bed, and there, clothing dissolved and stress culminated in what was probably a sloppy, drunk mess, but laying beside her a good while later, I didn’t feel much in the way of regret like I’d expected. April’s fingertips painted scattered lines across my bare chest and with an arm slung around her shoulder, I absently twisted a lock of blonde around my hand. For several minutes, we lay there quietly, soaking in the silence… then April broke that silence with the worst words I’d heard since Kate’s death was confirmed.
“I’m scared, Max.”
Brushing my thumb across the joint of her shoulder, I shut my eyes and breathed a sigh, “I know, Sweetheart. I know.”
The thing was, I was scared, too.

Somehow, after April had fallen quiet again, I managed to slink off to sleep, but it was the shrill shriek of my phone that woke me, early the following morning. Bolting upright, it took a moment or two before I worked out the kinks, but rolling over, I found the phone and pulled the receiver to my ear, “Gunn here…”
“Max. It’s Tiny. Listen, I know you wanted a couple days off, but…” The voice on the other end carried a weight that told me what sort of day I was going to have, even before he finished speaking, “...There’s been another murder.”
April and I dressed and were at the crime scene within the hour. I could see in his eyes it was bad, but as he led me up the steps to the woman’s apartment, I didn’t feel the sinking fear I’d felt the night before. It had changed, overnight, morphed into a winged fury. Stepping into the room, I unleashed a string of expletives at the sight of the pretty blonde, prone on the carpet. The scene wasn’t clean and orderly like it had been before - instead, it was chaos… Furniture toppled, pillows torn asunder, broken dishes and picture frames littered about. Around her body, hundreds of playing cards had been diligently laid out - the queen of hearts… her sorrowful face staring grimly up at him.
“We think he make the mess after she was already dead. There’s no signs she struggled.”
“She wouldn’t have…” I spat, and turning away, I slapped my hand against the doorframe with a growl of frustration, “He’s had her for days… Since he grabbed April. I’m sure of it. The bastard’s toying with me… I broke his rules, so he changed the way he plays. Goddamn son of a…”
“I shouldn’t have called you in…” Tiny muttered, and I could tell from the look he gave me, I must have looked crazy, “Listen, Max… You’re my friend, hell… you’re like a brother to me, and I know you want this guy. But if you think he’s got your number? If you think he’s escalating because of you…? Maybe it’s best you steer clear? Maybe… maybe you should go home?”
He was right. I knew it, but I didn’t want to hear it. I opened my mouth to speak, but as I did, Dill appeared on the steps, bringing with him two cardboard cups of coffee. As he stepped into the room, he whistled through his teeth, his freckled cheeks paling slightly,.
“Damn. This is new…” Handing one of the coffees over to Tiny, Dill looked to me, frowning, “You alright, Boss?”
“Max was just leaving.” Tiny murmured, “He’s taking a vacation.”
“A… wait, really??”
Shooting Tiny a glare, I glanced to Dill and shrugged, “Apparently.”
“Look, Max. This isn’t some inept bureaucratic bullhocky, tryin’ to cover our butts, okay? I’m worried about you, and I think I’ve got a damn good reason to be. You’re too close, and you knew it last night, which is why you dropped your badge and gun on my desk. I should’ve listened, but I didn’t wanna keep this from you… Now I think maybe I should’ve. But I’m doin’ right by you, and I think you know that. Which is why I think you’re gonna turn around and walk outta here without trouble… am I right?”
“ I want to know if there’s any developments…” I continued, apprehensively returning my gaze to Tiny, who bobbed his head in a nod.
“You’ll be my first call if we find anything noteworthy. Now go home, Max.”

Back at my apartment, April showered while I brewed up a pot of coffee. The robust scent that filled my apartment carried promise, but after sucking down two cups of the bitter black brew I still felt miserable and anxious. A few minutes later, April joined me in the kitchenette, wearing my shirt again and smelling like an ivory dream. She pulled herself up on the counter and crossing her ankles, pointed to the coffee maker.
“Pour me one?”
I did, but as I handed it over to her, she set it down beside her and slid her arms around my shoulders. It was strange, that even after what had happened the night before, it felt like the most intimate I’d been with a woman in a long while. Decidedly, I was too damn sober and idly, I considered a third cup of coffee with a shot of Jameson.
Hands falling to her hips, a gesture that was oddly and irritatingly natural to me, I shut my eyes as she leaned her forehead to my chin and breathing in the scent of her hair, I exhaled a sigh.
“This son of a bitch is gonna drive me crazy, April.”
“...I think that’s kind of his point, Max.”
“Should’ve been an accountant. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to accountants…”
Pulling back, April lips curved in a dry smile, “I’m a waitress, Honey. This sort of thing can happen to anyone.”
“You know I almost retired? After... “ Frowning, I lowered my gaze. I hadn’t told her about Kate. I wasn’t sure I wanted to, even now. She wasn’t the first woman I’d been with since Kate’s death, but she was the first that felt like anything more than a distraction. The silence stretched on, after my pause, and I knew she was waiting, but still I lingered… When the words finally did come, they felt hollow on my tongue, “This guy… he killed someone I was close to.”
“Kate.”
Straightening with a jolt, I stared down at her, but April only shook her head, continuing softly, “You forget, Max… This creep, he wanted me to know who you were. I… I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure if… if I should. I’m still not, to be honest...”
“I’m sorry, April. I should’ve said something, myself. This is sort of unfamiliar land for me, you know?”
“You kinda did… Maybe not out loud, but your eyes, Max… and your penchant for nightly bar visits? I probably could’ve put together on my own, you went through something pretty rough. Add in how you reacted to this guy…?”
“Damn. Here I thought I was brooding and mysterious…”
Chuckling gently, April shrugged, “Brooding, definitely. But for me, at least, you were an open book, sweetie.”
“And you still stuck around?”
“I guess I like complicated…”
“You know that makes you crazy, right?”
“Maybe you like crazy.”
“Maybe I do…” Leaning in, I pressed a kiss to her lips, lingering for a moment before I pulled away. She sighed gently and picked up her cup of coffee, taking a sip before she spoke again.
“So… why didn’t you, by the way? Retire…?”
“Cause at the end of the day, it’s… it’s sort of in my blood, I guess? Being a cop. Just feels like part of who I am.”
“Why’s that?”
Frowning, I turned away, “For that…? I’m gonna need something stronger than coffee in me.”

I’m a lot of things - a drunk, for one, and an ass on most days. I have a quirk about dressing like a 1940’s PI, and I can hold a grudge like I’m being paid to. I’m temperamental, strong willed and I’ve been told I’ve got a nasty way of sticking my nose where it’s not wanted. But one thing I’m not is a tragedy. At least, I make it a habit not to be. It’s part of why sitting on the couch in my apartment that afternoon, April became only the second person I’d ever told my entire past to. My parents were killed in a car accident when I was seven, but that wasn’t so much the end of my troubles as it was the beginning. For a few years, I got passed around the system, but for my eleventh birthday, things started to look up and I was placed with a family.
They were good people, the Gunn family - the sort of people any kid in foster care hopes for, and for some inexplicable reason, they liked me. They liked me enough that a year later, they adopted me.
They weren’t perfect, though…
In every family, there are struggles, and in the Gunn Family, there was Sam. Sam was right in the middle of the three biological Gunn children, a few months older than me and to say that he was off would have been an understatement. He was the sort of kid who came home with notes from teachers that said things like ‘doesn’t play well with others’, the sort of kid who didn’t get invites to many birthday parties… and while they loved him, even Regina and Geoffrey Gunn knew he was off.
But I don’t think anyone could have predicted he would go over the deep end the way he did. It happened one night, after Geoffrey had sat Sam down to explain that they were going to start sending him to a therapist. I woke to the first gunshot and without moving, without needing to, I’d known what happened. Paralyzed, I lay in my bed through three more shots. It was the crying that finally pulled me from my bed. Tommy was the youngest, and where Sam was strange, in a disquieting sort of way, Tommy was just a bundle of energy and excitement, and ideas. Always, he was full of ideas. Lying there, I knew that the next bullet was intended for Tommy… and somehow, the idea of that happening propelled me to move.
I found Sam in the hallway, hovering over Tommy, the gun in hand. I didn’t think, didn’t have to. We were the same age, Sam and I, but I towered over him in height, and six months on the football team at our school had given me an advantage in strength as well. He was overpowered, but resilient. In the end, it was a wrestling match over the gun that ended Sam...
But not before he had killed Regina, Geoffrey and their eldest, Rebecca. Not before he had traumatized Tommy to the point of near madness.
I returned to the system immediately, Tommy with me, but it wasn’t long before I lost track of him.
“By then, I was almost old enough to take care of myself, and as soon as I was released, I started looking into a career in law enforcement. I never wanted to be left in a situation where I felt that helpless… where anyone I cared about felt that way.”
Somewhere in the middle of talking, April had taken my hand, but as I finished, I pulled it free to rake them through my hair, rubbing the palms over my face. I felt drained, and looking up at her, I could tell it had taken a toll on her as well.
“God…” She whispered at last, and I found her fingers lacing around my own, again, “Max, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what that all must have been like for you. And then Kate…”
I knew she was thinking it, even if she didn’t say it, and maybe in a way that was because I was thinking the same thing… This was why I spent most nights in the bar. This was why I couldn’t hold down a steady relationship… Why the only family I knew was the family I chose, at the precinct. I wasn’t a tragedy on purpose, anyway…
“You got nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. It’s just the life I got dealt. But hell if I’m about to let this bastard take anything else from me.”
She might’ve smiled, I don’t know, because at that precise moment, as I looked up to meet her eyes, the entire apartment was plunged into blackness.
My eyes twisted to the window, but I didn’t need to look outside to confirm my suspicions. It wasn’t just the apartment…
It was the entire city.
The Blackout King was staging his grand finale.

“You’re sure it’s him?” April asked, for what felt like the seventy-fifth time since the lights had gone out. Looking up, a brow quirked, I shot her an incredulous expression as I pulled back the hammer on my back up revolver.
“I know…” She continued, and I could hear the tremor in her voice, “Too big a coincidence. I know…”
“April.” Setting the revolver down on the counter, I moved for her, collecting her in my arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, you hear? I’m done with this son of a bitch.”
I could hear her sniffle and felt moisture in the folds of my collar, but when she pulled away her eyes were already dry, and with a nod, she gestured to the gun, “Don’t have another one of those lying around, do you?”
Smiling faintly, I shook my head, “No, but I got a bat in my bedroom closet…”
“That’ll do…”
“Probably a good idea you stay put in there, anyway, just in--” A knock at the front door interrupted, and while I’d swear against it later, I know I jumped. Edging April towards the bedroom, I picked up the revolver and moved to answer, “Who is it?”
“B...boss? That you?”
Frowning, I turned the knob and pulled the door open to find Dill standing on the other side, flashlight in hand, “What are you doing here?”
“I mean… I sort of just… Well, you’re my partner, Boss. I guess I just figured if this was gonna come to some crazy head, I’d wanna help.”
“Well, alright then…” He slipped inside and I closed the door behind him, clicking the deadbolt back into place. April’s cry came a second too late, and I turned just in time to see Dill’s arm swinging downward, bringing his flashlight with it.
As I came to, I expected to feel a fog of confusion, but instead, was met with a sense of clarity I had not possessed for some time. My eyes opened, or at least one of them did, the other swollen shut, and I peered around the room, taking in what I could through the grim haze of darkness. Something wet trickled down my cheek from my temple and the pounding in my head came with a delightful ringing sound, but all those concerns were secondhand when I spotted April lying faceup on the carpet a few feet away.
Panic gripped me with a relentless force and I nearly toppled the chair I was constrained to, as I tried to bolt upright. Dill's voice drove panic into rage as he spoke with saccharine tenderness, "Don't worry. She's not dead..."
"You sick son of a bitch... I swear to God, if you lay one hand on her--"
"Relax, Max. She's not my type..."
"No, Dill? I'm pretty sure she's exactly your type..."
"You're mad. I understand that. But if you'd just let me explain."
"I'm not interested in your villain monologue, Dill. You're a twisted creep... End of story."
"But... but that's not it at all, Maxie."
A chill coursed down my spine and straightening in the chair, I tried to hide the shock, but I knew it was too late - that it had already registered on my face. A slow smirk spread to Dill's lips, and moving closer, he pointed a finger at me, "I knew it! I knew you'd figure it out..."
"What the hell..."
"I wanted to tell you. So many times, I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't. It would've ruined everything..."
"Tommy?"
"...Hey, Maxie."
I swore, and the jovial smile faded from his face.
"You're not happy to see me?"
"Hell, Tommy. Wh… what are you…”
“You’re the hero, Max.”
“… How… how long have you been-” But before I could finish, the realization stuck and with it, my stomach twisted into a knot, “Oh my God. It was you. It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Poor Sam…” Dill mused, and I could feel the rope cutting into my wrists as I struggled against his knots, “Poor, misunderstood Sam. He was a sick freak, don’t get me wrong. But watching Becky undress? That’s about as weird as he got. But hell, I figured if everybody thought he was some kind of psycho, why not use that, you know? And hooboy, did it work. When he tried to stop me that night, and you came rushing in to save the day, though, Maxie? That’s when I understood why I was the way I was. That’s when it got real clear…”
Moving across the room, Dill knelt down beside April and I pulled harder on the ropes, “Don’t you touch her!”
But he had already straightened upright, smiling, “Don’t worry. I won’t. I mean… Not like that But I’m gonna kill her, Max. I have to… Unless you stop me. It's our destiny, see… like David and Goliath. This is our great battle…”
“Our destiny… Are you insane?? You started this because you think I’m… what? Some sort of cartoon nemesis?? These are people, Dill ! Real, live people that’s your screwing with! People that you murdered!”
“Yeah… But… but I had to, Max. You understand that, right? Why I had to do it?”
“...You killed Kate.”
“It had to mean something. Before then? They were strangers. It had to be something personal… Make it count.”
“Make it… You bastard! You killed the woman I was gonna marry!”
“Look where it’s gotten you, Max. Look how far you’ve come. I was gonna kill her, too…” He gestured down to April and I felt my chest tightened, “But then I saw it. When you got her picture… and then when you met her. You liked her… So I let it go. I let it build. Gotta admit, I didn’t expect you to sleep with her, but hell… it’s kind of perfect. Cause this last one, Maxie? It has to be special.”
Staring at him, my eyes narrowed, “Special? You think… You think I give a damn if you kill her? Do it. She means nothing to me.” The words hurt, physically hurt, my stomach roiling as I said them, but I could hear my own voice, the anger, the disgust and I knew it had to sound real to him, because more importantly, I could feel the rope fraying... “Trouble is, Dill… you played your trump card, too early. You killed Kate… and no one’ll ever mean to me she did. And I’m not gonna help you build a legacy on her death. Blackout King? More like the Joker.”
“...N...no.” Frowning, Dill shifted uncomfortably, his eyes twitching down to April, then back up to me, “No. She’s… It’s perfect. I planned it out perfectly!” Frantically, he knotted his hands together, and as he began to pace back and forth, I continued to shift, shuffling the ropes back and forth against my sore, swollen wrists. I could feel them loosening, the knots, the rope going slack...
“Perfectly? No, Dill. You screwed up. You screwed up big time. Pushed too hard. Hell… I don’t even give a damn if you kill me, at this point. What do I have left, hmm? Some crap job I couldn’t care less about?”
“No!” His voice had devolved, rapidly, into a shriek, his face blotched bright red, “No! You love it! You live for your job! You’re the hero, Maxie! I made you!”
“Made me?? You stupid kid… You’re the one who broke me.”
He lunged at the same time I yanked free of the ropes and I had just enough time to put my hands up before he crashed into me. The chair, and I with it, toppled backwards, but I managed to get a grip on Dill and as I fell, I looped my hands around his thin, wiry neck. His own arms came just short of my throat, but like a wild animal he wiggled, frantically, and I felt my grasp tightening, could see his eyes bulging wide.
It was in those eyes I saw it… beyond the deep rooted madness, the animalistic glint of fury. There was mirth - pure adolescent joy.
This was what he wanted, and like a damn fool, I was giving it to him…


CHOOSE YOUR ENDING:

With a cry, I pushed and rolled until Dill was beneath me and freeing one hand, I reached for the ropes that had tangled in the rungs of the chair. He was still scrambling, but with his air receding, his batting hands carried about as much power as a mewling kitten. As his eyes began to roll back in his head, I snagged hold of the rope. Pinning him with my knees, I grabbed those hands and unlatching my other hand from his neck, I used the rope to tie his hands together. As I pulled the knot taut, his eyes snapped open and a rage-filled howl exploded from his mouth. In a split second decision, one admittedly propelled by my own anger, a right hook shut him up, the left rendering him unconscious.

Sitting at the bar in O’Malley’s, I stared down into the fizzing glass of ginger ale with a frown, watching the bubbles rise from the bottom of the glass. It had been six months since Tommy Gunn’s arrest, and it was almost strange how everything seemed to settle back into place. Pushing the glass to the edge of the bar, I rose and as I did, a pair of arms snaked around my middle. Faintly, I smiled and looped my arm around April’s shoulders, patting my coat pocket where the ring lay, waiting for the perfect moment

Almost everything, anyway.

It was a dark and stormy night when the dame walked into my life. But as they do, the storm had passed…
But the blood pounding in my heads was drowning out reason. He was going to kill April. He had killed Kate and those other girls… the Gunns. My hands tightened until my knuckles turned white and Dill’s eyes rolled back in his head. For a moment or two he continued to grasp and flail, then his hands drooped slowly to his sides… It was over.

Releasing him, I pushed off his body, pushed back until I hit the rug. Suddenly, fingers looped themselves around my wrist and with a jolt I turned to see April staring up at me, a blur, through the tears making their way down my face.

“What happened?”

“He's gone.” Her fingers tightened, but I barely felt them, staring at Dill with a cold numbness,”He's gone…”

O’Malley’s was crowded that night, the sounds of the fray resounding noisily off the glassware. Men shouting at the boxing match on the television, bets being wagered over the pool table. For me, the night held only a familiar coolness… one not tuned to the warming weather outside. A scotch rested between my hands, but I had yet to taste it. It had been six months since Tommy Gunn was pronounced dead. Still, his dark eyes and twisted soul haunted me. April had stayed for a time, even despite my best efforts to push her away, but eventually the coldness which had consumed my very way of thinking had bled into our relationship and she had left.

But it was ultimately better this way. Eventually, my way of living would catch up to me. Could only throw myself into enough bottles before I drowned.

Downing the scotch, I slid the glass across the counter to the tender, who frowned, but filled it.

It was a dark and stormy night when the dame walked into my life… and storms sometimes have a way of lingering.
But I couldn’t make myself care. My fingers tightened around his neck, Dill sputtering, flailing madly, his eyes rolling back in his head… I couldn’t let go, couldn’t stop myself. The rage, like a fire, burned through me until there was nothing left but my own anger...

“...Max…” The voice came from behind me, and swinging my head back, I saw April push herself upright, rubbing the back of her head with a groan, “Max, don’t do it…”

As if a spell had been shattered by her gentle pleading, I pushed away from Dill, who lay limp, his chest heaving in and out. My own heart pounded rapidly in my chest, but April had made her way over to me, touched my shoulder with a gentle hand. I grabbed for her, held her tightly, a lifeline to my sanity.

O’Malley’s was buzzing that evening, but I cared little for the rowdy boxing match or wagers placed over pool tables. Six months had passed since Tommy Gunn had nearly died by my hands. His trial had been quick… Open and closed. He would serve the remainder of his life behind bars. For a while, I was a prisoner as well… shackled to the guilt over what I had almost done. Were it not for April, I might have dissolved entirely. She sat beside me at the bar, her hands balancing a glass of whiskey. She had struggled, too. With the realization of how near she had come to a terrible fate. And for a time, I had not trusted our relationship to survive. But it had… because at the end of the day we were two people who needed each other… and that was good enough.

Setting my own glass aside, I looped an arm around April's slender shoulder and with a soft sigh she leaned into me. Looking down, I caught the barest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

It was a dark and stormy night when the dame walked into my life… but the skies were finally beginning to clear.

The Taskmaster

A sob.

A small winey noise like he’s that one squeaky wheel of a cart.

Had Grayson really gone through that himself?

He’d never act like that, and yet he remembered very clearly how his first kill felt. You honestly lose that little piece of your soul when you do it. Grayson didn’t understand it, but it was so. Maybe it was naivety? It’s skull crushed with a club, just like this Drow’s first kill?

Best was, it was his own kin. There was always that little bit less damage done if you killed another’s kind. You can argue, debate, reason, fucking deny their worthiness to live.

It really helped. Until you stop caring anyways.

Grayson’s bright blue eyes gazed at the sobbing Drow. Technically speaking, he was taller than Grayson, but everyone’s short if they kneel down and apologize to the corpse they just created. In the middle of the fucking battle too. Oh look at me! I’m very vulnerable! I’m mourning first kill though, please don’t hurt me!

Surprisingly, it worked. Any combatant going to try and kill him gain a tight lipped expression, pausing just enough for one of Grayson’s Orcs to take him on

While Grayson’s Orcs and… What was it again? Dasharavva? Disheevara? Honestly Drow names are fucking long and complicated. It’s like they had a contest of how big a name can get before it gets impractical. Doesn’t stop them from fucking plastering titles on top of that. The guy sobbing, specifically, had this weird thing. Sounded like Abracadabra. Oh Grayson wished the guy wouldn’t go out of the Underworld. Nobody would take him seriously.

A roar.

Grayson blinked, watching as a rival Drow sprinted towards Abracadabra. A female of all things. Of all these male warriors, the one, one fucking female leader decided to make an all or nothing gambit with him? He fucking hated killing women.

He gave a disappointed sigh, sprinting in and gaining the preemptive strike. A simple move of dodging that horribly showy strike, a middle slash of all things, and thrusting his steel clawed gauntlet into her throat.

She had white eyes.

White eyes with black around where white was supposed to be for a human.

Something inside Grayson died, just a little more, as she stumbled like a drunk. She clutched her throat, white eyes wide as the fear of death went over her.

She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t-

She stumbled back, gazing in shock at the blood gushing down her regrettably ample breasts. She fell down, probably passed out from the shock. You don’t black out from blood loss for a good four seconds later than she did.

With their leader dead, the soldiers either surrendered or routed. He could hear his orcish war cries and he could hear the screams of terror as his warriors brutalized those that surrender

You never surrender to an Orc. It’s a fate worse than an arrow to the back.

He sighed, gazing back to his charge. He blinked as the Drow wiped away his tears, taking a deep breath and solidifying his resolve. He didn’t just sob like a little bitch. Nope. He was just enjoying the view. That was his first kill after all. It’s an occasion to be remembered.

Just never the way your father tells you.

He gave a small nod to Grayson “This never happened” Grayson blinked, smiling coyly as he responded “What, sir? You’ve just been smiling at the corpse for ten minutes.” The Drow gave a thankful smile.

His eyes were purple.

And black where whites were supposed to be helps a whole lot with hiding red eyes.

He walked alongside his Lord, smiling slightly as the Orcs go mad with lust. Grayson had theorised it’s a sort of instinct: Survive a battle and you get to fuck. Simple as that. It’s why he enjoyed them so much. Their simplicity is so predictable.

Grayson walked to the women of their side. She was clad in pitch black armor, as was the traditional thing to wear, and she really hated humans.

He liked her the moment he saw her.

He gave a small smile as she started arguing with Abracadabra. He himself didn’t know a lot of Sylvan, and the accents they use down here were fucking terrible. It’s like the cave floors bounce them back especially hard as well. He could’ve sworn his life on the fact that their voices rang louder in caves. Even louder than a singing Orc. That’s quite something.

They raised their voices against each other, Abracadabra seemingly making a strong point and sticking to it. The girl heaved a tired sigh, apparently not in the mood for argument, and she waved the Drow off. Abracadabra didn’t seem to like being dismissed like that and wanted to say more, but the female quickly walked passed him to Grayson.

“Grayson the Calm!”

Grayson envied Elves. They had so much time to perfect an accent from a language. She sounded like she spoke it all her life. Not that freaky Sylvan shit.

Grayson gave a simple nod “Yeah that’s me.” His gravelly voice came through, making it impossible not to note how her voice seemed smooth, even after Gods know how many years screaming orders. Elves really do get all the good stuff.

The women glared at disgust as his orcs started looting the corpses “Your creatures are not allowed to desecrate these bodies.” She hissed, daring Grayson to go against her orders with those purple eyes “Furthermore, I will not have an incident like last week. You are also expressly forbidden to speak about it!”

Oh, she was working herself up. It was cute.

Grayson gave a shrug “I’ll stop my boys from looting them, but I can not and will not help you with the breeding nights. If one of your people decides to get in on the fun, I can’t be held accountable.”

Oh, she was mad now.

Her hand blurred and his cheek stung. She grabbed him by the collar of his bone armour and pulled him close to her. She gave a sneer “I am your superior officer! You do as I say! Do you hear me, you idiotic creature? Or has that also gone over your head?!”

He gave a small smirk as she glared murder in his eyes

“Technically speaking, you are not. You didn’t hire me. Thus you have no authority over me.”

She sputtered, eyes wide with rage. After all, what mercenary group would so blatantly ignore the chain of command? Unfathomable. Absolutely unfathomable. Yet Grayson was right. She huffed and shoved him forward, storming off.

Well, he did say he’d make his boys stop looting.

“Oi!” The Orcs closest to him stopped in their tracks, looking at their Taskmaster “Leave the bodies! The Elves ‘ave a problem with it!” Countless groans erupted, a lot of the Orcs dropping their armfuls of weapons and helmets. It wasn’t like the other pieces of armour could fit them anyways. He saw a few Orcs keeping little trinkets, or cutting off ears when his back was turned

He could deny knowing of those.

He walked up to Abracadabra. The man was washing his face far more than needed. Probably wanted to rouse himself from that shock. He stood at attention a few feet away, smiling slightly as the Drow dried his face. Abracadabra turned to Grayson, his eyes desperate

“Who did you kill? The first time I mean.”

His smile faded, and he sighed. Abracadabra here probably figured that sharing the moment would help. No harm in trying.

“I was… what? Sixteen?” He laughed slightly “I was out for a walk to piss my father off. We had an argument about something.” He looked around and found a nice sack of dried mushrooms to lean on, not feeling like standing while he spoke “All of a sudden, I find myself in the Orcish slums. One hungry look at their females and there’s this big fucker charging at me. I don’t really remember how it happened exactly, but next minute I was pinned under the corpse of the thing with a sharp twig in his neck. The blood poured over my face. Honestly it was rather dramatic.”

He laughed slightly.

He saw the red covering his eyes. Tainting the world red and hurting him like when you have warm water poured in your eyes.

“Turns out that guy was the Alpha. When I weaselled my way out of the lump of meat, I had four of his former girls fawning over me.”

He gave a shrug

“I never looked back. Not even once.”

Abracadabra blinked, staring in surprise at Grayson. How could Grayson be so casual about it? It felt horrible for the Drow.

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I’m okay with it now. Took me a month to not see his eyes. He was surprised. Like he didn’t even consider he’d die.” In a way, Abracadabra was spared from that. He crushed the man’s face in. He never saw the look of his kill as he did it.

That seemed to calm Abracadabra down a bit. He washed his face one more time, a little bit of snot running out of his nose due to the amount of water forced in it, and turned to him “So it gets better?”

“It may sound horrible, but eventually you stop caring. Mostly anyways.”

Abracadabra gave a grim faced nod and walked to the noble’s tent. He was probably hungry.

Come to think of it, Grayson was too.

Food came and went, the dried beans Grayson ate always gave him gas. Strangely enough, it never gave his boys any sort of the smelly shit. Maybe they were just built for it. The beans were called Orc Beans after all. He sat contemplating it as he ate out of a skull plate, only to be rudely interrupted by that other Drow who didn’t like him. What was her name? Her purple eyes glared at him, gloating silently.

This should be interesting.

Lord Grayson Hedrif.”

Shit.

“Sixth son of Lord Frederick Hedrif. I knew I remembered you from somewhere~”

Somewhere? Where the fuck was that? Where would a Drow fucking recognise a human from halfway around the world?

Was it halfway, though? Technically speaking he could be right on top of his old home, with only thousands of miles of rock and magma blocking him.

“It was ten or so years ago. I was sent as an envoy to your family to negotiate trading rights.”

Ten years? That would make him what? Nineteen? He went with the Orcs then. She shouldn’t have known him.

“I saw a portrait of you in the hallway to the dining room.”

They actually kept that? Bullshit.

“You’re a lot older now, but your eyes are the same. You look almost dead inside, but still sharp. Like you simply don’t care about the world around you and you’re just observing it.

He looked up to the women, her amusement rose to the skies. “I asked who it was, but they said you died.”

Oh that’s fucking typical of them.

A sneer came across his features before he could stop it, which made her laugh and look at him like a predator “I knew it!”

What fucking satisfaction was this? She just knew where he came from. That’s nothing. Less than nothing. It’s fucking worthless information. As worthless as the thousand fucking hoops he had to jump in that place.

“You,” She pointed at him “Do have a way to be irritated!”

Seriously? She just wanted to get under his skin? Fuck that bitch.

He got up, walking away before she could grab him “You know I could just tell them where you are! Would that be nice, hmm?”

Ignore her.

“I bet daddy dearest would be so pleased. The son who left him, actually becoming a mercenary captain.”

Ignore her

She walked right up in front of him, shoving him dead in his tracks. She leaned down and whispered into his ear “Oh he’d be so pleased

Grayson was a calm man.

So why couldn’t he be consistent with that?

She held her cheek, shock across her face as Grayson’s hand stung. He didn’t even realise he had slapped her. This was not good. No this was not. Fuck. She could have him executed.

She, however, just kept her amused look from before. There was even a bit of satisfaction and a small moment of… Relief?

“I’m glad you feel something human, I was beginning to worry.”

Worry? About what?

She walked away before anything else could be said. She shouted while she left, “You better not lose that defiant spirit, you savage!”

What the fuck even happened?

He blinked, looking around. The Orcs, about to jump in to aid their Taskmaster, looked confused as well.

Grayson heaved a tired sigh, shaking his head.

He needed a drink.

Tomorrow was probably going to be much of the same.

He made a mental note never to work for Drow again and returned to his food.

He’s going to need his strength if they’re going to take that city tomorrow.

He made another note to not piss off a Drow Queen.

Apparently, the city was going to burn just because the lord of that city didn’t like her dress.

He was a Mercenary though. None of his business.

Where was he going to work after this? Dwarves? They’re heavy drinkers and their women are ugly. Then again their men would be more than happy to partake in breeding night. While Grayson was fine with women and maybe a few men, he didn’t like giving his girls up to anyone else but his boys.

He could return to hum-

Naw. He could work for the High Elves. They at least respected the beauty of the Orcs in the way they were built.

He wasn’t ready to come home. Not yet.

“Storm’s brewing, Mirri.”

Sinbad, otherwise known as ‘Captain’ or ‘Cap’n’, rested his hands on main deck handrail of his ship, looking out toward the horizon. He made quite the impression, tall, muscular, skin roughened by the sun in a manner that pleased the ladies whenever he was on land. His mane of wavy black hair was tied back this afternoon, otherwise it would have been left rather disheveled by the rising breeze.

He looked to his side, where his quartermaster stood. Mirri, a short blonde who barely reached his shoulder, freckled face as sweet as sugar, hiding a temper that caused the rest of the crew to stay in her good books. Sinbad knew quite well that she was respected and feared, perhaps even more than he was. In a way, it was a relief that he didn’t have to worry about his crew’s loyalty. They loved her, she loved him.

As for Sinbad, well, he loved himself for the most part.

“Should I call you Captain Obvious?” Mirri’s voice was dry as she looked up at her captain, shaking her head. “A man with cataracts would be able to tell.”

Sinbad watched with amusement as she pulled free the spyglass that had been tucked under his belt. She held it to her eye, looking away from the horizon, to the west. “That should be our destination.”

It didn’t seem like much at the moment, but Sinbad knew it would be better to stop and weather the storm on that spit of an island rather than embrace potential death due to a tempest. Still, he couldn’t resist a chance to tease his quartermaster.

“We could sail through,” he stated firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Actually, we should."

“Are you mad or are you messing with me?” Mirri’s voice was rather mild.

“The latter, my dear, that should have been obvious.”

She shoved the spyglass against his chest rather roughly, enough that he let out an “Oof!” He chuckled thereafter and stepped back. “Alright, set course for the island. Goodness knows we can use extra supplies we may find on land. I’ll be in my cabin if you need me.”

He reached out a hand and mussed her hair, ignoring the rather rude name sent his way, and headed off to his cabin. It wasn’t too grand a place, his ship; as for his crew, it was meagre, totalling ten in all, including himself and Mirri. That being said, the ship was his dream come true, and in honour of that, he had named her Dreamer’s Quest.

Sinbad walked over to his desk, head tilting as he cast his gaze over books, scattered papers, broken quills and inkpots. His eyes stopped when they fell upon a small wooden ship.

Smiling, he reached over and picked it up gently, resting it in his left hand while stroking the minute hull with his right index finger. It was nothing fancy, but it was a sturdy thing. If he closed his eyes, he could practically smell the fish market he had been standing in when his father presented it to him…

“I have a gift for you, my son.” His father’s smile was almost hidden behind his bushy mustache, but Sinbad knew he was smiling, the crinkles by his father’s eyes being the proof.

“What is it, Papa?” He looked around, wondering what in the world his father could have gotten him. He was a fisherman who only just made enough. Even at this young age, Sinbad knew that money couldn’t just be spent willy-nilly.

His father’s smile increased enough that his teeth were now showing. “Come, come here.” He took hold of his son’s hand and led him to the small shop he held under a canopy. “Now, close your eyes, I will be back.”

“Um… okay?” Sinbad was a little unsure now, but he was a good boy, so he did as his father asked. It was only a minute later that he felt someone hold his hand and place something in it.

“Alright, open your eyes!” Sinbad did just that, immediately looking down to his hand. The look of curiosity became surprise, and then joy.

“A ship!” he crowed, grabbing the roughly carved boat with both hands, lifting it up in the same manner one might have a beautiful golden chalice. This meant a thousand-fold more to the young boy.

The sound of waves crashing against the cabin window brought Sinbad back to the present. He continued to inspect the little ship even then. Since it had been given to him at the tender age of seven, he had kept the toy, sanding it, painting it, even adding masts and sails so that it would look like a ship rather than a simple boat. It was much too small to add all the little cannons he had imagined as a child while playing, but that was where paint had helped.

He set the ship back on his desk and made his way to his bed. It was secured to the ceiling, hanging and swaying by the constant movement of the ship. All in all, it was comfortable, like a baby's rocker. Perhaps even the best part of his ship, if Sinbad was to be honest.

"I missed you," he muttered, suddenly feeling rather drowsy. Boots still on, he practically flopped onto the bed, face pressed against the pillow, eyes shut in a relaxed manner. "Beloved bed, let us never be apart..." It took less than a minute for him to fall into a deep sleep.
***​

What transpired next was a series of rather strange dreams. Now Sinbad was no stranger to adventures while he was asleep, but these were even more fantastical than he was used to. Not that he minded. In fact, he was quite enjoying them, and was even annoyed when suddenly awoken by a rather large thudding sound.

"Alright, alright," he grumbled, letting out a huge sigh as he pulled himself off the bed to a stand. His neck was a little sore from the awkward position he had slept in, and his arms and legs were feeling a little achy as well. Sleeping out of habit wasn't good for him, it would seem.

As drowsiness finally left him, Sinbad noticed something that should have probably been obvious to him earlier. The ship was no longer moving. What, we've reached already? How long was I asleep? A little frown made its way on his usually jovial face.

"Mirri, you could have woken me..." He headed to the door of his cabin, opening it and stepping outside. He had expected the deck of his ship. Alas, there was nothing of the sort, and instead he was greeted by pitch darkness and nowhere to set his foot.

"Aaaarghhh!" was pretty much all that exited his mouth as he found himself hurtling down into what seemed like an abyss. At first his arms and legs flailed quite a bit, trying to balance himself. Thereafter he curled up, figuring when the end came, it would be best to be in the fetal position to lessen any damage.

Needless to say, he didn't stop dropping for quite a while. In fact, by the time he did stop, he had a very bored expression on his face, sitting cross-legged with his chin resting on the palm of his hand. His bottom was hovering just above the ground before he hit it with a thump. It didn't hurt, but he was annoyed.

"Joke's over now!" Sinbad stood up, rubbing his bottom as he looked around. "Who's behind this? Are you using magic? Or am I just dreaming? If I'm dreaming, just tell me because I don't feel like doing the whole pinch myself thing."

For a moment, there was only silence. Then- "Ahahaha!" A rather loud and ruckus laugh ensued from all directions. "You're a funny one! My dear, I'm afraid this is no dream! You dared to approach my island without permission. For this, I must punish you!"

Sinbad sighed in frustration, crossing his arms over his chest, foot tapping irritably. "You've got to be kidding, right? We were being accosted by a storm, t'was only natural we'd come this way."

"I don't care!" The owner of the voice seemed a little miffed that their victim was more annoyed than afraid of his predicament. "You're to suffer the consequences, kehehe, just like the rest of your crew!"

That caused a little concern in Sinbad. He still wasn't sure if this was reality or a dream, but that didn't matter when the subject of his crew came up. Only he or Mirri were allowed to manhandle them! Speaking of her...

"Where is my quartermaster?" he demanded. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword, swiftly pulling it out of its scabbard. "If you've hurt even a hair..."

"Ohohoho! So scary! But how can you hit what you cannot see, my dear?"

There was truth to the voice’s words, and it really didn't make Sinbad happy to admit it. However, he knew he had to calm himself down if he wished to make sense of this situation, and hopefully even resolve it.

He breathed in deeply before exhaling, and then slowly returned his sword to its sheath. "Alright, fine," he started, raising both hands up in the air in defeat. "I can't hit anything. I won't even try. But you need to be reasonable. We only came here for refuge. If you want us gone, then we'll go! Just stop whatever trick this is and we'll be on our way."

The darkness filled with a cackle. "Now where's the fun in that, my dear? Oh no, no, no, you cannot leave just like that! To leave, you must sacrifice the one you call Mirri!"

"WHAT?!?"

"Oh, don't get upset, I'm just joking. Talk about being uptight..." There was a little grumbling about idiots who took things too seriously before the voice continued. "I will let you all leave, as long as you play a little game for me. I like to call it "Choose Your Own Adventure."

"Er... eh?" Sinbad scratched at the scruff on his chin, not too sure what the voice was talking about.

"What an idiot. Look before you!" Sinbad grunted at the insult, but he did as he was told. Before him in the distance were three distinct glows that elongated and took the shape of three separate doors. "Each of those doors will lead you to a different starting point. Your task is to find your way to the next door, which will lead you to a good ending. However! There are many doors within, some duds, others deadly." The voice giggled before continuing. "Three chances is all you get, my dear!"

"One chance is all I need," Sinbad replied, sounding cockier than he felt. He took another deep breath before walking forward, eyeing the doors, wondering which one he should take. He really hoped it wasn't a rigged game, if that was even possible .

"How is any of this even possible?" he demanded under his breath, not expecting nor really wanting an answer.

"Use your imagination!" cackled the voice.

"Ugh." Not wanting to hear anything more from the voice, Sinbad hastened his step toward the door to the right, which opened up for him without any effort from himself.
***​

As soon as he passed the threshold, he was hit with a sudden burst of heat and humidity. "Very green..." Indeed, before him and around him were all sorts of different trees and plants, flowers a plenty, and of course, flying insects. He waved a hand before his face, trying and failing to disperse the mosquitos dancing before him. Wrinkling his nose, he turned around, hoping to exit and maybe enter through another door. That was no longer possible, however, as the door seemed to have disappeared.

Sighing, Sinbad reached back and untied his hair, using the bandana to cover his mouth and nose instead; he could bear the heat, but not insects flying up his nostrils. Once that was done, he pulled out his sword, an almost sad look on his face. “I’m sorry, my sweet, but I need to use you for a little… gardening!”

Walking through the unfamiliar terrain was not an easy task and almost painful for Sinbad, mostly because he was using his sword as a machete, hacking through vines, leaves, and obstructing branches to make a path. Exploring unknown lands was part and parcel of his current lifestyle, but only on his terms. This was a little absurd.

“If this is a game, I should’ve been given some food.” After what seemed like hours of walking and hacking away at greenery, the seaman was tiring, soaked with sweat and itching from the various insect bites on his arms and neck. “Or water. How boring it’d be for you if I died, eh?”

“Little weakling! Are you telling me you cannot handle this, my dear? Whatever shall I tell your poor crew?”

Sinbad clenched his free hand tightly, ready to punch a tree to let out some pent-up anger. However, that was when he caught sight of a glow. “Hah!” he exclaimed, an exhausted grin on his face as he pushed forward, ignoring the thwacking of branches and leaves as he made his way toward the door. As he neared, there was a clearing, allowing him to run. At last, he could finally go on-

The door opened to reveal an inferno, huge hot flames lashing this way and that. “Oh my-“ Sinbad twisted around, trying not to enter the doorway, but the momentum he had build up before caused him to slip and fall. From within the door, a fiery tendril reached out, wrapped around his legs and dragged him in.

“NO!” he yelled, feeling the searing heat as he was pulled into the fiery chasm…

Darkness enveloped Sinbad, and once more he found himself at the beginning, facing three doors. He was breathing heavily, his heart thumping so fast that he was afraid it would escape from his body. He could no longer feel the burning pain, but the memory was still there, causing him to shudder.

“Two turns left, my dear!”

Sinbad growled. “You are going to regret this,” he threatened. He was not sure if she would, nor was he sure if he was going to escape whatever this place was. He had to try though, he couldn’t just give up!
***​

This time he picked the middle door, very cautiously stepping forward as it opened for him. Once again he found himself in a jungle. He wasn’t sure if it was the same one from before, but he didn’t care either. All he wanted was to find a door that would lead him out of this madness.

Sighing, he made his way through the plants and trees. If only the others were here… It would certainly have helped, having more than one pair of eyes looking for a blasted door. Yet that wasn’t the only reason Sinbad was thinking of his crew. It seemed the captain was beginning to feel lonesome. Having a few drunken fools around was always amusing. Even the snippy words of his quartermaster would have been nice just about now…

The sound of trickling water brought him out of his daze. He pushed past two saplings blocking his way, and there before him was the beauteous sight of a waterfall. “Thank the heavens above!” Door forgotten, he stumbled forward, falling to his knees before the pool of water. He dropped his sword and leaned forward, scooping up the water with both hands, greedily drinking. It tasted even better than the sweetest rum, soothing the ache in his throat. Unable to resist, he leaned further down to scoop more water into his mouth as well as splashing it on his face.

“Oh, you poor man…”

Sinbad jerked away from the water, the voice catching him off guard. It wasn’t the nasty, cackling voice from before, it was sweet, serene, enchanting. “Where…” He only had to look further in the pool, where a rather beautiful woman was peering at him, skin pale like the moon, with violet eyes and hair as black as night. Her lips curved into a smile when she saw he was looking at her. She swam forward, black hair trailing behind her like a bride’s veil.

“You look so tired,” she murmured, reaching out with a hand, finger gently touching his cheek, stroking down to his chin. “Come with me, I will take the pain away…” She moved closer, her other hand now cupping the side of Sinbad’s face, her lips closing in for a kiss...

Her lips barely grazed his when he pushed her away, a smirk on his face as he watched her look of sympathy turn to rage, beauty marred. “What a pretty lass you are now,” he mocked, grabbing his sword as he moved away from the range of her hands. “I’d be a fool sailor if I didn’t know a mermaid! Heh, nice from far but far from nice.”

The mermaid’s look of rage was quickly erased, returning instead to her earlier sympathetic expression. She opened her mouth and began to sing a melody so sweet-

“La la la, I can’t hear anything, la la la...” Sinbad began singing himself, loud enough that he drowned out the mermaid’s voice. It seemed the pool had done him some good at least, as he was no longer as exhausted as before. “Now where are you, you bloody door? Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

The door wasn’t too far away, this time around. It seemed the waterfall and pool had only been a diversion. Sinbad had only to take a path to the left, obscured by a grove of sneaky trees, and there at the end was a door. This time he didn’t run, in fact, he didn’t even walk. Not caring how silly he seemed, he shuffled along, almost cringing when the door opened.

“Huh.” All that he could see was more jungle. “How anticlimactic.” Shrugging, he stepped through the doorway and strode forward, only to be surrounded by darkness.

“Oh, come on!

“Don’t shout,” the voice scolded. “I told you there would be dud ends as well! Heeheehee!”

“I am tired of your game, you selfish barnacle!” Sinbad was fuming, face red. “Show me the way out!”

“One more try!”
***​

This time there was no door. The darkness simply dispersed, and there before him was his ship. Not the Dreamer’s Quest, but the little boat his father had made for him, except it wasn’t little at all. Sinbad had to lift his head to be able to see the sails, which were waving even though there was no breeze about.

“What in heaven’s name…” He scratched at his sweat-soaked hair before sighing in resignation. “Here goes nothing.” There was a rope ladder hanging over the side of the ship; in no time Sinbad had climbed it and clambered onto the deck. “This dream, game, whatever, is getting very silly now…” His voice trailed as he heard footsteps.

“You won’t fool me!” He turned around, sword pulled out just in time to point at a portly fellow wearing a turban, a thick mustache hiding his lips. “Huh? Father? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead!”

“Oh, I am,” the deceased fisherman said in an assuring voice. “I’m just here to show you the next two doors you can take.”

“Of course,” Simbad replied, shaking his head. As much as he wished to express joy at seeing his father, he didn’t. He couldn’t. This wasn’t real, and he couldn’t give the voice satisfaction at having toyed with his feelings. “Carry on, then.”

The fisherman lead the way to the middle of the deck where the hold was situated. “Hey, I never made a hold on the ship.” Simbad looked at the suspicious opening, eyebrow raised.

“Your ship was never this big either,” the fisherman replied with a chuckle. “And I don’t remember all these pretty sails, nor those cannons.”

“They’re not real,” Sinbad quickly pointed out, but one glance proved him wrong. “Well, that’s new too. Figures, I suppose. Say, are you even real? Are you truly my father or another figment of my imagination?” He reached out and patted at his father’s turban and face.

“Just because I’m part of your imagination doesn’t mean I’m not real.” The fisherman smiled, putting a hand on Sinbad’s shoulder. He gave it a light squeeze before moving back. “Now pay attention, son. You have two ways forward.” As he spoke, two doors appeared out of nowhere beside him. “The one to my right will allow you to continue forward, reaching the end of this game. The one to the left will allow you to stay here with me and your mother.”

“No offense,” Sinbad replied, smirking, “but you’ve been gone for a while, and the same’s with Mama. No reason why I’d want to stay here and leave my crew behind.”

“Ah, but I never said your crew would continue forward, did I?” His father crossed his arms loosely, watching his son intently. “Only you will go forward.”

“Hey, that wasn’t the deal.” Sinbad no longer seemed amused, a frown marring his face. “This whole damn chose your own what not was so that me and my crew could leave! You’re telling me that neither path will allow that?”

“Neither of the doors make allowance for your crew,” his father agreed. There was a twinkle in his eyes, showing he was smiling.

Sinbad’s fists clenched, one painfully around his sword, but then they laxed, his angry expression shifting to one of curiosity. “Neither of the doors, huh? Fine then…” He smiled and approached his father, giving the older man a hug. “It was nice to see you again, but now I must go. Goodbye, Father.”

The fisherman’s smile simply widened as he watched Sinbad disregard both doors, making his way down the hold instead.
***​

This time, Sinbad was not at all surprised when he was surrounded by darkness. What did startle him, however, was when the darkness began to waver, small flickers of light showing up on either side of him. In only a few moments, the area was lit enough for him to realize he was standing in a cave.

“So!” The cackling voice had returned. “You have finished the game, my dear! Congratulations!”

“Yes, it seems I have,” Sinbad agreed. “Now get me the bloody hell out of here.”

“Not so fast, there’s one last task!” There was a glow, and at last the owner of the voice was revealed, much to Sinbad’s displeasure. Sitting before him on a moldy old chair was a rather old and squat woman, wispy white hair on her balding head, eyes as pale as milk, a smile riddled with broken black and yellow teeth. Her black cloak was thin and ragged and stained with all sorts of matter.

“What?” Sinbad had to keep himself from poking the old woman with his sword.

“A kiss, my dear! Give me a kiss!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, you old hag.” That was one thing he was not going to do. “It was never part of the game."

The old woman grunted before shrugging. “Fine, fine, but at least be grateful!”

“For what exactly?!” Sinbad demanded, rather exasperated by now.

“I could have killed you,” she replied, her grin broad and rather terrible to look at. “I am Imaqtru, a powerful witch! How else do you think I was able to get to you? I could sense you from the time you entered your cabin. I’ve been confined on this island for a very long time, and you’re one of the few I’ve played with who actually won.” She sighed, shaking her head. “It has been so long since I had a little fun...”

“Boohoo,” Sinbad replied with a shrug. “I’m done here and have no time to listen to your sob story. Let me free now.”

“Don’t wanna,” the witch replied, sounding like a petulant child.

He grit his teeth but soon let out a slow breath, calming himself down. “I’ve an idea that you may find rather fun. Just read my mind, since apparently you can do so.”

The quiet that followed was interrupted by Imaqtru's snicker. “You dastardly fellow, I knew I left you alive for a reason. Fine, I’ll let you go.”
***​

It became pitch black for a moment, like a slow blink of an eye, and he was back. His hands were on the handrail of his ship, eyes peering out at the stormy clouds darkening the horizon.

I’m back, I’m truly back! His eyes stung with tears of joy, the smell of the salty seawater heavenly, the sounds of his crew music to his ears. He hadn’t fully trusted the old hag to let him go, but he supposed his promise of sending other ships the island’s way was too fun a prospect for her to resist.

All that put aside, there was no way he would even think of seeking refuge on the island. Sailing through a tempest seemed the more pleasurable option.

Sinbad sighed, chuckled and then slung his arm around his quartermaster’s shoulder, catching her by surprise.

“Storm’s brewing, Mirri.”​

“Two tin toy soldiers, came out to play.
Two tin toy soldiers, got lost on the way.
One brought me flowers that withered and died.
One brought me nothing, he promised but lied.”

A small girl’s high-pitched voice carried the melody through the cold air, drifting past the sparse trees and cookie cutter houses ominously. The only other sounds in the little suburb were that of sprinklers sputtering on. It was three in the morning. No one else was about at this time. The girl could not have been older than seven. Her short brown hair had been put into precise little pigtails, and her pink jacket was worn but clean. She was building something unidentifiable in a sandbox in the park, completely alone in the dark before dawn.

“You’re really proud of that song, huh?” The boy who walked up to her looked to be about her age, but he had his hands shoved in his pockets as one might expect of a teenager.

The girl looked over at him and her features lit up with a smile. “Johnny!” She picked herself up off the ground and brushed herself down. Then, she held out her right hand and the sandy-haired child swooped forward to take it and kiss the back of it- as if the two of them were in a ballroom only they could see- in an older time- in a different place. She giggled and he grinned and the two of them crouched back down to inspect the little dirt pile she’d made. The boy put his hand forward as if to brush some of it to the side, but the girl’s small hand stopped his. “Don’t disturb it. Or he can’t go to heaven.”

“Huh?” He asked, a little perplexed, but not unpleasantly so. She had always been a bit strange like that to begin with.

“I found Mr. Tribbles this morning in the street. I think someone ran him over.” She announced, solemnly. Mr. Tribbles… ah, that was right, the neighborhood stray. “And Papa said dogs can’t go to heaven unless they get a proper burial. It’s to prove that somebody loved them. Daddy told him not to tell me silly lies like that, but it doesn’t hurt, right?” She patted the mound down gently, busying herself with it as if it were somehow fragile. “Daddy and Papa always argue about things like that.” She said quietly.

He cast her a scant glance, but the boy withdrew his hand respectfully, and the two surveyed the mound in the sandbox solemnly, somehow engrossed in silent discourse with it.

“Why are you showing me this, John?” An old woman stood by a man in his late-twenties, the two of them watching the children from the shadows of a nearby tree.

He didn’t look at her. “Because you need to remember how we were when I last saw you.” There was something in his voice that made her search his face carefully.

“But that wasn’t the last time I saw you.” The old lady protested, speaking without condescension, despite the difference in their age. “Not…” She hesitated slightly. “Not when you last saw me, either. Not if we’re here now.” He still didn’t look at her. Though her voice had grown more certain through the last sentence, the doubt still lingered there. She was certain he must have felt it, too.

“Yes it was.”

--

Emmeline Fawkes-Hale had been adopted by the nice couple next door when John was five. Almost twenty years later, John still remembered his mother warning him to be nice to her. “Why?” He’d asked. He was a good kid. She’d never had to tell him to be nice to one of the other kids before.

Mary Greene had given his father a Look, before scolding Johnny gently, “Because I said so.”

He thought about this moment often.

--

Emmeline had been six when the two of them had first really talked to each other. It had started when their parents had gotten together for dinner at his house. The adults were still talking and laughing long after he’d finished his food and been excused from the table. He’d been in the middle of playing a game on the couch of the living room when the adults had burst in laughing and turned on the music, starting to dance with each other.

For a long moment, John stared at them in disgust, but then with a laughing shout, his mom said, “John. Grab Emmeline and come dance with us, silly!”

It was only then that he noticed the little girl sitting next to him on the cough. She hadn’t said a word, so he had no idea when she’d started sitting there. He looked at her, then at his mom, face squinched up slightly. She gave a “be polite” glare. Sighing, he looked at the girl again. “Uh… I guess… do you wanna-’”

“May I have this dance.” She corrected him pertly. Her voice was very high and thin. It had a strange, breezy quality that would normally be called delicate, but the sharp, imperious tone she was using was anything but. It struck him that he had never heard her speak in class before, beyond the odd moment their teacher had called on her.

“Huh?” He asked, intelligently.

“When asking a lady to dance, you say, ‘May I have this dance?’” She clarified, impatiently.

Scrambling for his wits again, he followed her directive. “Uh… okay. May I have this dance?” He didn’t say it with anywhere near the emphasis she had, but he offered her his hand, and she took it graciously.

The two of them had proceeded to dance without really knowing how. Emmeline had chattered on about ladies and princes, and about how one day she would marry a prince. He had thought then that she was a little strange, but humored her anyways – that day and many days after.

--

Emmeline began taking interest in boys when she was sixteen. John, for his part, had started taking interest in girls when he was twelve, but his selfish neighbor had never really noticed, so far as he could tell. He always remembered the moment she told him about her first crush with terrible irony, as he had broken up with his own girlfriend just the day before. “When you asked me out, everyone said, ‘Watch out, Lizzy. You’ve gotta share John Greene with Emmy.’ And I thought they were joking. You know what? Go fuck yourself, John.” She had said, with a shake of her head. When Emmeline flounced up to his door the very next day and went on about some new kid in their grade, he couldn’t help but think that she’d been right.

Even after making other friends, the quiet girl Emmeline had been had always turned to him first. Whether because her parents were fighting again, or because someone had made fun of her, whenever she was upset, she always came to him for help. He was the only one still allowed to call her Emmeline, though she’d made the switch to ‘Emmy’ when they were ten. John had always taken pride in their relationship, but he’d insisted to himself and everyone around him that he only ever saw her as a little sister.

Seeing her chattering about her “first love” the same way she’d done about princes ten years ago, a sense of frustration welled up in the usually self-assured teen.

“John?” Her voice saying his name hit him like a stack of bricks. “Are you okay?”

Two pairs of brown eyes met each other. She looked worried. He didn’t know what he looked like at the moment, but he was pretty sure it was not good. The silence stretched between them. They had always been able to sit with each other in silence, comfort each other that way, no matter what was going on. This time, however, it wasn’t a comfortable silence. It felt… wrong.

He coughed awkwardly. “Yeah uhm… Sorry, I just… broke up with my girlfriend yesterday. So I’m... kind of out of it.” He tried. Despite the truth of the statement, it surprised him how little it hurt him to say those words, to process the fact that he’d been dumped.

Her demeanor changed in an instant. “OH.” She curled one long brown lock of hair around her finger – a nervous habit he used to joke would make her bald one day. “Ah. I’m sorry. You should’ve told me.” She frowned softly. “Shame. I liked Lizzy. Ookay!” She opened her arms. “C’mere, let your favorite little sis give you a hug to make you feel better.” The brunette teased.

“You’re not-” He stopped himself. “Sorry, I’d just… rather go inside and think for a bit.” Just like that, he’d slammed the door in her face. Even then, though, he knew the next day he would pretend as if nothing had changed. He would go to school, pretend that Lizzy Vance was the reason he’d shut Emmeline out, and nothing would change as nothing had ever changed before.

--

Emmeline’s fathers signed the divorce papers two days before she herself got married. She didn’t have a bachelorette party. She almost didn’t have the wedding. She simply cried a lot. She cried watching her father sign the papers. She cried sitting in the dark in the apartment she was preparing to move out of. She cried in the waiting room in her white dress. John knew because he was there. He didn’t want to be there, but he was.

The day they were set to sign the papers, John received a phone call. The two of them had not spoken, really, since graduating high school. He’d gone off to college and she’d gone into the work force. Their friendship had been one of those relationships you expect to last forever – the type that doesn’t seem to last a week. He hadn’t even taken much note of the wedding invitation he’d received in the mailbox two months prior. Whenever he thought of the moment in the years to come, the thought always crossed his mind: if he had paused to look at the caller I.D., would he have picked up? Would things have been… different?

Awkwardly, John scooped up the phone with his left hand and pressed the answer button before even checking to see who it was. He shoved the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, shuffling through papers, looking for something. “Hello? Who is this?” He asked, absent-mindedly. No response. His hands paused, and he strained to hear something from the other end. Still nothing. With a click of his tongue, John snapped, “If this is a prank call, I’m hanging up.” One hand reached up to grab the phone and pull it away from his ear to see if the number was familiar to him, when a most-definitely-familiar girl’s voice said one word and stopped him cold.

“John.”

All the frantic shuffling he’d been doing earlier stilled in a single moment. Finally, his right hand reached up and held onto the phone, switching it to his other ear and paying it full attention. He responded in like kind. “Emmeline.”

As if her name alone was the final drop in a bowl about to overflow, she burst into tears. The sobs came crackling through the speaker, watering a piece of him he’d abandoned to die long ago. John sat there in his room and listened. He spoke not a word, as she cried until there was no crying left in her for a bit, then as she explained what was happening and discovered that there were more tears left in her than she had thought possible.

Her fathers, she told him, had been planning the divorce for some time. It just so happened that they finally got their papers a couple days before her marriage. It was like fate, they had said. She would be their new hope for love and felicity, they had said. They wanted to come together, for the last time, to sign the papers as the good friends they would be from now on. Lies, lies, lies, lies. For how long had they been fighting, only to put up a brave front in front of her? She knew better. She knew that she had just been a burden in the end. The very thing they had tried to use to save their marriage had instead turned it into a shackle. They were taking it as fate, yes: they would take their shackles and put it on her instead. That was their revenge. And Tommy Mason didn’t- wouldn’t- couldn’t understand.

John listened as Emmeline told him all of these things. He asked no questions, made no judgments, and gave no advice. She didn’t seem to care. Three years’ worth of pain had finally found somewhere to go, and that momentum wasn’t about to be stopped with just a little silence.

She didn’t love Tommy Mason, she told him. She’d tried so hard, but things like that didn’t just happen. They were getting married because she was pregnant. The good man that he was had offered for her as soon as he’d found out. He was everything she should have wanted. They had met at her work. She was a waitress. He was a customer. She had bumped into him and spilled water all over him, but he had smiled and been gracious. She’d run into him again about a week later, completely by accident, only to discover he lived in her neighborhood. He was a couple years older than her and worked a stable job. It had been like a story. Everything should have been perfect. Everything. The way he’d confessed to her, the way he’d acted on dates, the way he had held her the first time, the way he’d proposed to her. Everything had been perfect. Except for her. She was the mistake in the program. It was all her fault.

When at last all the words had faded away into empty sobs, Emmeline asked John, “Will you come with me?”

She didn’t have to tell him when or where. His answer would have been the same if she had asked him to follow her to hell itself. “Of course.”

--

Emmeline asked John if he wanted to go get drinks the day after her daughter turned two. After her wedding, they had stayed in touch and it wasn’t uncommon for them to spend some time together when they had time off. As a mother, she was often busy, but she had always made time here or there. For the most part, they only ever talked about mundane things. How is your daughter? How is your work? What’s changed since I last saw you? This time, however, stuck out in John’s memory because it was the day he found out a little more than he had wanted to know.

They had gone to a bar, but it didn’t escape his notice that she hadn’t touched any alcohol. Instead, she had ordered copious amounts of soda and had been drinking that in utter silence for twenty minutes. None of the usual pleasantries had passed between them, and when he’d tried to strike up conversation, her answers had been monosyllabic at best.

Finally, she put down her glass with a precise click and blurted out, “I’m pregnant again.”

John stared at her, at a loss for words. Normally, that was something you’d congratulate someone for, but she didn’t look like someone expecting to be congratulated. She was resolutely staring down her glass, face expressionless. “Uh…”

“I really… really wish I wasn’t.” She downed the soda in one gulp. “Jenna is hard enough as it is.” She continued without giving John a chance to respond. “Of course, Tommy’s thrilled. He thinks that another baby is going to… I don’t know, rekindle the magic he thinks we used to have. He’s stopped hitting me because of it.” John choked on the drink he had blankly raised to his lips. If Emmeline noticed, she said nothing about it. “It’s not that I don’t want another kid. It’s not like I don’t love Jenna. But I don’t know what I’m going to do when he figures out that this one isn’t going to save us, either.”

“Emmeline. Stop.” John commanded, having gotten most of the coughs out of his system. “Since when has Tommy been hitting you?”

She finally looked over at him, casting him a sideways glance briefly, before shrugging. “I don’t know. It just kind of happened. It only happens when we fight, anyways. He always apologizes afterwards. It hasn’t been that long.”

“That doesn’t mean-” He started, but she cut him off, slamming one palm against the top of the bar. She looked straight at him then, turning her entire body towards him. Her eyes held a mix of things he would be hard pressed to describe. Her whole body was taut, and that expression of hers was hard as stone. He wouldn’t have called it cold – it was full of too many emotions to be called cold – but it was, on some level, unforgiving.

“It doesn’t mean what, John? Do you have something to say about the state of my marriage?” The clear rejection slapped him in the face, and he found himself unable to speak a word. She turned back to her glass and the bar in front of them. “I thought so.”

“This doesn’t explain anything.” The old lady said, from where the two of them stood in the corner of the crowded room. No one paid them any notice. Technically, they were too far away from the pair of people sitting at the bar to see or hear anything, clearly, but technicalities were not really important in this case. Besides, did they really need to see these things? It wasn’t like the two of them didn’t remember all of these moments anyways. “John?” He was unreadable as he had been before. She had always been able to read him. At least, that was what she had used to think.

Since he would not respond to her, however, and made no move to show her anything else, Emmeline took the initiative. “None of these were the last time I saw you. It wasn’t when you died, either. They do not change anything. Here, let me show you.” She reached for him. “You remember, too, don’t you?” He looked at her, quietly.

“I do.”

--

John Greene was a few months shy of his twenty-ninth birthday when he died. It was her fault, as were so many other things. Guilt wasn’t what she felt when she thought about it, though. She had always known she was a little too selfish for things like that. It wasn’t relief, either, or grief. In the days following the tragedy that took two people from her, Emmeline shed not a tear of any kind. She’d never felt guilty for that, either.

That day, she had left the house after a fight with Tommy had gotten particularly bad. She’d snagged her phone on the way out and called up the only person she could think to call, who was, of course, John. Who else? It was late at night, but she barely felt the cold against her skin as she waited for him on a park bench. Talking to John always calmed her down, as it had when they were little kids. She looked down at her hands. They were clasped tightly in her lap, still shaking a little with the rage. Their fights had gotten worse after Marcy had been born. It hadn’t taken long after the end of her maternity leave for him to go back to hitting her. Still, he’d always had the presence of mind to conduct any arguments in the privacy of their room, away from the children. He’d come home drunk today. Drunk. Jenna and Marcy were not so young anymore that these things would escape their notice. He’d been raving like a lunatic, asking her where she’d been a few nights ago.

She bit her lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood, lost in her thoughts. When she was young, she had blamed her parents for never working through their issues and for pretending they weren’t fighting even when they were. It was a little strange how well she now understood what they had felt. “Emmeline?” She looked up to see John approaching her. Relief spread through her entire body at the sight of him, and she gave him a rueful smile. “What happened?” He looked worried, pushing back his messy, sandy-brown hair away from his face. He had gotten here awfully quickly.

She stood up to greet him, but another voice yelled, “Emmy!” She whipped around. It was Tommy. His face was a little flushed, but she wasn’t sure if it was left over from the alcohol or because he’d run here. He certainly looked like he’d run, his clothes in disarray. “I didn’t-” He stopped short, seeing John there. Come to think of it, the two of them had not met since the wedding, seven years ago. They seemed to recognize each other, though. She looked between them. They both were on guard, as if gearing up for a fight. “Why is he here?” Tommy snarled. John was not much better.

He stepped past her and faced Tommy grimly. “What have you been doing to Emmeline?” His voice was solemn. Even from behind him, Emmeline could see the lines of his face set in an unfamiliar expression. Perhaps it was the bright, white light of the street lamp overhead, but the shadows of their faces seemed somehow deeper and more severe than before.

She reached out a hand to try and stop him, but then Tommy shakily pulled something from his jacket and waved it at them. Both of them froze stiff. “Tommy, what are you doing?! Where did you get that?” Emmeline yelled, more angry than terrified.

He wasn’t paying her any attention as his hands held the gun shakily. “It’s none of your business what I do with my wife or my kids.” He growled defiantly at John. “If they even are my kids.” John seemed just as confused by this statement as Emmeline. “Don’t give me that look. You’re the one screwing this bitch, aren’t you!?” He waved the gun in her general direction.

It took a bit for that to process. When she finally got what had been riling him up, Emmeline’s vision turned red. Her fingers curled into fists, nails leaving marks in her palms that she would later come to stare at out of habit. “What the hell. WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?!!” She shrieked at him. “TOMMY YOU LITTLE BITCH. I’VE NEVER BEEN UNFAITHFUL TO YOU.”

“What, you thought I wouldn’t notice?! You’re always going out to meet him.” They were both shaking, neither really paying attention to John, awkwardly stuck in the middle of this situation that really had nothing to do with him.

“As FRIENDS. What the- Why haven’t you ever talked to me about this. Dammit, Tommy!”

“SHUT UP.” He roared, and then his finger curled around the trigger and a deafening bang split the air. Both of them were stunned into silence. Her husband stared at her. She frantically looked down at herself, looking for traces of blood. There was blood alright, but it wasn’t coming from her. It stained the purple blouse she was wearing, a spatter pattern that was, thankfully, not spreading. Her eyes trailed up the pavement until it hit a body. John’s body. There was definitely blood coming from that. It pooled on the ground around him, thick and black. Her brown eyes grew wide and she shakily turned them back upon Tommy. He was staring at John, too. Then he looked at her. They shared that single moment with each other, before Tommy lifted the gun to his own head and fired.

-
John’s funeral was held on the same day as Tommy’s. Emmeline figured that was to ensure she didn’t come. His parents blamed her, after all. That was alright with her. She would have her own little service for him later. She attended Tommy’s funeral quietly, dressed in a black dress with her two daughters in tow. Marcy had cried a lot, but Jenna had just held on tight to her hand and watched in silence.

-
John’s parents forgave her when Jenna turned twelve, five years later. They forgave her because they saw her in the neighborhood, having brought Jenna to his grave every year on her birthday since then. It was a tradition the girl had started by asking to see “the other person” on her birthday, although they only ever visited Tommy’s grave on the anniversary of his death. It was after bumping into his parents that her daughter finally asked her who “Uncle John” was. The two of them stayed up late that night while ten-year-old Marcy slept, and Emmeline told her a story about a selfish girl and two boys who had loved her. At the end of it, Jenna asked if she was sad. She shook her head and put the teen to sleep.

-
John’s grave saw a new visitor when Marcy turned eighteen. Despite thirteen years having passed, the younger Mason sister had never really understood what had happened between the dead man and the rest of the family. All she had understood was that dad had died and it had to be someone else’s fault. She had always refused to go when Emmeline had taken Jenna to see him on her birthday, and Emmeline had not bothered trying to force her. There was no point visiting a grave in person when you hated them in spirit. She said she was going because she wanted to know “what the big whoop was about” before she went off to college. As Emmeline expected, though, she didn’t seem to find any answers there. She simply stood in front of the old headstone, glaring it down, then announced, “I miss dad,” before turning away. It was the first and the last time she would come see the man she believed was the cause of her father’s death. Jenna had stopped visiting his grave at the same age. Emmeline was fine with that, too. Those two girls had nothing to do with him, after all. It was best he stay a strange, incongruous memory for them.

-
The last time John was visited by Jenna was after she gave birth to a baby boy, whom she named Timothy. Emmeline held her hand as the two women stood in front of the headstone. They had really gone to the cemetery to visit her father, to tell him the good news. She didn’t say why she had wanted to come see him, too, but as they stood there, Jenna said, “I hope Timothy doesn’t turn out like them.”

Emmeline gave a sage smile and kissed her daughter on the forehead. “Don’t hope too hard, sweetheart. Just do the best you can.”

-
John’s parents died of old age in their 90’s. They died less than a week apart, John’s mother following his father as if that was the natural course of things. Emmeline was well into her 60’s at the time, and both of her daughters were grown adults with their own lives to worry about. Emmeline had stayed healthy as ever, living alone in her own house, doting on her grandchildren when they came. She had continued to visit John once a year on Jenna’s birthday. It had become something of a habit that she couldn’t really explain. She had helped a little to pay for the funeral, covering what they hadn’t prepared already with Jenna’s help. The funeral was a lonely one. John had been their only child, and though some of their nieces and nephews had come to see them off into the next world, most of their generation had already passed. It was different, she hoped, from John’s own funeral. She wasn’t exactly young, herself.

She brought extra flowers and took them to John. Sitting on the ground beside his headstone was, at that point, difficult for her, so she was there only a short time. As they often had in the past, she stayed with him in silence after having told him about his parents’ death. He probably knew that already, though. In her mind, they had simply gone to stay with him forever. She lifted her eyes to the sky and quietly laughed, “Here is to hoping they have found you safely.”

“See?” Emmeline’s ghost told the young man, as they sat under the shade of a tree together, overlooking his headstone. “I never forgot you. You dying… it wasn’t the last time, either. Nor that time when we were seven.”

Finally, John faced her properly, and she saw that he was smiling gently. He held out his hand to her. Her hesitation lasted only a moment. She, glowing, took his hand and she looked as she had when he had died, the two of them just a little short of twenty-nine. “You seem to have misunderstood something, Emmeline.” He said, still smiling the way he always had. “That wasn’t an accusation. I wanted you to remember how we were at the beginning and at the end, so you’re ready.” He gently tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and moved as if to gallantly whisk her away- as if the two of them were in a ballroom only they could see- in an older time- in a different place. “This is how you escort a lady into a ball, right?”

Her eyes widened in slight surprise, then she laughed. “That would be correct.”

“Time to go.”

--

The very last time Emmeline visited John was a week before she died, at the full age of 92, surrounded by her two daughters and three grandchildren. Refusing any help, she had taken her walker and made her way with tired bones to the graveyard. After some time, she managed to sit down next to his grave. It was hard, but she’d had the feeling that it would be the last time, and this last time wanted to meet him where he was.

She placed one hand on the grass-covered mound where he was buried and surveyed it solemnly, engrossed in silent discourse with it. She gave a whisper of a laugh, when a memory came to mind – a melody she had come up with when she was just a girl, forgotten until this moment.

“Two tin toy soldiers, came out to play.
Two tin toy soldiers, got lost on the way.
One brought me flowers that withered and died.
One brought me nothing, he promised but lied.”

Her old, fading voice carried the melody through the crisp air, drifting past the headstones and sparse trees as the wind itself. A lifetime’s memories woven into it.

The world no longer makes sense. You hold out a hand to brace yourself as you stagger towards a tree, but pass through it instead, falling to your knees as you do. Bits of bark stick to you, like passing through a spider’s web, and are gently drawn down under your skin.

There’s a fever in your brain and a fire in your blood; but it does not hurt. It does not burn. Instead every sense is alive, more alive than they’ve ever been before. The blades of grass beneath your hands shiver with your heartbeat, and as you clench your fists, the earth is torn asunder. Reality is nothing but soft clay before you as you try to brush off the persistent hum plaguing your ears.

You are God, and you are terrified.

It’s overwhelming, every vibration in the air an orchestra, the gap between each photon a blinding strobe light. There is no peace, however. No rest. Faced with this vivid everything, you can only beg for oblivious nothing. It chokes your lungs and squeezes your gut, and you vomit a kaleidoscope over the shivering grass and oer your hands. There is no disgust, however. No revulsion.

You are already falling forward and through, the dark earth

taking in its

wayward chi

ld.

When you wake again, the world has resolved itself into autumnal dusk. There is a pressure on your arm, and when you look you see a rubber band forming a tourniquet just above your elbow. Something dry and crusty coats your hands, and dirt lines every crack in your unwashed skin.

When you wipe at your face, the back of your hand comes away with flakes of dried blood on it. There’s a rhythmic pounding behind your eyes, and a numbing pain in your jaw. Looking around, you see trees and bushes, and a little way off to the side, a small dirt path. The local park, your drug addled brain pieces together, slowly emerging from its ordeal. A bad hit. It happens, now and then, but you can’t help but think it’s been much worse since you switched dealers. Chances are the sleazy shit has been mixing in other crap to pad his profits.

Slowly getting to hands and knees, and then to feet, you stand dazed for a moment as the blood rushes to your head, vision briefly going white. Once it’s passed, your scratch the worst of the dirt and crust off from your skin, and tuck the rubber band into your back pocket alongside the dented needle and spare razor already in there.

As you make your way onto the path and start heading towards the park exit, you hear voices coming your way. When they come into sight, you hunch your shoulders and turn your gaze downwards, ready to push past their stares and their scorn.

Instead, one of them blocks your path, his arms held out in a manner both assertive and welcoming. After a few seconds of stalemate, you give in and look up. Four of them stand before you, arranged in a loose arrow like geese in flight. All look to be around their mid-twenties, like you. Though unlike you, they look halfway presentable. Not a speck of dirt or vomit or blood to be found between them.

The one blocking your path is short and stocky, and as he glances back at his friends you see a strip of hair missing around some old injury to the back of his head. The tallest of the friends grins at his hesitation and lights a cigarette, the brief flash of the lighter highlighting sharp cheekbones and forcing you to blink away spots. A dark haired woman standing slightly further back nods at you as you briefly make eye contact, but otherwise seems more interested in her phone than what’s going on. Finally, someone of indeterminate gender resolutely refuses to look up from the ground by their feet, hands shoved almost elbow deep into the pockets of their hoodie.

The foremost tucks gloved hands beneath his armpits as he turns back to you, satisfied he’s gotten your attention. Concerned green eyes meet yours, and he takes a small step back so as to respect your personal space. “Are you okay?” he starts hesitantly, using the same tone one would with a potentially violent stray.

As you give a noncommittal shrug, the tall one’s grin grows wider. “C’mon now,” he says cheerfully, “Jake here is just trying to be a good Samaritan. No reason we can’t all be friendly with each other.” He takes a drag from his cigarette, “for instance, my name’s Borden, the chick is Mel, and quiet over there likes to go by JP.” His words have a smooth consistency to them, one often blending seamlessly into the next.

“It’s supposed to get cold tonight,” Jake continues, ignoring Borden. “You got somewhere warm to stay?”

“I’ll get by.”

“That’s not an answer,” Borden admonishes. “Really, I gave you our names and everyth-”

Jake shushes Borden with a brief glare, though the tall man’s grin doesn’t slip an inch. “The weather guy said lows of below freezing.”

“I’ll get by,” you repeat.

“We really are just trying to help,” Jake says, almost pleading, as he glances back to his friends for support. “I’ve seen you around now and then. I know you’re- that you’re living on the streets.”

“Good for you,” you reply, pride pricked. He’s right, of course, but you hate having your situation brought out into the light. Hate having to confront it. “Is this the part where you give me a dollar-thirty in pocket change, then walk off feeling all warm and fuzzy because of how great a person you are?”

Borden runs a hand through his hair. “We are pretty great, aren’t we?”

“Oh fuck off, Borden,” Mel says, tucking her phone into the pocket of her jeans. “What Jake has been trying to build up to is something we’ve already all discussed and agreed to.” She shrugs, “except Borden, since it’s not his decision. But we were going to-”

“Going to offer to let you live with us,” Jake cuts in. “There’s seven of us, living in a flat together, so it’s crowded. But we have extra cots, and folding screens for privacy.”

“And Borden doesn’t live with us,” Mel adds. Borden mouths a sarcastic ‘thanks’ at her but thankfully keeps quiet.

“Live with you,” you echo, voice hesitant. A place to stay, with heat and food and a live-in support system. It’s been months since you’ve had a roof over your head, and longer since you’ve had regular contact with anyone other than your dealer. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you had started to resign yourself to being another statistic, sooner or later. A cold drugged-up body found in the park to be cleaned up.

But now, out of the blue, you’re being offered somewhere to call home.

You’re being offered pity. An admission of failure; that you can’t handle your life on your own. Unqualified, inept, out of control.

“So,” Jake fidgets with the hem of his jacket, “what do you think?”
  • C:\

  • There’s a long moment of silence before you answer, a war between desperation and pride. Part of you knowing you can’t get by on your own, and another saying it’s better to die on your own terms than to live your life dependent on others. But eventually, the word escapes your lips. “Yes.”

    Jake and Mel look at each other, relieved and congratulatory, and even the silent JP gives you a brief smile. Borden, on the other hand, throws his hands up in defeat and turns to leave. “Guess I lost that bet,” he calls over his shoulder. “Good luck with your addict.”

    Your attempt to flip him the bird is stymied by his back being turned, but you give it a valiant effort nevertheless.

    “Sorry about him,” Jake says, leading you in the opposite direction, “he’s not usually like that. He’s just a bit…” He trails off.

    “A bit of a classist asshole,” Mel finishes for him. “One of those ‘poor people just aren’t trying hard enough’ kind of dudes.”

    Jake grimaces, “he’s not that bad.”

    “He is,” JP pipes up, voice high and cracking. “Jake is just trying to see the best in him.”

    “And letting childhood nostalgia cloud his judgement,” Mel adds.

    “Seriously guys,” Jake chastises, “lay off. Let’s just get our new roomie home.” The others fall silent, and together the three of them gently herd you along.


    The withdrawal that hits not long after settling in is one of the worst you’ve ever had. Spasms periodically wrack your body, the nausea is a constant presence, and when you do manage to fall asleep, you’ll often wake shouting and drenched in sweat.

    There is an emptiness that plagues you. One that you’ve had for awhile, but was always buried beneath as many chemical fixes as you could get your hands on. But now, left to your own devices, the demons come out to play, and they pull at your muscles and rattle your bones. They grab your brain between red-hot claws and squeeze, remind you of the nothing you are.

    And around you, the people that took you in do their best to ward the demons off.

    Jake is the guiding hand of the flat, the one checking in on everyone’s well doing. It’s Jake that grabs you an ice pack when fever strikes, and Jake that helps get you to the washroom when your stomach starts to cramp. Though often hesitant and unsure of himself, there’s a willpower inside of him that catches you by surprise. A dedication to doing right by others that you’ve never seen before.

    And if Jake is the heart, then Mel is the brain. A solid anchor keeping the inhabitants from drifting. The unchanging foundation that not only offers itself to be relied upon, but demands it. Strong headed, unyielding, but above all, fair, it’s Mel you turn to when you need to feel like a normal person again instead of some broken doll.

    Then finally, JP. Little more than a shadow, they drift around the flat, almost always present but never the center of attention. When you ask around, you find it’s common knowledge that JP is transitioning, but no one seems to know which way. JP is unforthcoming about the matter, and in the end you, like the others, decide there’s no good reason to push the issue.

    The other four inhabitants of the flat leave little impression on you during your recovery, however. Interchangeable faces and voices heading in and out towards their different lives and jobs. For them, it seems the flat is a resting spot and little more, a place to sleep and eat before returning to their actual lives.

    But for you, Jake, Mel, and JP, life revolves around the flat. Takes place almost solely inside it. With no job to bring in money, you’re unable to pay rent, but strive to make up for it through cleaning and chores. Simple and menials tasks, but time consuming when trying to tidy up after seven other people. Jake often tells you not to worry about it, but there’s a measure of gratitude in his eyes, and he never tries to insist that you stop.

    During one of your better periods, when the shakes have subsided enough that you feel comfortable washing and drying the fragile glassware, JP hops up onto the counter next to you, feet propped on the edge and knees tucked under chin, a small container of ice cream in hand. “Are you settling in?”

    “Decent,” you reply, “I guess. Sometimes I can’t help but feel like a pet.”

    “Dogs don’t wash dishes.”

    “Ha?” You always find it hard to tell whether JP is joking or just being weird, their face giving away little, even when it isn’t hidden inside their hoodie.

    “Ha.” JP’s spoon digs into the ice cream, and for a few seconds the air between the two of your is silent save for the gentle clinking of glasses shifting in the water. “Don’t worry, it just means you belong. Everyone’s a stray here.”

    Frowning, you set down the wet rag and turn to face them. “What do you mean?”

    JP shrugs. “It’s what Jake and Mel do. They take in strays and give them a family and home. Most have jobs and can pay rent, but every now and then there’s someone like you and me that they pay for from their own pocket.” Another few seconds of silence as they take another bite of ice cream. “Jake comes from money.”

    “No kidding.” Though crowded with seven people, the place was still huge. Though messy, it was high-end. And well placed, close enough from downtown to walk, but far enough to avoid the worst of the noise at night.

    “Like you and me,” JP repeats quietly, before turning dull eyes on you. “Do you have parents? Did they die?”

    “No. Yes- I mean,” you take a moment to get your words in order. “Yes, I have parents and no, they aren’t dead. Just… estranged. We had a falling out. They needed someone to take care of, and I needed the freedom to take care of myself.”

    “Worked out for you.”

    “Oh fuck off,” you say without malice. “Never said I made the right choice. What about you then? That question mean yours died?”

    “I wish,” JP whispers, eyes still locked on yours. You start to wonder if you’ve seen them blink yet. “Last I saw was my dad chasing me out the house with a rifle.”

    “Jesus-”

    “‘No child of mine!’” JP was suddenly shouting, voice deepening. “‘No child of mine is gonna be a tranny!’” They shrugged, voice returning to normal as they continued. “No parents for me. No family. No real reason to go on, but no reason to stop either.” They scratch at the back of their hand. “I love you.”

    The sudden shift of topic, if not of tone of voice, catches you off balance. “You what?”

    “I love you,” JP repeats, a hint of urgency entering their voice.

    “You barely know me!”

    “‘Like you and me.’” JP insists. “I know you. Strays know strays. A fish knows water. An addict knows their next hit. I know what can fix me. I know you. I can’t be alone anymore.”

    There’s another silence, though no ice cream to blame this time around. You look down at the sink, unable to keep staring into those dead, flat eyes. Eyes too opaque to see past. Eyes that could be hiding an ocean. A flood. You pick up another glass to wash, but can’t even muster the energy to pretend. “I mean...” you eventually manage to slowly force out, “you yourself said Jake and Mel are a kind of family. ”

    “They try to be. Doesn’t mean they are. I don’t leave the house. I don’t have anywhere to go past this. After this. No reason to go on. No reason to stop. It’s all just habit.” There’s a faint glimmer of tears on JP’s cheeks as they keep talking, voice faltering. “I need it to end, somehow. I need you, or nothing.”
    • C:\

    • “Habits I get,” you admit. “You get into a loop, and you know it’s wrong. You need to stop, change it somehow. Take a different path. But it’s so much easier to keep doing what you’re doing. Stick with what you know, even if it’s destroying you.”

      “See? You do know me. Like how I know you. We have to happen. It’s supposed to be this way.”

      You shake your head. “We can break the pattern without… us. I can barely handle taking care of myself. I need… I need plenty. I’m hungry, but not for this. I can’t stop thinking about when I can give up, and go back to that park where you found me. Get back to the way things were. I need it, I need it more than anything. So now I don’t trust what I need.” You finally build up the strength to meet JP’s eyes once more. To face the hurt leaking through the dull exterior. “We’re not made for this. I’m not strong enough to help both of us; we’ll just become another bad habit that we can’t break.”

      JP wrings their hands, ice cream container falling forgotten to the counter. “Please,” they beg, “I can’t keep going on my own.”

      “We’re only on our own because we choose to be,” you say, not sure where these words are coming from. What inner well you’re tapping. What truths you’ve been keeping buried deep inside. “People offer us help, all around, all the time, and we turn it down. We convince ourselves they can’t actually help us, that we’re somehow beyond fixing. But fucking hell, who even told us we were broken in the first place? Damaged sure, and more than most, but cracks can be filled, right?”

      “No family,” JP mutters, “but they’re trying.”

      “Yes! They’ve been trying, people have cared about us, but we’ve pushed them away. But there’s always another chance, right?”

      “New start.”

      “Fresh hope.”

      JP smiles. Faintly, but a smile. “Hope. There’s a new one.”

    • “You can’t have me,” you snap, suddenly angry. Already tired and weakened from withdrawal, you find you don’t have it in you to deal with this as well. “I’m struggling to keep it together as is; you think I can handle being a sponge for your shit as well?”

      JP gapes at you, the shock and horror on their face the most emotion you’ve ever seen from them. “But,” they stammer, voice cracking even more than normal, “I need this. I can’t do this alone.”

      “Hell with that, you just find it easier to give up. So did I, for ages. Said I couldn’t be fixed, let myself get worse and worse.” Now that the walls have cracked, you find yourself getting more heated with every word. More angry. “But guess what? I changed. Jake and Mel gave me a wall to brace myself on, and I used it to push back. They gave you the same wall, and you’ve just buried yourself under it.

      “I’m not going to drop everything - drop my own recovery - just to babysit you when you won’t put any effort into it itself,” you continue, “get your shit together, and let me focus on mine.”

      “Love-”

      “Love is a one-way street, for us, ok?” Your glare silences them, and they quietly get down from the counter. Pull the edges of their hoodie further forward, and bury their arms elbow deep in its pockets.

      At the door out of the kitchen, JP pauses, but doesn’t turn. “You were supposed to fix me.”

      “At some point, you have to fix yourself,” you answer, the anger fading, but unwavering in your stance. “It’s what everyone else does, in the end.”

    • In JP’s eyes you see something hauntingly familiar. A desperate emptiness, the same you feel in the morning after your latest hit. A hollow ache that can’t be filled. It can only be destroyed. A need to simply end. And the longer you look into their eyes, the deeper you search, the more you realize that for JP, the emptiness isn’t just hidden inside dull eyes. It lurks beneath the skin, floods the brain, empties the veins.

      Empties the veins. You glance down, and realize you’ve never seen JP without their hoodie. Their arms and wrists have always been hidden, carefully tucked away beneath sleeves and then throw deep into pockets for good measure. Bile rises in the back of your throat as the weight of what JP is saying unfolds inside you. ’Or nothing’. The idea that you might be the last hope they’re holding onto, the last saving grace between life and death.

      And at the same time, you know you can’t save them forever, no matter how much you try. You’ve been dedicating every ounce of your strength to keeping yourself afloat since coming here. To slowly climb out of the hole you’ve been digging for yourself for years. If you want to pull him free, even if only for awhile, you’ll need to drag yourself deeper. A sickening descent that you thought you had finally escaped.

      But when faced with the choice, when you look into JP’s face and see a life on the line, you know the decision has already been made. It may be self-destructive, it may be futile, it may be crushing and hopeless, but you know if you stood by and left JP to their own fate, the consequences of that act would still drag you down in the end.

      Forcing a weak smile onto your face, as the drug-starved hunger you’ve been suppressing begins once more to whisper of sweet release, you reach out and take JP’s hand. “Lean on me then,” you say, “and break the habit.”


  • “I’m not a charity case,” you shoot back, pride now thoroughly stung. A stupid thing to have, perhaps, for someone as lowly as you, but it pulls at the strings of your heart and mind nevertheless. “Get someone else to be your pet project.”

    Jake looks like a man who just found a knife in his back, and blood on his friend’s hands. Shock, disappointment, and sadness. A modern Caesar, with you playing the role of Brutus. But you refuse to let it shake you; there’s no obligations you have towards this stranger. You owe him nothing, and your life isn’t some puzzle for him to buy and put back together.

    Mel, looking resigned, grabs Jake’s arm and begins to pull him along, the androgynous JP slinking off after them like a lost puppy. Borden, however, stays behind, smug grin somehow even bigger than it was before. “What do you want?” you demand.

    “To get a drink, mostly. Some food, too.” He glances over at you, dark eyes partially hidden behind cigarette smoke. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

    You gape at him. “You want me,” he nods, “to go with you,” another nod, “to grab something to eat.”

    “And drink, yeah.” He shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not as big as ass as you’d think.” As you scoff, he continues. “I just refuse to temper my confidence. If that intimidates people or makes them uncomfortable, that’s on them, not me.”

    “In other words, you’re an ass.”

    He laughs. “Seriously, there’s a beating, bleeding heart tucked away in here somewhere. Hell, I was a prominent member of the pride committee back in high school and college.”

    “Let me guess,” you mock, “‘A stands for Ally’.”

    “‘B stands for Bi’, actually,” he counters, and flashes you a charming grin. And you must admit, it looks handsome on him. Crooked smile flanked by cheekbones as sharp and fragile as broken glass. And gazing out above that, his intelligent eyes. “I’m very flexible. So with that being said, how ‘bout that drink?”
    • C:\

    • You look down at yourself. The threadbare clothes stained with dirt and more. Uneven and cracked fingernails, scrapes and bruises and scratches lining your arms. “I’m sensing an issue here.”

      “I’ll take that as an evasive ‘yes’,” he says before grinding his cigarette into the dirt and slinging an arm over your shoulder, guiding you towards the nearest exit. “Nobody’ll care how messy you are at the level of bar I’m thinking of. A proper dive, y’know? Let my hair down.”

      You duck out from under his arm and look at his close-cropped hair. “Yeah, sure. Lead the way, I guess.” Part of you shouts hypocrisy, refusing help from Jake but accepting a free meal from this ass. But as aggravating and rude as Borden is, his personality is magnetic, his confidence a rip tide dragging you out to sea. And beyond that, you tell yourself, there’s the matter of scale. There is, after all, a world of difference between one free meal and a lifetime of dependency on others.

      As you two make your way through the streets, Borden talks uninterrupted about himself, filling the air with his life. Growing up on the outskirts of town, getting kicked out of school in grade four only to return the next year determined to prove himself as more than the low expectations set upon him. His double major in law and finance in college, and afterwards, working his way up from bank teller to assistant manager at the central branch.

      His pride and conviction in his own potential is almost intoxicating, so different from the life you’re used to. The person you are. And when you arrive at the bar, you see he was right when he described it as a dive. Years of abuse had worn the wood floor into a cracked and splintered mess, the bar itself little better. Foam peeked out through the seams of the stools, and weary eyes peered out from above cloudy mugs from the few patrons strewn across the room.

      But the tap beer was the same as it was at any other bar, and the food, when it came out, showed a surprising amount of skill and care put into it. As you dig into the first filling meal you’ve had in ages, Borden keeps the one-sided conversation going between frequent rounds of drinks. And while the energy and intelligence never leaves his eyes, his smooth and flowing accent gives way to careless slurring, his graceful movements to languid limpness.

      Until eventually, he leans over the table towards you conspiratorially. “I’ve gone and got us a room upstairs,” he says, his standard grin resting loosely on his face. “Get us some action, y’know?”

      “Uh, er?” While you aren’t as are in your cups as he is, or at least so you tell yourself, you’re still drunk enough that it takes you a few seconds to pull yourself together and attempt to piece together his words.

      Mistaking your confusion for reticence, he slams a hand down on the table and sits up a bit straighter. “C’mon! Dicks and tits are sex-bound, but asses are the great equalizer of man. Everyone’s got one, and anybody can have a great one. And th’pair of ours are fucking fine.” He leans forward again. “And I’ve got the money, if that’s what it’ll take to wet your whistle.”
      • C:\

      • Though you hate to admit it to yourself, he’s right. You’re desperate for money, and have been for ages. For food, yes, but also to fill that ache in your bones. The poison your blood begs for.

        Your dealer isn’t a charity.

        You find yourself nodding, and a victorious note works it’s way into Borden’s permanent grin. A glint in his eyes hints that maybe he isn’t as drunk as he’s been acting, but before you can dwell on that, he leaves the payment for food and drink on the table, alongside a healthy tip, and guides you through a door in the back, hand possessively gripping your elbow.

        The room he leads you to isn’t much better than the bar below, the only difference you can see being that the floors aren’t as abused. The bed’s a dusty, folding affair, dropping down from the wall like a judge’s gavel. You stagger over to it, withdrawal and alcohol beginning to strike in junction, leaving you disoriented and off balance.

        Borden steps up behind you, hands on your waist and breath hot on your neck. His fingers wander to the hem of your shirt, and begin to lift.


        When you wake the next morning, it’s to an agonizing headache, and what feels like redhot pins in your eyes. You groan and try to sit up, but give up when a wave of nausea rises in your chest.

        As you hear someone moving around, you painfully force your eyes open and see Borden pulling his clothes back on. A ray of light catches his watch and reflects into your face, causing you to groan and try to blink the resulting spots away. Borden straightens and faces you, eyes casually eying your body beneath the blankets. “Mornin’ sunshine,” he sings cheerfully. “Sleep well?”

        The only response you can muster is a weak cough and an even weaker rude gesture.

        “There’s the spirit,” he laughs, finishing up the last of the buttons on his shirt. “I’d stick around for regretful chitchat, but I’m off to work. You’re money’s by the fridge.” He shrugs, “you never gave me an actual price, but you’ll find that what I left is more than you would’ve asked for anyway.” The already all-too familiar grin spread across his face. “I’ve always believed in rewarding a job well done, and last night was better than I was expecting from an addict I found literally in the dirt.

        “Anyway, I’ve only booked the room ‘till eleven, so make sure you’re out of here by then. And remind me next week to get you a shower first before we get started.”

        You frown, his words finally starting to pierce through the fog blanketing your thoughts. “Next week?” You try to sit up again, and this time manage to make it. “What ‘next week’?”

        “Oh please, let’s be honest with ourselves. I enjoyed myself, and more importantly, it’s not as if you’re going to be turning your life around any time soon. Unless you’ve got some ritzy job lined up that you forgot to mention.”

        You hate to admit it, oh how you hate it admit it, but he’s right. Your life is going nowhere fast. Last night was the closest thing to proper work you’ve done in a long time, and it was sex done in a drunken stupor. Life kicked you down years ago, and you’ve been letting it keep you there for so long you can’t quite remember how to fight back. “No? Thought not.” Pulling on his jacket, Borden opens the front door and steps out into the hall beyond. “Until next time, then. And in the meantime, my apologies if it’s sore when you go to sit down.”

      • The realization that he’s offering to make a prostitute of you shocks some sobriety into you, and following that, disgust. “How long did you have that up your sleeve?” you snap. “Two drinks ago? Soon as we walked in?” You pause, thinking back. “It’s why you asked me out for a drink in the first place, isn’t it? To try and get me drunk and easy?”

        Borden only laughs. “You are easy. You’re here, ain’t you?”

        “Fuck off.” Getting to your feet, you blink off a wave of dizziness and make for the exit. You may be poor, dirty, adrift and an addict, but your body is yours. You haven’t sold it off yet, and you don’t plan to change that. Behind you, you can hear the rasping noise of Borden shoving his own chair back, drunkenly and futilely following you.

        When you step outside, the wave of cold air knocks another few beers out from the cobwebs in your head. You take a moment to orient yourself before stumbling off, dimly noting your hands starting to shake from withdrawal. Gently, as it’d only been a few hours, but by tomorrow you know it’ll be far worse. The constant cycle kicking up once more, the moments of respite never long enough to justify the rest of it, but you keep doing it anyway. You continue to follow the old habits and old hungers.

        You duck into a side alley, trying to clear your head with deep breaths of the frigid air. Looks like Jake was right about it being a cold one. But as you turn to head back to the street, a forceful hand grabs your elbow and drags you deeper.

        Twisting around, you see Borden, sloppy grin at odds with the tightness around his eyes and the strength in his grip. “Where you off to?” he asks. “Night ain’t over yet.”

        “Let go,” you demand, a note of fear rising in your chest. This late at night, and in a neighbourhood not much better than the seedy bar you just left, there are few and fewer people around to help if things go wrong. Ignoring you, Borden continues to pull you deeper into the alley. Your attempts to struggle are to no avail, weakened as you are by your starved lifestyle.

        Borden throws you roughly up against the alley wall, one hand still gripping your elbow while his other starts fumbling with his belt, movements hindered by drink. Taking advantage of his distraction, you stomp down hard on his foot with your heel, and feel something give. Gasping, Borden lets go of your arm and doubles over in pain. You stumble back and turn to run, but something strikes you in the back of your knees and brings you to the ground beneath it.

        Attempts at crawling away are stymied by Borden’s weight on your legs, his hands grabbing at your shirt and pulling himself forward. Dragging you under. Scrambling, your hands skitter across the dirty concrete until they blindly find the neck of a bottle. And as Borden starts to raise himself to his hands and knees, you twist and smash the bottle across his face, sending him falling to the side.

        “You piece of shit!” he shouts before charging at you again. But the sight of his blood ignites the fight inside of you, and you strike out with the bottle again. He reels back once more, screaming and clutching at his face. Beneath his hands you see shards of glass stuck in his face. Stretching from fragile cheekbone up to his eye.

        Afraid of him, afraid of what you’ve done, and afraid of who might come to investigate and afraid of what they’ll think, you back away from Borden and bolt from the alley. As you do, you can’t help but wonder how long it will be before he can wear that smug smirk again.


    • “How about no?” you counter.

      He gives a nonchalant shrug. “Have it your way, then. Bit below my usual… sanitary expectations anyway.” He starts to wander off. “Don’t let the frostbugs bite.”

      You spit at the ground behind him as he walks away, both as an insult and a way to clear the rising taste of sick from your mouth.

      Once he’s out of sight, you start walking towards one of the park exits, ignoring the paths and hugging yourself against the cold. Too starved to have any body fat, and too poor for any clothes better than threadbare nothings, the falling temperatures dig at your skin viciously, scratch at your bones. The last light of the sun is starting to fade over the horizon, and winter looms beyond that.

      It gets better once you hit the streets, small waves of heat coming out of briefly opened doors and windows, trapped between the concrete and glass goliaths. But even that can only withstand the rising night for so long. Your breath turns to mist before you, and your hands begin to shake. And still the cold grows stronger. Turns your steps into jerking mishaps, and brings tears to your eyes as a painful numbness begins to creep across your body.

      Something is going to have to give, and you hold out little hope on being able to outlast nature itself.
      • C:\

      • Without a decision made or guidance given, your feet take matters into their own hands and bring you to a nearby homeless shelter. But outside it’s doors you hesitate. The system is put in place specifically to help people like you. The lost and broken and weak. Things you know are true about you, but have so far managed to convince yourself otherwise, through stubbornness and through pride.

        To step through those doors is to finally admit defeat, both to yourself and the world. To admit that you can’t live on your own terms, regardless of the quality of life resulting from it.

        Eventually, however, your feet carry you forward once more. From cold through sliding doors into heat. The floors inside are tiled white; or at least what can be assumed to be white beneath the dirt and dust accumulated over the day. Empty chairs hold rank alongside the walls, and a bored looking woman sits behind her computer at the far end of the room.

        Stopping before the desk, cowed - at least temporarily - by the clinical blankness around you, you wait for some form of acknowledgement. But none is forthcoming. The secretary keeps looking at her screen, absently typing in a few keys here and there.

        “I need a place to sleep,” you manage to say after some time.

        The woman pulls out a few sheets of paper and staples the corner, eyes never leaving the screen. “Fill out these and then bring them back.”

        “Are these just for the night?” you ask. “I might need something more long term.”

        The secretary glances up with tired eyes before slowly dragging the papers back behind the desk and pulling out another small stack. “Fill out these and then bring them back.”

        You take them hesitantly before continuing. “And do you offer a, well, group therapy session?” The woman starts reaching for more papers. “For addicts?” She pauses, then grabs a different set of forms. She hands them over before briefly mimicking writing and returning her attention back to her computer.

        You begin to head over to one of the empty chairs before your eye catches one of the blank lines. “Signature of immediate family member?”

        The secretary makes a noncommittal noise.

        “It’s just me though. I don’t have anyone else to sign that.”

        “There’s another form to fill out to waive that particular requirement.” You patiently wait for her to grab yet more papers, but the secretary doesn’t move. When you give a small cough, she glances up, a trace of annoyance starting to enter her eyes. “I’ll need the manager for that one. They’ll be in on Monday.”

        “It’s Friday.”

        “Saturday,” the woman corrects, “as of a few minutes ago.”

        Between exhaustion, withdrawal, the only recently escaped cold, and now this, a hollow well of emotion begins to open inside your gut. Draining you away from the inside. It takes all the willpower you have to keep your eyes dry and face composed. Though, as the secretary turns back to her computer once more, you wonder if she’d even notice. Let alone care.
        • C:\

        • “There has to be something you can do, right? No way you just turn away everyone that shows up later than fucking banking hours.”

          “Language,” she chides before pulling out the original stack of papers. “Nightly stays don’t need a family’s signature.”

          Letting loose a relieved sigh, you take the sheets and add it to the rapidly growing stack of forms. “Thank you.”

          “We require a new form for each night. Be sure to grab another one tomorrow.” The secretary settles further into her chair with an air of finality. “Welcome to home away from home.”

          You spend the next few minutes filling out the blanks, and then signing a photocopied duplicate, before following the signs leading to the temporary stay rooms. Inside, you see rows of cots lining the walls, with small, dark windows sparsely cut into the far walls. Coughs and snores and meaningless mumblings muffle your footsteps as you walk past the other occupants, looking for an empty bed. The people are numerous, and filthy, and sick. A heavy reek fills the air, and here and there suspicious eyes of those still awake track your movements.

          The dregs of society surround you, and you can’t help but feel validated. Proof that you’re not the lowest of the low; that there are others in just as dire straights as you. And not just some scattered handful, but rooms full of them. Amidst these people, compared to these people, you think you might be able to silence your own self-loathing.

          If only for a short while.

        • It’s too much. You realize you should’ve stayed outside in the familiar cold. At least there you’re suffering by choice. “Is there a washroom?” you eventually manage to ask.

          “There are signs,” is the curt response, accompanied by a brief gesture towards the back wall. Sure enough, a small faux metal plate informs you that the washrooms are through a door on the right.

          Leaving the secretary to her computer, you disappear into the chemical scented sanctuary. White walls and green stalls offer clinical neutrality. Pale lights cast shadows on the faces of the people in the mirrors who watch as you dig something out of your pockets. A small bag, holding a dented needle and a band of rubber.

          Pulling the rubber up the length of your arm, stopping a few inches past your elbow, you take up the needle in desperate hand, find a vein, pierce, breath, breath, breath.

          And plunge.

          And for a few heartbeats, the world stays still.

          Your blood pauses.

          The people in the mirror wait.

          And the fire reaches your head. The glass of the mirrors melts away, leaves the bones of the watchers bare and bereft. Above, the florescent tube lights break free of their moorings and writhe, their shadows passing through you. Each vein and artery is highlighted by them, pulsing in the piercing black glow.

          The watching bones laugh, and the glass trickles up their bodies and forms throats and lungs and tongues.

          “I need you. Like you need me.” They say.

          “You and me.” They whisper.

          “Break the habit.” The watchers laugh.

          You ignore them. Words lose their meaning as you in turn lose yourself. The sensation of light moving through your body, of linoleum floors cradling your head I was standing you are falling. Some old puddle washes against your cheek as you put it to rest, the miniscule tides lulling it to sleep.

          Your blood pauses.

          You close your eyes.

          And lose s

          ight of

          the wo

          rl

          d.


      • It was time for nurture to take another shot, instead.

        The walk to your parents house takes a little under two hours, your fingers blue and eyelashes heavy with frost by the time you arrive. But heavier still is the hand you raise to knock on the door, years of separation preceded by far more of shouting and arguments holding you back. Tie you down and freeze your limbs.

        You knock, and the house remains dark.

        You knock, and a small light flickers on upstairs.

        You knock, and the knocking becomes a pounding staccato. An urgent cry for help, until it feels like your frozen fingers will crack from the abuse and shatter. Until, finally, the door is opened, and you tumble through, forward and inward.

        Familiar arms catch you, but they hold you back as they would a stranger. You are a stranger. A dirty, filthy nobody with mud ground so deep into your skin that it poisons your veins. A drug addict with flecks of dried vomit on your arms and clothes. Shards of blood rim your nostrils like shattered glass, edged white by frost and cold.

        And you look up. You look up and see your father looking down at you, anger giving way to confusion, giving way to recognition, giving way to relief. And behind him your mother, with a satisfied and knowing tilt of her chin. “Well,” she declares, “I did always say you’d be coming home eventually. Though I was thinking months, not years.”

        “Not to worry though,” your father says as he shuts the door behind you, “your things are still where you left them when you took off.” He gives a good natured laugh. “It pained your mother to leave your room so messy for so long, but she managed to keep her hands and broom to herself.”

        You look between the two, baffled. You had expected anger, or tears, or even strangers in your parents place. Not smiles and laughter and jokes as though nothing had happened. As if you hadn’t become the lowest denominator of human in the years since you left; barely even recognizable as a person.

        You open your mouth to speak, to offer apologies or explanations, but are cut off by your father. “You’ll forgive us for not having any dinner for you; this is hardly an expected visit. There’s some left over mashed potatoes in the fridge, however, and some fruits. Help yourself.”

        After you freshen up,” your mother adds sternly. “I won’t have something the cat could’ve dragged in walking around my house anymore than is absolutely necessary. Run yourself a bath and put on some clean clothes.”

        “Wait-” you begin, looking for anything other than this. Ready to beg to have your actions acknowledged, instead of everything from the past few years being wiped clean and swept under the carpet.

        “Your heard your mother,” your father scolds gently before letting loose a yawn that felt as though it could’ve woken the entire block. “We’ll see you in the morning, when everyone’s well rested.” With that, the two of them walk back upstairs, leaving you alone and feeling more adrift than you had been when you first wandered out of the park hours before.
        • C:\

        • Too tired to do otherwise, you head to your room. Strip down and put on clean clothes for the first time in months. Clothes both too short and too loose; the only benchmark to show that life has changed at all since you left those years ago.

          Falling flat on your bed, face buried in your pillow as familiar as life itself, you feel something digging painfully into your side. When you reach into your pocket you find a simple wooden top, something your father had carved when you were a child.

          Originally just meant as practice from his old woodworking classes, the unassuming toy had found its way into your possession when you had been caught trying to steal it time and again, until your parents simply gave up and let you keep it.

          Even then, you’re faults and misdoings were overlooked. Never held against you. You had always taken it as a lack of faith. A resignation that you were a lost cause, and not worth fighting to work into something better.

          But maybe that was yourself speaking. Always yourself, tearing yourself down, turning the world against you in your mind even when all it did was try to offer support. Convinced yourself that forgiveness was pity, and acceptance was fatalism.

          All your life you’d been running, but escape had been impossible because the fear chasing you was of your own creation. It came from within, and corrupted everything when given time and room to grow. There was no way to stop it save to face it. Running would get you nowhere.

          Clutching the top tightly, you let your eyes drift shut. Finally, it was time to rest.

        • Making your way to the bathroom, you shut and lock the door before sliding to the floor, breaths uneven and throat tight. You can already feel it closing in, the cloying nothingness that pushed you away in the first place. A crushing inevitability with the face of happiness. Every detail perfect, every moment a functioning family.

          Every whole broken. Every day skin deep.

          This is what you had been protecting yourself from. The drugs and dirt and loneliness, all your shields against this subtle prison. A suffering you can see and feel and touch, rather than something invisible and loving.

          Off balance, panicked and choking back bile, you stumble to the shower and turn it as cold as it can go, bury your head in the shock and try to lose yourself to it. But clarity and focus bring nothing, the dread remains, and you find yourself digging out the only thing you trust.

          The needle is slippery in the water, and the metal slick, but you force your trembling fingers to hold tight and push deep. The sweet release burns away your treacherous blood and puts itself in it’s place. Red spills and dilutes and washes away, the drain as hungry as your heart.

          Faces linger at the edges of your vision, with smiles and boredom and tears, but the water keeps them away, keeps you numb. The cold washes over you, eyes drifting shut and the world falling away.

          A hum rises in your ears, and the water turns to hands, cradling and protective. Holding you aloft, weightless, as the darkness settles in your bones.

          The pain fades.

          The terror flees.

          The humming goes silent.


      • Eventually your feet lead you in a circle, in and around several blocks only to end up back at the park. With temperatures still falling and the last of the light long gone, even the dedicated romantics have abandoned its obscuring canopies.

        You stumble back inside, poisoned bones reminding you this is where you were always going to end up. Where you always will end up, not matter how many steps you try and take away from it. Once you fell off the beaten path, the proper path, there was no going back. From your first hit all those years ago to your last, whenever that may come, you chose this route. And continue to choose this route, time after time.

        It’s demeaning. It cripples your mind and chains your heart. It leaves you hungry without respite, starved from day to week to month. And it’s all you have.

        Fumbling hands pull rubber and needle free from your pocket, spare razor falling to the ground as you do, and clumsily get the band tight around your upper arm. The needle deep into the crook of your elbow. Drops of blood begin to bead from a job poorly done, but you ignore it, thumb already pushing the plunger home. Watching the hollowing fire spill into your veins and take root.

        And before long, it begins to flood and spread and heat. The ice under your skin is shoved out bloody and raw, forming a glistening cage around your feet, spiralling higher and higher as the fire strengthens its grip and cold gives way before it.

        People watch you through the prison of ice, faces distorting from the heat radiating from your body. “You’re here, ain’t you?” one asks, stepping through. Forward and inwards, cheekbones like broken glass, rendered in white and blacks from the harsh light. In the gaps between photons you see him smile, see the seedy bar he’s standing in, with splintered floors and broken patrons.

        You turn around, and are confronted by a person without a face, nothing but shadows lurking in their hoodie. Hot water runs over your hands, burns you, sears the flesh off your bones as the hoodied figure perches themself on counter next to you. Above, the trees thrash, branches snapping like rifle shots. “No child of mine!” the figure and the trees shout in harmony, hands too many hands reaching out and passing through flesh and blood to grip bone and bone alone.

        “Forgive us. You’ll forgive us.” A computer is turned on, its monitor a flickering blue amidst the white and black. “There are signs.”

        And the inferno inside rages higher and higher, veins signing like guitar strings from the tension. The ice and its faces melt away fix me fix me and then the fire is gone.

        You stumble forward, passing through reality, atoms cracked and cracking. You are G-

        The world is a terrified God, and you can no longer make sense of it.

        Waywar

        d ch

        ild

        of mine.



Preface


Once upon a time, is how a fairytale is supposed to begin, but the ending is perhaps less than happily ever after. There is no sugar coating to satisfy the innocence of children. Some tales are best kept on the top shelf and all stem from some amount of truth, which is perhaps the scariest part of all.





The Hog-Faced Prince


Once upon a time in a land forgotten to time, there lived the wealthy King Endor and Queen Ashteen who had long ruled the land in peace. The queen had not been able to produce an heir, not even a daughter they could find a suitable prince for. Without a child the throne would pass to to the king's nephew, Balandook, the third son of the western king, King Faldone. It was rumored that Balandook desired to unite the two kingdoms and bring back the banished Kraid. Endor, his brother and the two other kings, to the East and South, had fought against the demonic Kraid to free the lands from tyranny.


King Faldone had sought the help of a powerful warlock when his wife was unable to bare children. It was unknown what he traded for the magic but three sons had been born. Because of this, the people feared that Balandook had been gifted with dark magic to free the Kraid. His cruelty and greed was testament to the possibility of magical corruption.





Dressed in fine violet silks Queen Ashteen stood on the balcony of the royal chambers. Night was fading into day as the sun rose over the sea. Shades of pink, purple and yellow stained the dark waters as the sun rose. Wisps of cloud caught up the colors and painted the blue canvas sky.


“There's nothing more beautiful than a sunrise after a storm” Ashteen spoke softly, hearing the king pull back the heavy red drapes and step out onto the balcony behind her. “Except for you, my love”. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her cheek before resting his chin on her shoulder.


Ashteen smiled and turned to look at him instead of the sea, “You are an impossible romantic, Endor.”


With a crooked smile he kissed her neck, “Somebody needs to be, you've been so gloomy.” He placed a kiss gently on her jaw.


“Can you blame me? I cannot bear you a child.” She turned more fully to face him. The simple fact of her barren womb was troubling her. “How could you, such a noble and good king, land the misfortune of wedding a woman who can give you nothing? You deserve more than I am able to give, Endor.” Her eyes pricked with tears.


“No, no my queen.” he brushed her tears away, his fingers were rough, no stranger to work. Ashteen caught his hand and pressed her cheek into it. “It's true, we both know this and we must discuss it before we grow any older. An heir must be named.”


Endor kissed her lips before he took her hands in both of his “We have time yet.” He insisted.


“No, we are only growing older; I don't wish to raise a child in my old age and he must learn to be a king from you.” Ashteen went on.


“But..Ash, we can't have a child and none of my nephews are so young to raise anymore.” Endor spoke with confusion in his eyes.



“'There is a way, one more option we haven't explored,” Ashteen said fervently. “The warlock Fortulee across the sea, I've heard he can...” She did not finish as Endor placed a finger on her lips.


“No Ashteen, he is a wicked man who would take advantage of our situation, you know he would as well as anyone.” He released her hands and pushed past the drapes, returning to the dimly lit chamber.
He would hear no more of Fortulee.


Ashteen would not be dismissed, following him inside. “Listen to me Endor, we're running out of time and out of options,” she didn't stop there, afraid he would silence her again.


“I'm asking you to sail across the sea and deal with a man who may be able to give us a child, an heir. Forget what rumors we've heard, we don't really know anything about him except that he gave your brother three sons did he not?” Ashteen continued, watching her husband.


“You mean my cruel nephew who would see our kingdom in bondage after we fought to free our people from cruelty. My nephew who's waiting for me to die to take the throne? He'd probably have me killed the moment I named him heir!” Endor's voice rose in frustration.


“Yes him, but it is not his fault, it was how he was raised.” Ashteen insisted. “Your brother hates you, that's no secret. He is envious and young, Balandook has picked up on that. You can't blame the child alone nor Furtulee.”


Endor chewed on what his wife was telling him but remained silent. Ashteen could see the wheels turning. She was winning; she could always tell when he actually listened and considered what she was saying.


“I'm asking you to go there and see what deal he will make with you to give us a son, so we can have an opportunity to raise a proper heir who will continue to rule in peace. For our sake and the sake of the kingdom, explore this option.” The Queen urged.


Endor let out a defeated breath and consented to her request with a nod. “You're right my queen, as you always are. I'll make arrangements today and leave when everything is ready.”





Later that same week King Endor departed on a long voyage across the sea to visit the warlock Fortulee. He went, as it was said, to make an offering of peace as was ritually done every two years. On the alternate years, kings of other lands would visit Endor. There were festivals for each to welcome the arrival of their guests. It was an important tradition to keep peace throughout all the lands and it had worked well since King Endor had won the war against the Kraid who were a species unlike humans or elves. There was no goodness in them, and they were considered demons with their red eyes and twisted faces.


Endor had been only fourteen when he rallied men and women alike to fight against the Kraid and had successfully won the war. He and his three most trusted friends were named kings over the four lands because of their bravery and noble selfless acts. Endor was now aging into his thirties, the kingdoms having known sixteen years of peace.


While the king was away the beloved queen Ashteen ruled with her husband's trusted council at her side. Endor's brother, the king of the west, desired to rule the north as well as the west. Ashteen and Endor agreed that she should stay behind. Should anything happen to Endor, or the ship be lost at sea, Ashteen could continue to rule. If they both went and the ship was lost, the west could all too easily take over the north and free the Kraid. The risk was simply too great.





Endor made port six weeks after leaving his own kingdom. He was met with the customary entourage. A grand parade for King Endor. The festival was to begin that night and last for a whole week. Parties and feasts held in honor of the bringer of peace, the slayer of Kraid, the great King Endor.


Endor paid little attention to the scantily dressed dancing women who were among the greeting party. They swirled thin skirts of fine silk in wide circles and fluttered long shawls. Their black hair flowed free, strung with beads; fine gold necklaces and bangles decorating their dark skin.
This country was hot, the people elegant, taller, more slender and darker skinned compared to northerners who were shorter and broad through the shoulders and chest. There was no mistaking who were the foreigners.


Endor was directed to sit in a cushioned and covered litter draped with silks and gold. Four long posts stretched out at each corner and four strong men on each lifted Endor and paraded him through the streets and up to the castle.


The northern king was inclined to smile, wave and graciously accept flowers tossed into the king carrier and gifts were pressed into his hands by the locals. Endor was glad for the shade the silks above him provided and more so for the servant woman fanning him from behind his cushion. His home overlooked the sea and was warm most of the year, though it was nothing like the heat of the eastern country.


Ashteen had visited once with him, in the early days of his rule, and she had adored this land, the people, their customs, all of it. It was as if she belonged there sometimes yet chose to stay with her king. She did at times visit when the north looked to have a harsh winter. The cold and dark of winter depressed the queen and made her bones ache. The king understood and wished her well in the east, though always he missed her presence.


With the constant halts for gifts and flowers to be given and crowds to press through, it took nearly two and a half hours for Endor to make the journey up to the castle, where he was greeted by King Shahzande and his wife Lameara.


As the litter was placed on the marble of the front courtyard, Endor climbed out and greeted them with a smile. “Shahz my old friend, it has been too long!” Endor said as he stepped in to embrace the taller dark-skinned man who grinned back. “If only the sea did not separate us!” was the eastern king's answer.
The two of them had met when they were young; Shahzande had joined his cause to free the lands from the Kraids' rule and they had become enduring friends.


“Lameara,” Endor spoke her name fondly as he released his fellow king. “Ashteen wishes she could have come, she misses you.” Endor wished the same.


Lameara was a head shorter than her husband but even then Endor did not have to stoop to embrace the pregnant queen. “Send my love back to her Endor, I miss her too. Perhaps she can make a visit before our child is born?” She suggested, releasing the king and stepping back beside her husband.


“Speaking of children, where are your sons and daughter?” Endor asked, the three of them walking casually inside. “They are out, but shall return for the feast tonight.” Shahzande reported. “I'm sure you wish for rest, but, I have arranged that meeting you mentioned. Fortulee is a busy man and tonight was the only time he said he would see you. He is bold to insist anything upon you Endor,” Shahz went on with a small frown.


“I fear he may know what you seek already and I must advise against this. Fortulee is not a kind man, he will demand a heavy price for what you seek.”


“Shahz, you always did get right down to it,” Endor said shaking his head. “I'll speak with him and see what he might say. Ashteen knows there will be a cost and knows that I shall not pay if it is too steep.”





Endor rapped on the dark wooden door of a small hut deep in the jungle. Shahzande's trusted friend and bodyguard had shown him the way and now stood a way off to wait, as per Endor's request. To avoid notice, he'd had to take several little used paths and wear the more traditional clothing of the eastern priests who kept their faces covered, all but a slit for the eye. As long as Endor kept his eyes down, nobody would take notice.


The door was opened by a man who might once have been tall. He was bent in the back, his hair gray and as thin as smoke. His eyes were dark and piercing, his skin wrinkled and pale like Endor's. That surprised him. He had expected Fortulee to be like the others in the east, dark-skinned. The eyes were right, so dark brown they looked black at first glance. “Ah, King Endor.” The old man opened the door a little wider.


Endor ducked inside but did not rise to full height again. He understood now why the man was so bent. His hut was so small that Endor couldn't stand up right and he was shorter than most in the east. Short and stocky, while they were tall, strong and quick. To have a hut so short, seemed odd, but he didn't question it.


“I appreciate you taking the time to see me, I understand you're a busy man.” Endor spoke as he removed the priestly headgear.


“Well, when you're the only warlock around, it's easy to become so.” the older man's voice was more friendly than he expected. Fortulee was not well spoken of, called wicked, cruel and sly. Because of this, Endor was on his guard.


“Please have a seat, nothing like your royal throne but I hope it will do.” Fortulee went on, waving to a three legged stool beside a small table scattered with potion ingredients and papers.


Fortulee seated himself on the other side of the table, his old bones creaked as much as the worn out stool.


Endor sat on the offered stool “I'm really not so picky as that Fortulee, besides, thrones are not so comfortable.”


“Ah, yes,” The old man chuckled, though it sounded more like a rasping wheeze. “Uncomfortable in more ways than one I should think.” Fortulee smiled.


“Indeed so.” Endor agreed.


“Now then, you wish for a son.” Fortulee stated rather than questioned. Warlocks tended to know things they shouldn't; with or without the seer's gift they were intuitive by nature.


Endor was, in a way, glad that he didn't have to explain the situation. “I must have a son, else my nephew will be my heir and that simply cannot be.”


“No, it cannot, you are right. He is a cruel boy.” Fortulee agreed with the king.


“You know then what I seek. What is your price, Fortulee?” Endor got right to the point at hand. He didn't mind small talk but with this man, he was unsettled. He didn't match the rumors and was almost too pleasant.


“Half your kingdom, that is my price.” Fortulee came right out with it, matching the king's blunt straightforward speech.


“Half my kingdom? And what would an old warlock do with a kingdom?” Endor questioned. He had prepared himself for a steep price and thus was able to keep calm, although the price was more than he anticipated.


“My reasons are my own and your reasons are yours, but that is the deal.” Fortulee answered simply. “I will give you to the end of the week to answer.”





Only when Fortulee was sure the northern king had gone did the warlocks wispy white hair regain its blackness and the youth return to his wrinkled face. The silver beard was replaced with a twisted black one and his eyes were as small and dark as his hair. He had all the look of the westerners, pale skinned with dark hair and eyes.


A thin smile spread across his sunken cheeks. It is said that the soul reflects on appearance; if that was true, the sunken faced slender and beady-eyed man with the twisted beard had a dark and twisted soul.


Turning back into his hut, which was now just the right height for him, he pushed the table and stools aside and waved his hand over the dirt floor. The earth shifted and stirred until a dark opening gaped its mouth. Fortulee descended into the deeper parts of the world where secrets lay.


Down the steep stairs with only a dim orb of light held in the warlock's hand, Fortulee emerged into a dark cave where no light from above had ever or would ever touch.


The warlock tossed the orb up; it moved steadily to hover in the middle of the dark cave, then grew brighter until the room was illuminated in dim yellow light.


The walls were carved into black stone, shelves gouged out of the walls and filled with books, potions and other relics collected over the years. In the center was a large wooden table strewn with books and papers.


The now young Fortulee seated himself in the comfortable armchair resting at one end of the table.


With ink and quill Fortulee began to write the contract, confident the king would return and sign the deal in blood, binding him to it.


The contract was simple enough, a child for half a kingdom to be handed over at the time of birth. Should the contract be broken penalties would be applied to the offending party, in the form of a curse.


Fortulee took a second inkwell from a drawer and placed it next to the black, this one was also black but gave a faint shine. The ink he used to write the curse was the only kind that would make it a binding one.


With the freshly dipped quill the warlock wrote with closed eyes, letting the binding ink guide his hand:


“On break of word and oath the face will change to show inner worth, the eyes will shine with demon wrath and plague befall where true blood stands to reign. Only when the seeker of souls doth change the worth will bond be broken and all that was will again be whole, until that time true blood live ever on.”


Fortulee opened his eyes when he felt his hand cease to move. Looking down at what was written he could only puzzle over the meaning. His father had been a seer but he was not, yet his father's gift did come when he beckoned it to curse a broken contract. The fragment of the seer's gift had never once failed him. Even if he did not fully understand what was written, he was confident that he would get what he wanted. He always did.





The feast was about what Endor would expect, a boar hunted down for the occasion and an abundance of fruits. Endor had to admit, they did have the best fruit and the most excellent array of wines. He always made a point of taking some home with him whenever he visited.


This particular feast however, Endor was very distracted. Fortulee had asked no small price, but which was worse? Give the entire kingdom to a nephew who would undoubtedly destroy everything he'd built, or give only half to a warlock who may or may not destroy that half and attempt to take the rest.


After the feast Shahzande came to Endor's guest quarters and the two of them sat out on the open deck.


“So he wants half of your kingdom in exchange for an heir, that is a steep price.” King Shahzande was saying, leaning back in the patio chair and looking out over the courtyard. Festivities were still going on in the city below but it was a distant noise; the castle was resting up on the hill. Endor was glad he didn't have to participate in everything; he was tired and dealing with a hard choice.


“There is a third option.” Shahz said and looked over at his friend again.


“A third option?” Endor repeated with a note of curiosity.


“Fortulee has been creating a lot of problems for me. I am well within my legal rights to have him beheaded.” Shahzade answered. He'd always tried to do things fairly; as king he could do whatever he wished really but he obeyed the laws like everyone else. If he said Fortulee could be killed for legal reasons, Endor didn't question it.


“Agree to the deal, then when your son is born, send word to me and I shall deal with Fortulee here. You saved my life once, more than once Endor, let me save your kingdom.”
Shahzade went on when Endor said nothing.


“He's not a seer then?” Endor asked, not knowing much other than the rumors and stories he heard.


“No, no. Fortulee is many things but he is no seer, he won't know what's coming.” Shahzande answered with confidence.


“I would be grateful Shahz, and I know it would mean the world to Ashteen to have a child of her own.” Endor said, a smile pricking his lips. The thought of being a father to his own son was a thought he hadn't dared to have since they'd realized that Ashteen was barren. Things were going to be different now.



And so it happened that only two weeks after King Endor's return to his own country, his beloved wife was with child. So great was their joy that a grand feast was held in honor of the unborn prince.


At first many believed it a ruse to satisfy the building tension between the north and west countries. However, as weeks turned into months Queen Ashteen began to swell and the rumors were put to rest.


At the very moment the queen began to labor, Endor wrote and sent word with the fastest messenger bird. The very act of releasing the beautiful winged creature, had enacted the penalties Endor had unwisely agreed to. That was not the only unwise choice he stood to make.





Endor did not realize his first mistake until the nurse placed his son into his arms. Sweet Ashteen had yet to see the child. Weak and near death from hard labor, the doctors and nurses worked to keep her alive.


As Endor looked down on the face of the crying babe, fear took hold. His son's sweet face contorted and changed before him. The eyes blazed red, his hair grew black as ember, his nose turned up and small rounded tusks protruded from his mouth. The child he held, he determined, could only be born of evil.


Endor realized then that this child was the result of the curse put into motion when he'd sent word to kill the warlock instead of giving what was promised him.


Bundling the child he had to make a hasty choice. This abomination was not the making of him and his beloved queen and she must never know what emerged from her womb.


Endor stood back in the corner of the room, out of sight of Ashteen, so pale and fragile. Certainly one look at the demon would finish her.


Concerned at the king's expression, his trusted servant Taldeen came to him. “Sire...” he began, but the king cut him off and rushed him with instructions.


“Take this demon child away from here, none must know of this!” Endor spoke in a hushed urgent voice. “Go quickly to the children's home and find a motherless babe and bring him here. This must all be done with haste. The queen must never see this demon.” Taldeen was then given the bundled infant. He did not question his king and only obeyed. Luck was on the king's side in some small way. With so much chaos in the room with the condition of the queen, no-one noticed that the king stood by with empty rolled-up blankets cradled in his arms; not one of them thought to question him.





As the years went on, the king forgot the demon child and focused his attention on the boy Taldeen had brought back that same night. He was blond and blue-eyed like the king so there was no reason to doubt his birthright.


Queen Ashteen had given him the name Alamear, in honor of her fallen father. She, like the rest, did not suspect a switch, remaining ignorant her of husband's rash decisions the night of her true son's birth.


Alamear was raised with all the love, devotion and privileges that befitted a prince and sole heir to the throne.


On the day of Alamear's coronation which would take place on his eighteenth birthday, things would change forever.





The throne room was decorated with draping royal blue silks hanging from each column, framing the tapestries displaying the royal coat of arms in gold thread.


A long red carpet was rolled out from the doors to the throne at the top of the steps, the platform decorated with fragrant red roses in huge golden vases with blue silk ribbons.


The carpet was separated from the rest of the throne room by woven gold and blue cords wrapped around each column and stretching across the gap between to help keep the royal court and guests from stepping on to the carpet.


Two guards already stood on either side of every pillar, with four at the doors and eight more behind and around the throne's platform. Others would be around all the walls and scattered throughout the crowd. While there was peace in the land and no unrest to cause alarm, no chances would be taken. Alamear was first in line for the throne, his cruel cousin was second to both Alamear and his elder brother who was heir to his own father's throne to the west.


The brother kings kept the peace although it was known they did not agree on many issues, but the desire to keep their respective lands safe overpowered any hatred they held towards each other.


King Endor had of course invited guests from all three of the other countries to witness the coronation. Festivities had been going on all afternoon and for three days before. That night after the coronation there would be a grand ball in honor of the newly crowned prince. Already the room was a buzz of excited chatter.


As the doors opened however, silence fell and all eyes turned to the great King Endor and his beloved wife Queen Ashteen.


In perfect silence they ascended the steps and sat on their respective thrones. There was only a moment more of silence before the trumpets sounded and the large doors were heaved open. In stepped prince Alamear dressed in the traditional golden armor. A long trailing blue cape trimmed in gold was fastened with the crest of his House. An honorary sword hung from a fine leather belt, the sheath and hilt of the blade were intricately designed and gold plated; sapphire jewels set in golden brackets. The precious stones glittered in the sunlight pouring in through great windows along the hall. The gold of his chest plate reflected the colors of the windows.


The armor was not intended for battle and was in fact, very thin. The decorated pieces were only symbolic of the wars that led to their freedom and the golden age in which they lived.


Alamear held his head high as his mother had taught him. Without looking to either side the young prince took careful steps forward. Though his heart pounded, aware of all eyes on him, he looked the part. His hair perfectly combed, his shoulders back, chin high and eyes forward.


Before the prince had even walked halfway up to his waiting parents, the heavy doors behind him exploded in a hot fiery flash, sending chunks of stone and wood into the crowd. Flame easily caught alight the silk hung in decoration around the throne room.


Screams and panic tore through the hall. The young prince spun round, nearly catching himself in the trailing cloak. The dust and smoke hadn't cleared, the attacker remaining unknown. Guards rushed to defend the royal family but Endor and Alamear had already drawn blades. Even the queen was prepared, her blade thinner but still as deadly, as good a swordsman as any man in the room.


The first things to become visible in the gaping hole where the doors had been, were the eyes, shining red. As the smoke cleared away the square shoulders, a head taller than Alamear, were armored steel plated skulls; a black cloak draped from the open mouths. His chest plate was thick and scored, dented and mended in several places. This man had known battle in recent days.


More startling than his attire was his helmet that resembled the head of a great boar, with jutting tusks and flared nostrils. The red eyes of the boar’s head was no trickery of light. Demon eyes, those of a Kraid, spoken of in only hushed whispers of the past. He stared down the smaller man in thin golden armor with his glittering blade, barely a plaything in comparison to the battle ax the intruder wielded. The head of the ax alone would have taken four men at least to lift, yet this man held it easily in a single hand.


The four guards nearest the door rushed to attack. They stood little chance against the giant. The guardsmen were cut down with a single swipe of his mighty ax. Screams of panic re-ignited with the splattering of blood and echoed in the hall; no doubt alerting guards in other parts of the castle if they had not already been drawn in by the initial blast and eruption of panic.


“Is this the welcome a lost son of Endor receives?” The voice bellowed from within the boar helmet.


The remaining guards hesitated to attack, standing in defense still but unmoving until given further command. They created a semicircle around the door, giving the Kraid man a wide berth.


“My son is here, I have only one.” Endor answered, coming forward to stand beside the boy he'd raised, just behind the line of guards.


The boar-headed man bellowed an unexpected laugh; it only lasted an instant but the unsettling sound hushed the room once more.


“Yes your son is here, the son you sent away to die because of your own shame. The great King Endor broke his word to the powerful Fortulee of the eastern land.” The boar-headed man bellowed to the room at large, though his hateful red eyes were fixed on the king.


With his free hand that looked large enough to crush a man's head, he pulled an old scroll from a leather travel bag at his side. With an easy flick of the wrist the scroll rolled out for all to see; the contract signed in the king's own hand and blood.


The true son spoke the words of the curse from memory. They were his fate, his burden to bear because of a hasty choice to spare the heart of an ailing queen.


“On break of word and oath the face will change to show inner worth, the eyes will shine with demon wrath and plague befall where true blood stands to reign. Only when the seeker of souls doth change the worth will bond be broken and all that was will again be whole, until that time true blood live ever on.”


Guests from the western kingdom around the room threw aside their courtly tunics and capes to draw swords, attacking the northern guards who circled the giant at the door. The attack from the west was not something they expected in this way. Many of the guards fell before they knew what had happened while others were able to fight against the western soldiers. Even then, they proved to be outnumbered. For all their precautions against attack, it was not enough.


The few guards who remained still surrounded their queen and would stay with her. They knew well that in situations such as this, the safety of the queen was priority. The king had made that clear.


“See now what you've brought to the land you so wished to save! Oh great coward king of the north, bringer of plague and wielder of lies!” Dropping the document on to the floor the man lifted off the heavy helmet to reveal a face more hideous still than its covering. The tusks had grown up over his sun- tanned cheeks, his nose more the snout of a hog than it was human. His teeth grown sharp and his hair black as night and thick like straw.


Young Prince Alamear scooped up the discarded scroll and read the words for himself. As realization of his true heritage sunk in, Alamear turned to his father, or at least the man he'd called a father. “I am a lie, no son of a king!” The anguish he felt was the last thing he knew before the ax of the hog-faced prince smote him in two.


“No! Alamear!” Ashteen cried helplessly as she watched the only son she'd known slain so effortlessly by the monster she'd unknowingly birthed. Endor stood stunned, soaked in his adopted son's blood. In the next instant Endor rose his blade to avenge him; with his battle cry he brought down his sword to slay the hog-faced man.


The king's blade broke against the heavy chest plate. The hog-faced prince laughed down at his true father. The guards who rushed to his aid, despite their orders to defend the queen, were intercepted by the western soldiers' blades.


Screams and cries of pain and pleas for help were all but muted to the queen as her bodyguards rushed her away. She recalled she cried out for Endor to come but she could not see him, lost in the bodies of men and women being slaughtered by the westerners. Those that fought with whatever weapon they could find were cut down without mercy. Those that surrendered were slain. No prisoners were being taken.


All Queen Ashteen saw was her true monster of a son pass easily through the battle and come up to the throne and seat himself upon it. The windows darkened and the stench of death overwhelmed the throne room as the massacre unfolded.


Certain that her beloved was murdered, Queen Ashteen fled to the east and her beloved northern kingdom fell into darkness because of broken oaths.


Not all tales have a happily ever after, but true stories never end.

Disclaimer: the whole of the entry is less than 5,000 words, and is intended to be read in full. You may, however, choose which order to read the three primary parts.

[spacer]There one lived a Queen so beautiful and pure, that it was said neither Sun nor Moon could resist her allure. Each day the sun rose and shone down from the heavens, its warm-hearted rays bringing light to her presence; and each night twinkling stars cross the sky the moon wept, so soft a sight was the Queen as she slept.[/spacer]
[spacer]And yet as all things it was not to last, for beneath each beauty, jealousy is cast. By a witch's will the Queen fell ill, and so her charms began to fade—soon, up high, empty was the sky, for no longer Sun and Moon strayed.[/spacer]
[spacer]Beset by darkness, the kingdom fell into prayer, and was answered by legends that a wise man did share.[/spacer]
[spacer]He told of deep in the mountains there lay a mystical land, wherein wishes were granted if only the perils they could withstand. Brave knights and wily wizards alike were sent between the peaks, but none returned as days turned to weeks.[/spacer]
[spacer]And so it was that the wise man chose to send forth a single young girl of soft cheek, little nose, and peasant birth.[/spacer]

Grace
Soft fur tickles the huntress's cheek.

The girl stretched like a panther as it rose from its slumber, her mouth yawning wide to reveal but teeth, not fangs. Finally she opened her tired eyes to take in the surroundings—all was coated in a fierce blue light, for a bonfire was lit not ten feet to the right. She had been lain on a large pelt, of a deer or an elk, upon which were scattered beads, berries, and branches.

Yet what caught her eye by the crackling flame was a sprite, a spirit, a tiny little dame.

The fairy turned to her with a smile on her face. "Good evening child; for now, lay low. I'll tell you your purpose, and gift you this bow." At this she gestured a drawn bow and quiver, recognition of which gave the huntress a shiver. "Look into your pocket and a stone you will find—within each piece a wish is entwined. But use not them all, for in the center of this land a great temple does stand. To a pedestal the stone you will bind, along with two others gathered of the same kind."

The huntress opened her mouth to speak, but the fairy lifted a finger and no sound came forth.

"I can tell you no more, and go, I must. You will find the door, that I do trust."

And with that, the fairy flew off into the sky and was quickly gone from sight.

For a moment she stood in silence, trying make sense of what she'd heard, but then took up the bow and quiver undeterred. The sky above was blacker than soot; neither the moon nor the stars were anywhere to be seen. Grabbing a branch and wrapping it in fur, she dipped it into the bonfire and came out with a torch—the fire was not hot, and she deduced by that fact and the blueness of its light both that it must be magic.

She then looked further out, seeking another source of light beyond her own. "I wish I knew where to go," she muttered.

With a crack and a shudder a small hexagonal stone flew from her pocket and floated before her, where it began to disintegrate. A powerful gust blew up from behind, smashing into the bonfire in a brilliant burst of flame, blinding her.

When at last her eyes readjusted to the darkness, the bonfire was no more—from it had been blown a current of embers, trailing lazily across the grass in the likeness of a path.

The huntress reached into her pocket and pulled forth two more hexagonal stones, her shoulders slumping. "Shit."

With nothing better to do, she followed the trailing embers.



Her torch half-buried in a blazing mess of gathered lumber, the huntress sat relaxed upon her bum, skinning a rabbit to eat with a spare arrowhead.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed with no sun to mark it, but she assumed from the soreness of her feet that she had been walking for more than a few hours. Not long after setting out, the grass had climbed up to become trees, the path leading her deep into forest. From time to time, she had heard voice or footsteps, but not wanting to become lost she had never strayed from the embers.

At least, not until her belly had begun to sing for meat to superseded her meagre diet of berries.

As if to answer her plea, the embers ceased to advance, instead spreading out in a wide circle at the edge of which she stood. Taking this as permission, the huntress set up camp along with some traps, and soon caught a rabbit, which she just now placed over the fire to cook.

The huntress leaned back against a tree trunk, the smell of the sizzling meat send her to drowse; she had vision of a fountain of gold, silver, and ivory—nay, a portal, with water as its gate. Three mirrors, three choices, three sticks of different make—

And the clash of blades ringing in the distance.

Her eyes shot upright, glancing around her, but what she saw was no man wielding sword or shield. Instead, she ws faced with a great grey wolf, sitting quietly across from her and the fire.

She glanced at her bow, and the wolf did too, but he made no move. Holding her breath, she rose to her feet, and still the wolf sat where he would. Minutes or seconds passed, she could not which, before the wolf licked his lips, waving his nose at the rabbit she'd pitched by the fire.

Though the huntress could no explain her relief, the wolf seemed friendly; at least, such was her belief.

She cut up the rabbit meat and fed the wolf the wolf the larger share from her own hands, before gently seating herself against his flank. The two ate companionably, and then they slept; and when the fluttering embers woke them, side by side, they left.



Motionless in the brush, the girl's bow is drawn, an arrow nocked and pointed at a stag's throat. Proud—and still—it knew not of the two predators lying in wait, soon to kill and feast as nature demands.

But a cry bellows forth, and though her arrow flies wild it hits its mark, striking the deer in the shoulder. The huntress curses, but hearing another cry, she motions for the wolf to leave their fallen prey behind and find the source of the voice. As she rushes off, the wolf lingers, torn between food and friend.

Soon she comes upon a clearing, and therein finds a man lying half-seated on a tree stump, alternating between moans and wails of pain. A great silver sword lies sheathed half in the man's flesh and half in the stump behind him, holding him fast as he struggles, cutting his bleeding wound deeper.

"Oh, thank the Lord, little girl! Please, help me, help before she comes back!"

Quick on her feet, the girl is at his side in an instant. She grabs the sword by the hilt and tugs at it—but no matter how might she might will, she cannot tug it free.

Nevertheless, the attempt cuts the man again, and he sobs madly until she releases it.

The huntress sighs. "I am sorry, good sir, but there is naught I can do to free you." But it is then as she reaches into her pocket to draw forth her arrowhead, thinking the cut the man's throat and save him the torment, that her finger brushes against one of the hexagonal stones. Her heart, drops in her chest, but she knew what she would do. "Sword in the stone, my wish you will heed; let this man go unharmed, so that he may be freed!"

The stone shatters with a crack before her, and its dust blows across the sword and the man's wound both. both become translucent, and taking that as her cue, the huntress pulls the man from the stump. The sword—blade, hilt, pommel and all—flows through him freely, and draws with it the wound from his belly, leaving behind neither gash nor blood on his skin.

The huntress smiles, and the man does too, but his smile is wicked as he draws a knife from his shoes.

Blade at her neck, he holds her to him, dragging her through the clearing into the forest. She struggles, but he hits her in the stomach—choking on a lack of breath she can do nothing as he throws her to the ground, jumping upon her and holding her down. With one hand he clutches her throat, while other explores her form to gloat. "A fool you are, when she was not. You'd have been better off leaving me to ro—"

He could not finish his words, however, as a powerful jaw laden with long fangs clamped down on his neck. The wolf threw the man from the girl, his body crashing against a tree as blood poured down his shoulders.

The wolf then gently slung the girl onto his back and carried away from the grisly attack.



Once they had left the forest behind, the embers returned to wind ahead of them, the only light they had with her torch long forgotten. Looming ahead stood a great tower, a shade of black darker than the sky above.

Though it took some time, the girl did find again her strength, no longer riding the wolf for the final length.



At the foot of the tower, the two were welcomed by a wide stone door; opened before them to revealing a hallway flanked by blue torches. The embers dashed inside and scattered—it seemed they had reached the end.

Fumbling through her pocket, she grasped the final wishing in a tight squeeze before again drawing her bow and nocking an arrow.

As one, the two entered, and found that they were not the first.
Justice
The squire's eyes opened in a flash, and were met with darkness.

Sitting up, she found herself fully clothed and bearing a light breastplate atop the leather. A thick woolen blanket had been laid out beneath her, upon which was scattered well-wrapped rations. Looming above she saw a hanging lantern affixed to a pole, shuttered closed so that only a sliver of light shone through.

Rising to her feet, the girl unshuttered the lantern, allowing a soft blue light to eek out over the blanket, and was shocked to see a fairy standing inches from her feet.

"Good evening, child, but speak not a word—just listen, and heed, and you shalt have this sword." At this the fairy winked and kicked at the sheathed blade lying by the lantern.

It sparked a memory in the squire, of a fountain of pure light, but the fairy continued and the memory slipped from sight.

"Look into your pocket and a stone you will find—within each piece a wish is entwined. But use not them all, for in the center of this land a great temple does stand. To a pedestal the stone you will bind, along with two others gathered of the same kind. I can tell you no more, and go, I must. You will find the door, that I do trust."

With that, the fairy was gone, leaving the squire alone on her blankets.

Rifling through her pockets, she did indeed find three hexagonal stones, and focusing her senses—yes. She could sense great power emanating from them.

The squire sat cross-legged upon the blanket for a moment more, steeling herself.

Yet she knew she must leave, for though could remember nothing, she knew at least that this quest meant the world to her, whatever it was.

Gathering up the ration in a sack she cut from the blanket, the girl set out in whichever direction felt right, sword sheathed at her side.



No heavenly bodies graced the sky as she walked, though she suspected in the hours that passed night should long ago have morphed into night. With no light by which to see the horizon nor any landmarks beyond continuous fields of wheat, she could not know where she went.

And yet, the squire was content to walk where her feet would lead her, accompanied only by the soft glow of her eternal blue lantern.

And as luck would have it, her feet led her well, for soon she heard shouting from up ahead.

Drawing her blade, she let out a fierce bellow herself, charging forth into the darkness. The long shoots of wheat whipped across her as she ran, stinging her face—but the sting only made the blood rush to her face till she was giddy with exertion, barreling through the crops like a dog on the hunt.

And all at once, she burst through.

Red flames sizzled across a clearing of trampled-down wheat. Wounded, a man lay on his back, bleeding from multiple injuries. As if caught in time, another man's sword hung heavy over his head as his arms tensed.

And swung.

The squire sword rose up to meet it, blocking it from striking the prone man. The assailant then turned to face her, twisting his sword and grin both to strike her down—but she was faster, her blade spinning across his to strain his wrist.

The blade fell to the ground, and the assailant cursed and ran.

For a moment, the squire considered making chase, but when the wounded man coughed she kneeled at his side instead.

His clothes—and the flesh beneath—torn to shreds, it was clear this man would not survive this ordeal. She thought back to the wishing-stones, and drew one from her pocket.

The man laid a hand heavily upon hers, pushing it down. "No, you'll need it more than I."

She grimaced, but put it back in her pocket. "Who are you? Who was he?"

"My name, I forget, along with most everything else. As for him, he is a brother… of a sort." He smiled, his teeth stained in blood, and looked up to contemplate the empty sky. "I was his his better half, but I guess jealousy corrupts just as easily as power."

The girl sat beside him, and also looked up at the sky. "Do you know why I'm here?"

He laughed. "What, the fairy didn't tell you?" He convulsed for a second, hacking instead of coughing. "All I know is that the good ones leave, and the ones that stay… stop being good." He pulled a scroll out from a sack at his side and gave it to her.

Opening it, she saw that it was a map—with a glowing blue speck nestled at the center of a great field of wheat. A little further out was a red dot, moving through the same field at a rapid pace.

Though it clearly strained him to do so, he turned over to look at her. "But I'd like to ask of you a favour."

"Go ahead."

"Track him. Bleed him. Kill him." The man sank back into the wheat. "He knows the way out, follow him and he'll lead you there. But please, don't let him be my legacy."

Silence followed, and the squire nodded.

"Thank you."

She did not answer him, but instead rose to her feet and left.



With single-minded devotion, she followed the red dot across the map. The man had taken many breaks in what felt like half a day or more's time—but she had not.

Shorter than he as she was, he had the advantage of speed, but the squire never tired, never let up, crossing fields, hills, and creeks.

And so it was as she trudged through the trees of a forest that she broke into a clearing, and saw there the man she had been hunting, leaning against a tree stump.

In a panic, the man dropped the apple he'd been eating and drew a knife. "Please, girl, have mercy, I am but a poor man—"

She did not let him finish, charging forth with her blade drawn and a roar of rage. Her first swing is wild, uncontrolled—the man deflects it skillfully with his knife. But she follows up with a kick, send thing man to his knees, before she lunges forward.

Her blade punctures straight through his belly and embeds itself into the tree stump behind him.

The man cries out in pain.

The girl releases the blade, panting, and takes a step back.

And off in the distance sounds a loud crack, and as the wind picks up momentarily, she sense the same power she felt in the wishing-stones.

Turning to the man begging her for mercy, she raises one foot one stomps on the swords pommel, burying the blade deeper and pinning the man to the stump.

"Stay here," she commanded, as if he had a choice.

And with that she was off, rushing towards the source of the wishful winds.

Trees flitted past her as she barreled through the forest. Nearly after ten feet she would trips, the light of her lantern not revealing a root or a stone jutting out from the soil.

As she ran, her senses tingled, leading her towards the source of the magic—

And then another crack sounded off behind her.

She skidded to a halt. The squire could tell that the second crack had emanated from the self-same direction she'd just run, where she'd left the murderer to attend to later.

Ahead of her, she knew the first crack was within reach. If she continued only a minute longer…

She had made a promise, however silent it might have been. The girl turned back.



The clearing was nearly empty when she returned, save her sword stuck in the tree stump and a half-eaten apple at the base. Upon closer examination, she saw that the blade was bloodless, as if the murderer had never even been struck.

Setting down the lantern, the girl tugged the sword free, falling onto her bum as she did so. Knowing not what else to do, she drew the scroll forth from her pocket—she would simply have to track him down once more.

As she looked down at the map however, shock registered and she jumped to her feet, stashing the scroll away and collecting her sword and lantern.

She did not have to go far to find the man lying in the dirt, bleeding heavily from the neck.

The girl grimaced and held up her sword. "The apple does not fall far from the tree," she muttered.

"Spare me…" the man gurgled.

Justice has little patience to spare.



The squire looked up from the scroll to see a dark tower looming above her. Great stone doors hung ajar, welcoming her in with the light of blue fire.

The fairy said that her quest would end at the center of these lands.

She sheathed her blade and marched in, the last girl to enter.
Mercy
The maiden awakens in darkness upon a bed of soft grass, hey eyes flickering open to see a tiny woman standing before her.

She gasps and shoots upright. "A fairy! Why… What brings you here?"

The fairy giggles. "That I shall say, and yes, I am fey. But please, make no sound, though I know your questions abound!" She hold something out to the girl. "I bring you a key, for though you are last to wake, the fastest of three I think you'll make." The fairy then coughs and brushes off her skirts, as if to compose herself for business. "Look into your pocket and a stone you will find—within each piece a wish is entwined. But use not them all, for in the center of this land a great temple does stand. To a pedestal the stone you will bind, along with two others gathered of the same kind."

"But… where am I to go?"

The fairy considered the question. "You are so sweet that I cannot help but cheat." She hops up onto the girl's shoulder and mutters in her ear, pointing out into the distance. "The center is that way. Good luck!"

And with that, she was gone.

Finally the maiden takes a good look around—what greeted her was great darkness and little sound. Nestled in the grass at her feet stood a single wax candle on a little copper plate, its flame bright blue and rising tall and straight.

The maiden slid the key into her dress's pocket, and as she did she felt three hexagonal stones. "Each piece a wish…" she muttered, smiling. "Ooh, this sounds like fun!"



With only the light of her candle to see by, the maiden had walked in the direction the fairy had pointed, humming tunes the words for which she could not remember.

It was not long before she came upon a creek, and followed along its bank.

Hours passed, and the light of the sky did not change, for neither stars nor moon nor sun shone above. Eventually, he feet grew tired, and she decided it was time for a rest.

Removing her little shoes and socks, she placed them at the creek's bankand stepped into the water. Cool as it was, she shivered in delight and skipped further in, the stones beneath her feet smooth and soft.

Finally, she plopped down at the edge of the creek, setting aside her candle, and cupped some water to her lips to drink.

She was interrupted, however, by a loud bellow from further back.

The maiden dived to the side just as a great stag barreled past her, antlers boring forth into the dirt.

With a cry of shock, the girl scooped up her candle and moved for her shoes, but the stag bucked and bellowed and lunged for her again, so that she was forced to scramble up the bank and back out into the grass.

She did not know for how long she ran, but she knew she was no longer being chased, the bellows distantly honking out from the direction of the creek. Her feet were sore from running barefoot, and sweat drenched her corselet, but altogether she was unharmed.

Falling to her knees, she gasped for air and gently placed the candle upon the grass.

Perhaps this would not be as fun as she had hoped.



She neither sees nor hears of another animal for a long time after, trudging wearily parallel to the creek, as best she could gather. With every passing hour she grows hungry and tired, passing eventually from open field to a thick forest.

The sticks and stones littered about the forest floor prove difficult to see by her candle's flame, and with each step her feet are scraped, cut, and bruised until she found herself unable to walk.

With no end in sight, she cuddles up to grand trees roots and sleeps, dreaming of a glittering pool of water deep in the mountains. She steps in and in a flash she see threefold—three girls of the same face, looking upon one another and themselves as they are refracted in the light of the pool, being drawn away to another land—

She awakens to a sound akin to a whip nearby, and the bellow of a wounded animal.

Ignoring the pain and harm brought upon her feet, she rushes through the trees with her candles towards the noise, and comes across a stag lying wounded in the brush.

She recognizes it instantly as the stag that had attacked her by the creek—but where before it had been a fierce and proud animal, with an arrow jutting from the space between its neck and shoulder it was now frail and pitiable.

It, too, recongized her, though it was clear from its eyes that it was in great pain.

The maiden advanced slowly, and the stag did not move to stop her, so she set down her candle and patted the beasts flank comfortingly.

It scoffed, turning from her gesture.

The girl frowned and drew one of the three stones from her pocket. With a smile, she sighed gently, and then began to sing. "I wish, I wish, I wish and I pray; please let this stag live but one more day."

The stone exploded in a burst of steam with a loud crack, and a gust of wind tore through the trees—sending the steam billowing over the deer's shoulder.

The arrow fell from its flesh, and no wound could be seen beneath it.

The girl chirped with joy even as the stag surged to his feet, thrashing his head menacingly before staring her down.

But the maiden would not be stared down, and as she met his glare with her own, her smile split to reveal a tongue held out in defiance.

Again, the stag scoffed, but then it lifted its head—and with a subtle twitch, motioned for her to mount it.

As soon as she was on its back, arms wrapped around its thick neck and candle long since forgotten, the stag charged ahead.

Wind rushed past them as leaves were torn from the branches in their wake. It seemed like no time at all before they burst free from the forest and began running through another open field, towards a great tower looming in the sky.

The girl stretched out her arms, thighs holding her steady on the stags back, and cried out in glee, her voice lost to the winds.

FINAL

The maiden came first, upon the stag's back;
She inserted her single key into the stone plaque.

The stone door opened, and in she went;
Two wishing-stones to the pedestal she lent.

Second came the huntress, her trust betrayed;
But with the wolf in her presence her fears were allayed.

Much she had given to those in need;
And so to the pedestal only one wish she could feed.

Finally came the squire, alone and proud;
Her maintenained as she'd done she'd vowed.

Sacrifice was a natural burden to bear;
And so all three of her wishes she could share.

Six stones together opened the great portal;
A single wish granted to make beauty immortal.
Three souls again became but one,
A little girl embraced by both moon and sun.

[BCOLOR=transparent]“I like you! A whole lot! F-For a long time, I’ve liked you! So let’s… go out sometime!”[/BCOLOR][/LEFT]

[BCOLOR=transparent]I really don’t know how I got myself into this mess. I never asked to catch any dumb feelings like, dare I say, caring, or even affection.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“...”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Her face betrayed nothing, [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]displayed[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] nothing. Just a blank expression, as though she were robotically trying to compute what had just happened, attempting to produce a fitting response.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]A strong feeling of discomfort overcame me. A feeling I was not used to. Here I was, in a stupid situation where I was acting just as stupid, and I felt stupid to boot. It wasn’t like I ever went out of my way to interact with people. In fact, I’m usually the complete opposite. I go out of my way to [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]avoid[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] getting personal and intimate with those I know.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]So what made her different? What made me want to…?[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“...”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]I gulped. I could feel my heart pounding, threatening to rip itself out of my chest. Time almost seemed to freeze for me as I saw her open her mouth, beginning to produce a response.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]And yet, I could still feel the cold, autumn air blow by me with a chilling wind, the evening sun looming over the horizon, peeking like a curious child, and its reflection almost distractingly gleaming over the nearby lake. I braced myself for the worst, but...[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Sorry… You’re sweet, but… This isn’t what I’m looking for right now. I don’t feel the same way. I’m… I’m sorry.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]… I guess I didn’t prepare hard enough.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]My legs suddenly felt weak as soon as she spoke, as though threatening to give in any second now. My heart dropped, as though sinking into an endless abyss. I couldn’t fathom what kind of expression my face could possibly be making, but whatever it was, it was enough to make [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]her[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent], usually so cold and unemotive, seem to almost pity me, her gaze more visibly uncomfortable, less composed and cool than it usually was in the past. I stammered to say something, but I had never responded to rejection before. Luckily (or unluckily), I knew for a fact that [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]she[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] was no stranger to rejecting others, a real magnet for men, but she never wanted to be someone like that, considering she was still single.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]But I don’t think she ever expected someone as close to her like me to do this to her. I practically felt guilty for putting her in this situation, but it had to be done. I wanted something more, but now, I wonder if I wanted too much, and now, I was being blazed into the ground like Icarus.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“My life is pretty hectic these days, you know,” she continued, looking away to the side distantly, as though deliberately choosing to avoid looking me in the eye. What a cold thing to do, to say, but not unexpected. But I’ve come to love how cold she can be. “And I imagine it won’t calm down for a while, so I don’t think I’d be able to handle a boyfriend right now. I’m… I’m sorry.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]My lips quivered. I wanted to say something. Anything. I thought of insisting that I wouldn’t be a hassle to keep around, or perhaps at least giving it a try, or hell, maybe even saying that things didn’t have to change much, but… Either way, there was no point. I knew it, but I didn’t really want to accept it. I was rejected firmly. Maybe things could have been different if I were more smooth, worded things differently, if my approach was less forceful, but… Maybe not. My mind scrambled to find some reasoning behind it all, but my heart knew it as clear as day; she said it herself. She simply didn’t feel the same way I did, and did not have a desire to experience such a feeling.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]I was not good enough for her.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“I… Okay,” I could only say, my voice barely above a whisper, “I…”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]The words were stuck in my throat. It was annoying, frustrating. It was as though I’d forgotten how to talk, words unable to be formed by my vocal chords. She looked at me pityingly, finally deciding to look at me at all, as though I were a hurt puppy. To get that kind of look from someone who was usually so cold, so nonchalant and not a care in the world… It was like I hit a new low. It made me… mad. It was annoying. I couldn’t stand to look any longer.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]In the blink of an eye, my legs didn’t feel so weak anymore. They didn’t feel like jell-o threatening to give in anymore. And just like that, as though they had a mind of their own, I turned around and ran. I ran so far away, yet I didn’t even know where I was going. If I could, I would have run all night and day, away from her. But what was I really running away from? Her? Her words? My own feelings? Even I didn’t really know. But I just kept running. Everything hurt. My head hurt, my heart was aching… But I think what hurt the most was how she didn’t call for me.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]She didn’t reach out to me, so I didn’t look back.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent][/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]And for three months, I kept on looking away.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]We didn’t talk a single time during those months. The trouble of falling in love with someone who was more like me than I could have ever imagined was that neither of us was exactly confrontational at all, so we simply let things become what they were. What was troublesome about organically integrating avoiding someone was… not so much the fact that I was in a position where I felt the need to avoid someone at all, but rather, how comfortably we transitioned from close friends to practical strangers. Going with motions that I hated. More than how I hated that she was quite literally the girl next door, as in, we were next-door neighbors. A cliche that translates poorly into this kind of life.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]In other words, it was all an annoyance. An irritating inconvenience. But I sometimes wondered to myself [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]what[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] the inconvenience in question was. Was it the very existence of our so-called “feud?” Or was it herself? I couldn’t answer that easily, because if it truly was the former, then why did I let it continue? And if [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]she[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] wasn’t the inconvenience, why did it feel like it was her that I decided to discard from my life?[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Disposing of something from my life simply because it became an inconvenience, believing it to be the simplest solution. I really am the worst.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]...[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Hey! Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy!”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]A light smack on my cheek, hard enough that I felt it snap me back to the present but soft enough that it certainly wouldn’t leave a bruise, is delivered by my father. I blink, easily enough ignoring the light sting of the slap, if only because it’s hard not to get used to it after the fourth time at the very least, though by instinct, I raise my hand to rub the affected area. I look away from the imposing man with a deep scowl on my face, though even I didn’t know if I was scowling at him specifically, or the general predicament that I was in.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]It started out a night just like any other. And then it hit me like a hard slap in the face.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Report cards were a bitch.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“You’ve gotta be kidding me, a goddamn C, two B-minuses… I didn’t realize I was raising a goddamn [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]retard[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] or something!” He yells in my ear, wanting to make perfectly sure that I could hear him, as he slams the paper onto the dining table. The paper that seemed to be one of many banes of my very existence. Not that I’m even really doing horribly, but whatever.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]He keeps yelling and yelling, but at this point, it’s all white noise to me. Even before the fiasco with [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]her[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent], this had always been a… One might call, “household problem.” I perform even just a little below my old man’s expectations, and he lets me have it real good. Granted, I rarely perform above his expectations to begin with, but I hardly feel inclined to do any better if he thinks hitting me hard enough will magically make me do better.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]My mind is almost completely elsewhere, as though it were trying to entertain itself, trying to pass the time while the old man ran his mouth. For some reason, my thoughts rotate over all the way back to… three months ago. To be specific, that fateful day. I don’t know why or how; it just sorta happened. Rather than in the kitchen, surrounded by yellow wallpaper and a white tile floor on a cool night, I’m back there again, the cold wintry air biting at my skin, but making for a melancholically romanticized mood, the kind you could see in depressing soap operas, complete with a gray sky filled to the brim with clouds, and no sun anywhere near in sight, with the empty sidewalk leading to our neighborhood being the perfect setting for such a time. I try to think over the old man’s yelling, remembering [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]her[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] features, remembering how she spoke so gently unlike her, remembering how usually she acted so cool and collected, like an ice queen, that made the snow feel like heat particles… Remembering how easily I could talk to her before, and remembering how I threw all that away in just one day by being selfish and wanting more than I already had. It all made me wonder.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Was there a single moment that can be pinpointed and attributed to as the exact moment it all went to shit, or if it was all broken from the very beginning, and it just couldn’t be helped?[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Are you even listening to me?! God, I don’t know if you’re deaf or just really stupid! What would your mother think if she were here?!”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]My father’s angry voice snaps me back to reality as he yells louder than before, daring to bring my mother into the equation. Usually, I tried to make it a statement that his yelling didn’t do anything by not reacting, but…[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Yeah, well, she’s [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]not[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent], and she hasn’t been for a while, so who knows?!”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]… I couldn’t keep myself from snapping back at him. I wish I could say I didn’t know where it came from, but I’d be lying. I resent it every time he uses her as an example, as if to say that my mediocre grades were what gave her lung cancer, but usually, I’m able to keep it in. A part of me wonders if the aggravation was just spurred on by my anger at myself, considering what I had on my mind as he was blabbering on, but it’s too late to wonder. The instant I talked back, I regretted it, for a myriad of reasons. The man looked at me, initially with a dumbstruck expression on his face, and then one of even deeper fury.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“... You think you can talk to me that way, in [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]my[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] own house? Get out. Get the [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]hell[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] out!” He exclaims, pointing in the direction of the front door.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]I didn’t need to be told twice, and I had had enough of this anyway, so I bolted without a word, not even bothering to put on any sort of light jacket as I storm out, slamming the door shut behind me without a word. The cool night air hit me harder than any slap could have, but in a pleasant way. It felt good, its cold touch almost seeming to caress my aching slap wound. But the warmth of the cold leaves me as abruptly as it envelops me as soon as I realize I don’t really have anywhere to go. Considering how late it was, I imagined most of my other friends were getting ready for bed now, and they wouldn’t appreciate me coming onto their doorstep like a lost puppy.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]As though on cue, that’s when [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]she[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] appeared, the girl next door whom I had been avoiding all this time, either for the better or for the worse. I genuinely didn’t know.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Standing dumbly at my doorstep, [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]she[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] steps out of a car pulling up in front of her house, wearing a vibrant red dress that admittedly probably had more sparkle than she did, holding a violin in one hand and a small bronze trophy in another. As she turns around, her face remaining monotone as ever, she waves to the others inside, the giggling inside implying they were perhaps her own friends, before closing the door, letting the car drive off.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]I try not to draw any attention to myself, avoiding the possibility of her making eye contact with me, as though I were hiding from a stalker, nonchalantly walking away from my doorstep, out from the light and into the dark, but I stop in no time, quickly realizing that I don’t know where I’m going, so here I was, standing in place like an idiot. Still, as much as I don’t want her eyes on me, I can’t keep my own off her. All this time avoiding her, looking away from her… I had forgotten how beautiful she was under the pale moonlight.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]I suppose in this sense, it feels like [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]I’m[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] the stalker.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]No doubt, judging from her clothes and what she was holding, she must have just gotten back from some sort of competition. Knowing her, probably one that had to do with music. I always knew she was good at playing instruments, violin being her favorite, but I never knew she went to that sort of thing. And she must have been pretty damn good if she managed to win a trophy![/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]… Though it didn’t look like she felt the same way. As though not noticing my unintentionally piercing stare, she looks at her bronze trophy with a rare display of emotion… Was it disgust? Disappointment? It was hard to tell, but either way, I think I was in the general ballpark as she began walking towards the trash can outside her home, opening the lid as though preparing to throw the trophy in, and like with before, I speak before I even [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]think[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] about thinking.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Hey. What are you doing?” I ask. True to my hunch that she really didn’t notice I was there, she almost seems to jump, briefly startled as she does what I’d hoped she wouldn’t and looks over her shoulder, right into my eyes.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“...”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]An uncomfortable silence rings out, and then she finally speaks in her reliably blunt voice.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“I’m throwing my trophy away.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“I can see that.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“...”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]With that, she simply looked back down at the trash can and tossed the trophy inside. I’m unable to help but let out an amused breath as she did so, pocketing my hands and stepping towards her, stopping in front of the waist-high fence that separated our houses.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Y’know, if you’re so embarrassed, just spray-paint it gold, or even platinum,” I speak, against my better judgment. Engaging in conversation with her is the last thing I want to do, but I’m not sure why I did it anyway.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Great. Let me just also spray paint over the word “bronze” on the plaque into platinum too,” she responded dryly, before walking over, as though to meet me at the fence.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]If this were any other person talking to me like that, I’d instantly get the message that she was mad at me, and [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]she[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] certainly had the right to be mad at me. But with her usual kind of dry, blunt personality that I had become accustomed to back then, I really couldn’t tell.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Well, you gotta get it out of the garbage first,” I reply instinctively, speaking to her as easily as though it were second nature. Maybe because it used to be second nature to talk. Maybe because I used to take comfort in talking to her all the time.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]She lets out an amused breath as a rare smile is formed on her lips, indicating to me that she isn’t all that mad. Or at least, that’s what I got from it cautiously. With a sigh, she suddenly decided to sit down on the ground, nonchalantly dirtying part of her bright dress on the lawn, hugging her legs and looking up at the night sky, as though getting comfortable where she was.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]As though she expected me to sit down with her and talk like we used to.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]The most annoying part was… I did exactly do that. I sat down right next to her, as close as I could with the fence between us, and also looked up at the sky. We sat in awkward silence for a bit, until she decided to speak and address the elephant in the room.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“... Been awhile since we last spoke, huh?”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Yeah. I guess so,” I shrug, mimicking her position and also hugging my legs, “Guess a lot’s happened since then.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Maybe for you,” she shrugged nonchalantly, keeping her eyes on the sky and the bright full moon. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a jab at me or not in some way, but I keep quiet, not exactly sure what to say. For all intents and purposes, I feel like I’m supposed to be greatly uncomfortable in this situation, considering the lengths I had went before to avoid her, but now… I feel strangely comfortable like this, even as she began to speak again, “But then… I’d heard you got a girlfriend a month or two ago.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Ah, right. My girlfriend who I got together with precisely three weeks after my failed confession.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Ex-girlfriend, actually.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]And whom I broke up with a few weeks ago.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Oh? What happened?” She asked, her voice seeming to hold genuine curiosity rather than any sort of spite as usual.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“It just… didn’t work out. Though, if you wanna know the details, she told me she never felt like I loved her, and got mad at me for feeling led on, so… We’re not on the best of terms now,” I replied with a shrug, saying more than I initially meant to. Guess my tongue really was slippery when I was with her[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Ah, I see,” she spoke in a voice that was neither amused nor disappointed. Simply… understanding.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Yeah…”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]We sat in awkward silence for a little bit after that, unable to find what to talk about, as I slowly opened up to the thought of talking to her again. I’ve gone this far, so I may as well just sink into it.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]...[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“So… Why’d you throw away that trophy anyway?” I braved to ask, remembering what she had done the moment she stepped onto her yard.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Because if my dad isn’t satisfied even when I get a gold trophy, he certainly won’t care if I get a bronze one. He probably wouldn’t even care if I never came inside.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Ah, right. I got what she meant. Her dad. She’d mentioned to me on occasion what her old man was like. Not exactly abusive, at least in the conventional sense. Just… cold, distant. Neglectful. He kept his reasons a mystery, but she knew that it was because he [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]really[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] wanted a boy instead. Still, she disliked pity as much as she disliked talking about herself personally, but we were close enough that she was able to do so comfortably, and close enough that I didn’t feel much need to feel sorry for her.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Right. So that’s why you haven’t just walked back in already.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Guess so. What about you? It’s not like you to just sit outside on a night like this. Your own dad kick you out?” She inquired half-jokingly.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Yeah. Flipped out over a few grades. Weren’t even that bad to be honest,” I grunt dismissively.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Hmph. I know who got the short end of the stick between us when it comes to expectations. I think you should at least be happy he cares at all, but maybe it’s not my place. Still… Guess we’re like opposites then.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Well, you know what they say; opposites attract,” I say without thinking. Good thing she doesn’t seem to respond much to accidental advances, or else I’d be in hot water. Instead, I just got a lightly amused chuckle, but that probably hurt more, since that felt like she was amused by my clumsy accidental flirt in a bad way.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“S-Sorry about that…” I clumsily murmur, only eliciting another amused sound from her.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“It’s fine. This is the first time we’re able to talk to each other like this, and we shouldn’t be afraid of ourselves anyway, shying behind words…” She said, speaking somewhat distantly, “Speaking of which, if I’m allowed to ask… Why [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]did[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] you like me?”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Oh. Heavy questions right away.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Why do you ask?”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“I don’t know, it’s just… I feel like you’re looking for something in me that I can’t provide,” she said, seeming to speak from the heart for once, “I can’t even please one person no matter how hard I try, so for you to also…” She trailed off, leaving a small moment of silence as I thought through my answer to that question. It all comes surprisingly naturally and quickly.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Y’know… My dad expects the world of me. He wants me to… to excel in all of my classes, win awards in extracurriculars, all that jazz, and I can’t handle it. It’s like a giant weight on my shoulders. But you… You’re usually so cool and cold… It feels nice. I’m at ease when I’m with you because it doesn’t feel like you expect anything of me. Not specifically in the… the way where you don’t care about me, but more… the… the way like she like me just the way I am. No one looks at me like that…” I murmur, accidentally letting my heart spill out embarrassingly enough.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“...” The girl next door only remained silent, giving little more than a simple nod, as though waiting for me to say more, to which I comply.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“And ah… Well,” I clear my throat, uncomfortably scratching the back of my neck, “Because you’re always so cool, so… placid, I would have loved to be the one you’d be warm to, and…” Now, it was my turn to trail off, leaving off on quite an embarrassing note.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]God, now [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]that[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] was more sappy than I intended. How did I end up in this position after a clean multiple month-long streak of avoidance? Maybe it was bound to happen eventually, one way or another, but I really wasn’t prepared to talk to her again, but then… Here I am, talking to her literally too easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it was second nature to me.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]At a loss of what else to say, she breaks into an uncharacteristic soft giggle. Her smile is obscured a little by the chain-link fence, as well as the dark night, but it’s a refreshing sight. It doesn’t “light up my world” or anything like that, but it does make me feel something in my heart.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]As though I remembered why I fell for her in the first place.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]I can only continue sitting where I was, embarrassed of myself to an extent as she laughed it up, probably realizing how stupid I sounded. Eventually though, after a while, once she calmed down, the girl next door breathed a drawn out sigh, leaning back as she spoke again.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“It’s… been awhile since we’ve talked like this, hasn’t it? Talked so easily… and about these kinds of subjects no less,” she spoke almost nostalgically, taking a breath, “What happened to us? Why… Why did things have to turn out this way?”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]A lump almost appeared in my throat, but I swallowed it down. For once, I [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]wished[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] I found it difficult to talk, but… Loose lips, huh?[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“I guess you can say we used to be friends. Then I showed you what more I wanted from you. And I… couldn’t handle it when you wouldn’t give,” I say, deliberately looking away from her, and down at the dirt that I sat on, the dirt that I felt as low as, “You know how some couples call each other their better half? I guess I’m your… worse half.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“You’re right, you know… About one thing. I do like you just the way you are, and I’d be okay with it if you stayed like that… but that’s no excuse to not change. I like you as you are, but maybe I’d like you better if you did change in some way. No one’s perfect to begin with, but… still,” she spoke. She never did have that great a way with words, but what she wanted to communicate managed to reach me. As she spoke, I reluctantly willed myself to look up at the sky again, leaning my head against the fence that separated us.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Oh yeah? What’s something I need to change about myself?” I inquire, not so much in a challenging way, but a genuinely curious one.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Off the bat? Get along with your old man. Sure, he yells and all that at you, but anyone can see that it’s because it’s important to him that you excel,” she breathed, before her voice grew ever so softer as she continued, “At least… he cares enough to get mad when you screw up. It doesn’t make a difference to mine what I do…”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Sorry. No can do,” I shrug without missing a beat, as though it were non-negotiable, “I can’t do that.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]No further explanation. Just… my stubborn streak.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“...” She stayed quiet, as though she had nothing to say in response to me, simply sighing, as though in resignation, but I had more to say.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“You know, you could stand to change too. You work so hard so that your old man can stand to have any expectations of you at all, when really, if you’re gonna succeed, it should be on your own merits. I’m sure there are tons of people who’d kill even just to get a… a bronze trophy.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“That’s not fair. You know that,” she said curtly without a second to spare, “My situation… It isn’t that simple, you know.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Neither is mine, but look where we are.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]A stalemate. An impasse. That’s what it felt like. Both of us, bearing weights over our shoulders that didn’t have to be as heavy as they were, victims of stagnation. All that we needed to do was change, in one way or another, and things would be far different, likely for the better.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Maybe if things were different, maybe if [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]we[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] were different, it could have all turned out for the better. Maybe it was a fundamental thing, or maybe it was something we could have chosen to change any time, but that’s all they were. Just a bunch of maybes. And even I could see that we didn’t want to change it, fearing… well, change.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]And yet, when change did come, we simply rolled with it until it became the new norm before I knew it. Like when I’d stopped talking to her.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]We continued to sit in silence for a small while, before it was broken once again, this time by her. She stood up, patting the dirt and grass off her dress, as she faced away from me and began to walk. “I’m going inside,” she said, doing a rather poor job of masking bitterness. But I didn’t want it to end like this. Not with her like that.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Wait,” I uttered. She stopped, but still refused to look at me, continuing to face away, though I continued to speak regardless, “I… I know things aren’t the best between us, but please. If there are things about us that need to change, things that can’t be changed no matter what… I at least want to change what can be helped. For both of our sakes… I… I want to change. But only if you can help me…”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]A pause. And then I spoke again. “I… I still like you. A whole lot. Let’s go out sometime.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“...” She remained silent, and then…[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Even if you were to change, what would you even have that you could give me? I already know what you think I can give you, but what about vice-versa?”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“I’d give everything I am for you, more than I’d ever be willing for anyone else, but... I know it’s not enough. You don’t have to pretend to me anymore. I… I know that [/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent]I’m[/BCOLOR][BCOLOR=transparent] not enough as I am. I’m… I’m sorry.”[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]...[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]“Yeah… Maybe you’re right,” she said coldly, never making any eye contact with me.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]With that, she walked off, crushing me once again. She left me all to myself as I remained sitting there on the lawn, wondering to myself how much of it was true, and how much of it was a lie. That is, if she truly was content with me as I was, if there was any conceivable way I could change in order to be enough, or if there was no chance fundamentally. I didn’t know the answers to any of these, and I doubted I’d ever know, so all I could do was sigh, looking up in the sky.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]I really don’t know how I got myself into this mess. I never asked to catch any dumb feelings like, dare I say, caring, or even affection.[/BCOLOR]

It was a hazy grey day as I stepped from my car and made my way to towards the scene. The leaves crunched under the soles of my brown shoes, breaking the silence of the morning. The silence was strange; it stood out, striking a chord deep within me and I knew I was walking toward something I did not want to see. I had to though; it was my job, after all.

“Detective Barnes?” A uniformed officer stepped from the group to meet me, his voice shaking. Probably his first scene like this. Poor kid, he couldn’t have been much older than twenty-one. Fresh out of the academy.

Nodding my head in response he filled me in on what they’d found. I’d already been told, but I let him talk anyway. It filled the silence. It gave him something to do aside from dwell on what he had seen.

Thanking him for his run down, I stepped closer to the bridge. Even prepared for what I would see my feet still stuttered across the ground. A cold autumn breeze blew in the opposite direction, tousling my hair and seemingly warning me to back away. I couldn’t. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t. I was there to do a job, and once I did everybody else could pack it up and go home.

My eyes avoided the body until I was close enough to take it all in at once, and then they hastily darted away. I had to force myself to look again. She was a kid. Maybe sixteen, seventeen at most. My own kid was only a few years younger.

Dark blonde hair, matted and tangled, laced with leaves and twigs fanned out over her head. Thin legs, attached to barely formed hips laid at an awkward angle from her slumped body. Her face looked ridiculously serene for the gruesome display the rest of her formed. Her head was lain back against the wall of the bridge, her arm bent in close to her side. A fine stream of foam spilling from the sides of her mouth drew my eyes back down to what they had been avoiding.

The needle hung limp in her arm. My breath caught in my throat. Unbidden thoughts crept into my mind. “Who was this girl? Her life so short… what could’ve driven her to this place?”

*****​

Brilliant blonde curls, bounced merrily as Joy hopped over the cracks in the dilapidated sidewalk. This was her time, the time between school and home that she could breath and just be herself. She spun and twirled, her ragged and patched skirt flying off her legs as a small smile graced her pale face. Her stick thin arms, white with dark purple bruises depicting the telling story of life at home, lifted out from her sides. A joyful hug to the beauty of the day.

Her enjoyment was short-lived. It always was. The dance between school and home, from one hell to another, always ended too quickly. Her worn sneakers met the the end of the driveway where a junker rested, rusting on cinder blocks. Weeds overran the front yard, mechanical debris and an assortment of other litter assaulted her vision. But she knew better than to dally.

The deep set door stood tall over her, looming like an ever-present prison guard. She wanted to turn, to run, but with nowhere else to go… She was scared. The door creaked as she pushed it open, the dust dancing in the sunlight shining in from behind her.

“You’re late,” came the slurred greeting from the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Joy muttered, dropping her gaze to the grime covered carpet. Excuses, legitimate or not, would get her nowhere.

A screech of metal across linoleum echoed in her eardrums, and Joy hunched further, trying to make herself as small as possible. The floors creaked as her mother came closer. “What did I tell you about mumbling at me you stupid girl?”

Joy opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a sharp smack against the side of her head. She stumbled sideways, directed by the force of the blow, but she didn’t cry. She knew better. Sharp talon like fingers wrapped around her arm as she was jerked toward the back room.

“I’m sorry, mama. I’m sorry,” she cried, tears spilling down her swollen cheek, already knowing what was going to come.

“You’ll be sorry when Johnny gets home you little bitch.”

“Mama, no! I’ll be good! I’ll be quiet! Please, mama, please…”

She knew what was coming, her feet dragged across the kitchen floor, and her eyes filled with tears. First the pantry, then worse when Johnny came home. She shuddered at the implications that brought as the pantry door was thrown open and Joy was shoved through the threshold. Mama was a tiny woman, but when she got her drink in her she possessed ungodly strength. Joy couldn’t keep her feet under her with the force that mama threw her; she tumbled in, landing painfully against the floor.

“You get the light tonight,” Mama said as she pulled the string connected to the bare-bulbed light fixture dangling from the ceiling.

“Thank you, mama,” Joy replied, her voice flat and distant, knowing the light would be turned off if she refused to acknowledge her mother’s kindness.

A grunt was all she received in return before the door slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place. Joy pulled into herself; her knees rising up to her chest as she wrapped her arms around them, trying not to focus on what was going to come, but rather the relative security of the pantry. The shelves were stable, though empty, and the dull yellow glow of the light illuminated the whole space. There were two good things, at least. Slowly her gaze moved over the floor, sweeping underneath the shelves to make sure the room was clear of rodents. Rodents were not what she found, instead it was a tiny, threadbare teddy bear.

“Herbert,” the name slipped from her lips in a whisper as she unfolded her limbs and stretched out to reach for the bear. How long had he been there? Hidden and waiting for her to find him. A small smile pulled the corners of her mouth as she drew the bear to her chest and buried her face against his dust covered head.

Herbert’s long lost presence gave Joy something that she hadn’t felt in so long. Comfort. Tears began to spill from her eyes, dampening the ratty bear. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there crying under that single incandescent light, but the hours melted away, and Joy’s fears went with them.

Her tears had long dried, and her resolve had toughened by the time her attention was drawn back to the pantry door. Heavy footsteps drew closer. Joy rose to her feet, pressing her back against the far wall, Herbert’s paw gripped fiercely in her hand. Her breath was steady, but her heart was pounding so hard in her chest she was sure it was going to burst.

The creak of the hinges brought a fluttering of that fear that the bear had helped chase away, but she stamped it back down, burying it somewhere deep inside.

Johnny stepped into the doorway. His shoulders reaching from one side to the other. His greasy lips pulled back in something that could have been mistaken for a smile, but more resembled a sneer. “Heard ya was talking back to your mama again,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

“I didn’t.” There was nothing in Joy’s voice. No hesitation, no anger, no fear. Nothing.

Taken aback by the abruptness of her response, Johnny’s jaw went slack and his eyebrows rose up his forehead, but her defiance wasn’t enough to keep him from stepping into the pantry. “Seems to me like you need another lesson in respec’, girl.”

Joy didn’t respond. Her expression didn’t change. Her mouth was set in a firm line, her brows lowered and her eyes hard with the force of her determination. She would be leaving, he just didn’t know it, yet. Johnny took another step towards her, pulling the door closed behind him and moving to unfasten his belt. His distraction prevented him from stopping the frail girl from launching herself off the wall at him. A wild cry of fury echoed through the small room as Joy unleashed years of pent up emotions on him. Her bony knee found purchase in his groin, dropping him to his knees. She punched and kicked, scratching at his face and grabbing his hair, her voice beginning to crack the longer she shouted. Her rage blinding her to her mother scrambling over Johnny’s back and grabbing her by her hair. Joy was thrown off, her breath coming in ragged gulps as she tried to get ahold of herself.

The two figures crowded toward her, and Joy let out an ear-splitting shriek, throwing herself at them once again. She barreled past, turning on her heel and slamming the pantry door shut and locking it before they had a chance to react. Locking the door, Joy leaned back against the door, and took a moment to collect herself.

“Goodbye, mama,” she muttered, not bothering to try to speak over their enraged shouts and frantic beating.

*****​

The streets were cold, but not as cold as home had been. Joy figured out quickly that she could take what she needed and leave most other people alone. For the most part, she made her way well enough. Living on borrowed food, and borrowed space. She found that people were nicer to her because she was female, and she also found that surviving was hard enough without the added strain of trying to continue school. School was secondary to surviving, after all.

Joy managed the best she could, but it wasn’t until she found her way downtown that things started turning around. There was a lot of people left out on the streets, and she managed to cozy up to a group around her age. They’d been braver than her though, striking out earlier, figuring things out easier, and she clung to their friendship like it was the most precious thing she’d ever been given.

Tina, Josh, and Liam made Joy feel like she finally had a family. Together they scraped by, eventually earning enough together to rent a motel room by the week. They panhandled, stole, borrowed and bribed their way from week to week.

Months passed. They lived hustle to hustle, until one day Liam proposed his plan for a better life.

“It’s no worse than what we already been doing.”

Josh leaned against the headboard of one of their beds, and crossed his arms. “I don’t know, man. It just seems like if we jump into that stuff there’s no getting out. If we mess up… I don’t even want to think about what’ll happen, you know.”

“Having some extra money would be nice,” Joy chimed in, seeing the logic behind Liam’s claims.

“There’s no such thing as extra money,” Josh shook his head, his shaggy brown hair brushing back and forth across his forehead.

Liam scrubbed his hands over his face as he propped himself against the wall. “Look, man, I already got the stuff on front, so--”

“What do you mean, you already got it?”

“Well, I thought this conversation would go differently, so I went ahead and got a front, and I have to have it sold and paid back in two days.”

Josh’s expression turned to one of exasperation. His eyebrows, and his shoulders tensed, but he didn’t say anything. It didn’t look like he could, even if he wanted to. The tension built in the room. Joy cleared her throat, and shifted back and forth from one foot to the other. She didn’t like the conflict, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. The silence stretched out until Tina bounded into the room. Her hair, tied up in pigtails, bouncing on either side of her head was enough to ease some of the tension, but within seconds she felt it and stepped back, shutting the door and pressing her back against it with an expectant look.

“So, what’s happening?” she asked, her chocolate-brown gaze flitting from Liam to Josh and back again.

“This idiot,” Josh growled, pointing at Liam. “Decided for all of us that we’re going to start slinging dope, that’s what’s happening.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, and he brought the shit into our home just expecting us to be cool with it. What the fuck, man?” Josh pushed himself off the bed and took a couple of steps toward Liam, before throwing his hands in the air. “You know what? You handle it. I can’t deal with this shit right now.” And with that, Josh grabbed Tina’s hand and dragged her from the room.

Joy frowned as she stared at the door, half-expecting Josh to come back, but really, she knew better. He was angry, and she understood why; she needed to fix it. Tossing herself onto the bed, she propped her head up on one hand and sighed.

“Don’tchu start with me too,” Liam told her, shoving his hands the pockets of his jeans.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I can see it all over your face.”

“Can you just return it?” Joy asked, pulling her lip in between her teeth, chewing on it and narrowing her eyes as she tried to figure out how to solve this mess.

He shook his head, pushing himself off the wall, and hopping onto the bed next to her. “It doesn’t work like that. They gave me the stuff, I have to return with money. They don’t want the drugs back…”

“And how much money would we get if we sold it?” Curiosity stole into Joy’s voice. The idea of not worrying about a different hustle every day was intriguing.

Liam rolled over and propped his head up on his hand, his eyebrows quirked. “It depends… we stand to make quite a bit, from what they told me…”

Joy rolled her eyes. “Did you ask any questions?”

“I asked enough!”

“I’m sure you did… well, what do we gotta do. We need to get it done and out of here before Josh comes back and pitches another fit.”

“You’re going to help?”

“Of course,” she grinned and playfully nudged him. “Why wouldn’t I? You got yourself into this mess to help us.”

A smile appearing on his face, Liam flopped over and dug through his pocket and pulled out a decently sized baggie, the powder looked similar to powdered sugar. Joy raised her brows and reached out, poking the bag. “Are you sure it is what they said it was?”

“Yeah, they had me taste test.”

Her face fell. “What do you mean “taste test”, Liam? Are you high?”

“No, I’m chill. They just wanted me to be able to be able to sell it.”

Her expression didn’t change, but she nodded, slowly sitting back up. “So, do I have to try it too if I’m going to help?”

“It probably wouldn’t hurt nothing.” Liam rose to his feet, leaving the bag on the bed in front of Joy and disappeared into the bathroom. A minute later he returned with a small mirror and a straw that he’d probably cut from one of the empty soda cups.

*****​

“Is this what happy feels like?” Joy asked, as they lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was a feeling like she couldn’t even describe, and it was such a small amount that they had used. Why did people complain about the price?

Euphoria washed over her. She sighed happily, and pushed herself up to sitting. “We got to get this stuff sold. With this feeling, it should sell itself.”

Liam nodded, and rolled to sitting before pulling her up with him. “Well, it’s not going to do anything sitting in here with us, right? Let’s get it done.”

Joy’s guess was right, they managed to get all of it sold before the afternoon was over. It was easy money, and they had a good time doing it too. So many people were grateful for their presence; they were welcomed in places they’d never been before. The whole day just got better and better. She floated from place to place, lifted by the little boost that Liam had given her in the room. She went with Liam to turn in the money, and they were given enough back to pay for their room flat out for another week, with some left over for food. The security given by the money was just as addicting as the euphoria.

On the way home Joy and Liam made the decision to make a trip back once a week. Josh didn’t have to know, and they wouldn’t have to worry about being back on the street any longer.

Time passed. Once a week turned into twice a week and ten dollars worth of dope between the two of them gradually increased. They were no longer making nearly as much money, and Joy found that she couldn’t find happy without the drug. She turned into a zombie without it. Josh and Tina noticed the change and tried to say something about it, but it didn’t end well. Josh ended up leaving, and a few days later Tina went with him. It was just the Liam and Joy, and unless they were high, they didn’t bother talking to each other; it would just turn into a fight.

Eventually, Joy was at their supplier’s daily, and without Liam. At first, the men who lived their welcomed her, enjoying her company. She flirted and teased, laughing and enjoying their dope more than their company. After the third visit though, they started getting more demanding, and were less willing to share their goods with her. She was desperate though, she played along as long as they got her high before. They figured it out easily enough. This wasn’t their first rodeo, after all.

Joy would show up, and they’d get her ripped out of her mind. Deep in that euphoria and bliss and they’d have their way with her, before sending her home. Life went on this way. Joy was used, and passed around, and she found that as long as she was high she didn’t mind. She was lost in that rapture. Craving more and finding it more and more difficult to obtain.


*****​

Joy’s shoes whispered against the sidewalks as she stumbled home. Her gaze darted from left to right and back again, just so much to take in, so much to see. She stopped and and smelled the flowers, or maybe they were a weed, it didn’t matter to her. It was all beautiful. The world was beautiful.

A lazy smile graced her lips as she traipsed up to the motel. They’d had to move more than a few times, but this place was nice enough. It had a bed and a toilet and a shower, they didn’t need much more; Joy and Liam were rarely there, anyway.

After a few attempts, Joy managed to get the key into the lock, and push the door open. Liam was sprawled across the bed. Tired, she didn’t think anything about it. Joy shoved him over, and curled up next to him, drifting off to sleep.

The sun was glaring brightly through the too-thin curtains by the time Joy managed to wake. Struggling to drag her eyes open, she stretched out on the bed, the back of her hand brushing across something stiff, and cold.

“Liam, wake up and take a shower or something. You’re cold.” Joy mumbled, still half asleep trying to pull the blanket up over her. But Liam didn’t budge, and the blanket wouldn’t move out from under him. “Come on, Liam. Let off.”

Sitting up, Joy growled and tried to shove him over, and he barely rocked. “Come on, Liam,” she grumbled, getting up to her feet and walking around to the other side of the bed to get in his face, but she was stopped short. His eyes were open and cloudy. He stared at her with dead, cold eyes. His face blue, a short trail of foam falling from the corner of his mouth and pooling on the bedspread before him.

Joy’s breath caught in her throat, as she fell backward, scrambling across the floor on her butt, trying to put as much space between her and what used to be her friend as possible. Her back hit the wall and she just sat there, unable to comprehend what was happening. Her mind and body felt sluggish. She needed to get a fix, then she’d know exactly how to deal.

Pulling herself to standing, Joy skirted the edge of the room until she made it to the door, then as quickly as she could she ducked out and jogged down the street. Unfortunately, her body hurt. She was crashing hard, and every step felt as though she was trudging through quicksand. She made it though, banging on the door until it was pulled open.

The cool blast of an air conditioner met her as she all but fell through the door.

“You’re lookin’ rough, babydoll.”

“I need a boost,” Joy eyes filled with tears as she struggled to tell him what happened. She was simply unable to get the rest of the words out.

“Yeah, I see that. You gonna be paying this time?”

“I.. don’t have any money. Lia- Liam, he’s dead.” The tears started to spill down her face as she collapsed at his feet. “I don’t know what to do. My head is all messed up. I… I just need to get it right and then I can fix everything.”

The man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. “You can’t fix dead, sweetheart, and I ain’t gonna be associated with you when the cops are gonna be lookin’ so close.”

“Just help me out, I’ll leave. You won’t see me again after today.”

“You’re right, I won’t.” He started shoving her toward the door.

Joy started pleading, grabbing whatever she could get her hands on as he pressed her closer to the door.

“Nu-uh, girl. You gotta go. You gotta go now. If I was you I’d move on before the maids find your boyfriend.”

“ARGH!” Joy reared back and kicked him in the shin, slipping past him and making it further into the house. She moved down the hallway, and into the bedroom. He was going to help her whether he wanted to or not. He was right on her heels though, grabbing at her every step of the way. Drawers were pulled out as she hunted for his stash, clothes thrown everywhere. He finally caught up with her, his fist slamming into her ribs and forcing all the air out of her lungs.

“You want it that bad you little bitch? Fine! Take it and get the fuck out.” He threw a baggie at her and threw her over his shoulder, carrying her through the house and literally tossing her out on her ass.

Joy clutched the bag to her chest, like she once did with Herbert before tucking it into her pocket and slinking off down the street in defeat.

Where would she go? She couldn’t go home. The image of Liam’s dead eyes staring into her soul shook her to her core. No, she couldn’t deal with that again. Not yet. She continued walking, just looking for a place to stop and get herself right. She walked until she couldn’t anymore, taking refuge under a bridge. With shaky hands she prepared her joy, producing a spoon, a cotton and a syringe from different pockets.

With a sigh of relief a ghost of a smile passed over her lips as she closed her eyes and laid back into the leaves decorating the ground.
 
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  • Bucket of Rainbows
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So that announcement I made about the delayed winner announcement? Yeah turns out that was wrong, haha. Instead my Iwaku story got delayed. Whoops.

I may post brief reviews of my own before the end of the month, but shit's crazy and we'll see what happens. In the meantime, I'll be contacting Elle Joyner regarding that fancy $20 prize. :D
 
OH man. I'm so in shock right now. This is seriously an amazing honor. Thank you all.
 
As might have been apparent by the timing of my last message in the other thread, even with Jorick's 34hr reminder I didn't start writing until the very last day.

This being due to my own stubborn-ness—I had intended on writing a time-travel story but just wasn't feeling it. Only at the last minute did I say screw it, I'm writing what I feel like writing, and not what I told myself I wanted to write.

So, my entry was Three of a Kind. I conceived it the night before and wrote it in its entirety in a little less than five hours. Didn't get around to editing it, a fact I'm not proud of, but I am still glad to have finished something in time. (It does amuse me that i devoted many times over more man-hours to my reviews than I did my entry.) If anyone has any questions about things unclear in my entry, I'd be happy to answer—but I'll not bore the thread by pre-emptively providing some detailed explanation.

@Greenie and @firejay1, I was quite glad to have you as company as I read through and reviewed all the entries. I would also like to congratulate all entrants on putting themselves out there, and I hope to see you next time 'round!

also @Joan am i the person you thought i'd be
 
As might have been apparent by the timing of my last message in the other thread, even with Jorick's 34hr reminder I didn't start writing until the very last day.

This being due to my own stubborn-ness—I had intended on writing a time-travel story but just wasn't feeling it. Only at the last minute did I say screw it, I'm writing what I feel like writing, and not what I told myself I wanted to write.

So, my entry was Three of a Kind. I conceived it the night before and wrote it in its entirety in a little less than five hours. Didn't get around to editing it, a fact I'm not proud of, but I am still glad to have finished something in time. (It does amuse me that i devoted many times over more man-hours to my reviews than I did my entry.) If anyone has any questions about things unclear in my entry, I'd be happy to answer—but I'll not bore the thread by pre-emptively providing some detailed explanation.

@Greenie and @firejay1, I was quite glad to have you as company as I read through and reviewed all the entries. I would also like to congratulate all entrants on putting themselves out there, and I hope to see you next time 'round!

also @Joan am i the person you thought i'd be

I thought you might be @Raven Haruka :P then again I've only been in one roleplay with her soooo
 
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@Greenie and @firejay1, I was quite glad to have you as company as I read through and reviewed all the entries.
Always happy to banter and blab ^_^

Also I'm impressed o_o' You wrote all that in less than five hours time? I'll be honest, it was number two on my list, despite some of the errors. I really enjoy rhymes :"D
 
Major congrats to all the entrants! Overall these were very strong entries this month and both the winners were among my personal favorites.

I never do public reviews because I am basically Simon Cowell. 8D; If you would like me to give feedback on your entry, please PM me!
 
I never do public reviews because I am basically Simon Cowell. 8D; If you would like me to give feedback on your entry, please PM me!
Scary o____o

I may take up the offer though.
 
I never do public reviews because I am basically Simon Cowell. 8D; If you would like me to give feedback on your entry, please PM me!
I'll pass, I wrote 90% in the hours right before the deadline and did absolutely no revision.
 
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I'll pass, I wrote 90% in the hours right before the deadline and did absolutely no revision.
I'm so jelly by the talent here xD I finished early and did so much reviewing.
 
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I thought you might be @Raven Haruka :P then again I've only been in one roleplay with her soooo
Nope, that's not me :p
Buuuut writing the night of sounds like something I'd do, to be honest. Actually I've written an essay in the night/morning it was due...

Yeah, not something I ever want to pull an all-nighter for again.


I liked all of the stories, so I didn't want to vote x.x

Good job to all those who got their entry in on time.
 
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@Holmishire

I read your review of my story to my Mister who said it was very well constructed :D the kind of review you can use to make your writing better. ^_^
 
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OH! I also meant to thank @Holmishire for the review!! It was extremely helpful :) I usually cringe because most people don't understand how to construct a proper review (myself included >_> which is why mine were poo... and short XD) but I was very impressed :)
 
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I totally forgot to add the entries to the Hall of Fame thread, but @Pahncakes noticed and reminded me. That oversight has now been fixed. :P
 
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