《Home》 Prologue ANONYMOUS MINDEN, LA OCTOBER 15, 1961 I hear Mama crying again. She does it really soft, but I can still hear it. I can hear Papa shouting too. It creeps down through the thin walls of our run- down house, under the stained carpet and yellowed kitchen tiles. They¡¯ve been there forever. The ticking sound of the clock falls in rhythm with the gentle drizzle outside. The candles haven¡¯t even melted yet on my birthday cake, which I had blown out only minutes ago. Being ten years old is no different than being nine. I don¡¯t know why people make such a big deal out of having double digits. I cut myself a large slice through the thick white frosting, even though I hate vanilla. After pouring myself a cold glass of milk, I reach for the remote and head to the living room to watch Top Cat, turning up the volume as much as possible to drown out Mama¡¯s cries, which have only grown louder. I sit down on the couch and balance my plate on my lap, to avoid getting stains on the cushions. I have only taken a couple of bites when there is a heavy thud. The cake remained stuck in my throat as Papa¡¯s boots thudded above, causing the ceiling to loudly creak. I lick the icing off my thumb, my heart thudding into my chest. As much as I wanted to go upstairs, I couldn¡¯t. I had promised her that I would stay down here, no matter what I heard. She had begged me to do it. I didn¡¯t want to, but I did. My birthday was perfect. Mama made me chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. She took me to the zoo. Just the week before, she had asked me to hand out invitations at school if I wanted to invite a couple of my classmates over, but I didn¡¯t tell her that I had no friends. She thinks I¡¯m just shy, but I don¡¯t like people very much. I never really do. Besides, I wanted to spend the day with her. My wrapped presents are still sitting on the kitchen table, underneath the rattling air conditioner, which caused the thin party table cloth that she had selected from the store to blow back and forth. I set my cake down on the couch and turned away from the television, still focusing my gaze down the hall, past our family pictures hanging on the peeling wall. My socks were silent against the carpet as I began to make my way down to the tiny basement, the Top Cat theme song in the background. Each step creaks underneath my weight. I grab the chain above my head and yank on it, causing the light bulb to turn on above me. Mama is screaming on the top of her lungs. A crash echoes in the house. I still hear Papa¡¯s footsteps moving around in their room, his grunts and thumps growing louder. A basket of unfolded laundry sat on top of washing machine, next to several piles of unwashed clothes. Around me, unopened boxes and heavy tools covered in dust littered the room. My hands feel around in the dim light until I locate the safe at the very corner of the room. I quickly enter the number a couple of times before it swings open. Mama¡¯s shrieks carry through the hallway. Papa¡¯s 33 caliber revolver. Today is a special day. I pick it up and examine it for a moment, squinting my eyes in the dim light. Licking my tongue over my scabbed lips, I check to make sure it was loaded. Only two bullets. I had watched a couple of episodes of Bonanza, and I slide the weapon under the side of my belt above my jeans and go upstairs, pretending to have a holster like the cowboys did on the show. I wish that I had a bandana to cover my nose and mouth. When I reach the landing, the smell of cigarette smoke is thick in the air. Mama loves her Camels. I think she has been smoking a lot more recently, even though she keeps telling me she¡¯s gonna quit. That¡¯s the strange thing about grown ups¡ªyou can either choose to believe them or not. Either way, you end up always getting hurt. Their bedroom door is closed. I keep my sight on the door, raising the revolver up in the air. My fingers curl around the trigger. The door suddenly swings open, loudly banging against the wall and leaving a mark against the plaster. Papa stands in the threshold, breathing heavily. He¡¯s covered in sweat head to toe, and his dark hair is wild and unkempt, sticking up like a porcupine. Stubble lines his chin and jaw, and he¡¯s still dressed in his work uniform. For a moment, he leans against the threshold for a moment, before his black eyes finally fall on me. His face hardens. I notice Mama¡¯s crumpled form on the bedroom floor. Something isn¡¯t right with her arm. Her brown hair is spread out all over the blood stained carpet, resembling a fan. The mirror is shattered above their dresser, new holes are visible on the wall, and one of the closet doors is hanging off its hinges. I hold the gun as perfectly straight as I can to Papa¡¯s head. He gives me a cold look. ¡±Give that to me. Now.¡± I don¡¯t say anything. Normally, when he used that tone of voice around me, I would be shaky all over from crying, because I know he¡¯s gonna do worse, now that Mama can¡¯t do nothing to protect me now. But I¡¯m not this time. I think he realizes it too, because he seems surprised by my still expression. I want to place a bullet in his body for all the bruises and scratches and broken bones he¡¯s given Mama. ¡°Give it to me,¡± he weakly says. ¡°I¡¯m serious.¡± This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. So am I. He tries a different approach. ¡°What are you doing with that? Didn¡¯t your mother tell you to stay downstairs?¡± I stare at him. Papa takes a step towards me. He has blood underneath his fingernails. His shadow grows larger, extending on the wall. ¡°Put that down.¡± My stomach turns. His eyes narrowed. ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear me?¡± His voice slightly wavered. ¡°Give me the gun.¡± I try my best not to look at Mama. She hasn¡¯t moved an inch. I see the bruises around her neck. My eyes burn a bit, and then I observe Papa¡¯s filthy hands. I often think that they are no good for anything but hitting and beating people. I haven¡¯t seen him do anything else with them, like building or fixing things. All he does is break stuff. He keeps glancing at the revolver I¡¯m holding. But I ain¡¯t letting go. I take a deep, slow breath, remembering the stance of the Bonanza cowboys I wanted to be like when I got big. They never seemed to be afraid of anything. I wasn¡¯t. I make direct eye contact with the enemy. Papa lunges at me. I am not afraid. My fingers pull the trigger. The gun goes off, and his head explodes¡ª gigantic chunks of brain and skull flying out everywhere¡ªlanding on the carpet. His blood splatteres against the walls, soaking the floor, the door, dripping from Mama¡¯s favorite picture frame¡ªone that she had brought from a yard sale, a painting of roses in a vase. It hung crooked on the wall. The dark pool of blood quickly spreads out, turning the carpet into a deep shade of crimson red. I stared at what remains of Papa¡¯s face, wondering what his appearance was like before he had gotten the wrinkles all over his chin and forehead, like he had looked in his wedding photos. He had looked like a completely different man. Now he looks like nobody. I wipe the 38. caliber revolver and place it into his left palm, which was slightly open, his fingers partially clutched around the handle. When I kneel down next to Mama, I turn her over the best I could. Grabbing a pillow from the bed, I make her sit upright against the frame. Her face is puffy, covered in bruises, and both of her shut eyes are black. The top of her dress is stained with blood, and one of her shoes is missing. I think her arm is broken. But her chest is rising up and down. My fingers touch the side of her swollen cheek. I don¡¯t want her to see what is outside, so I get up and close the bedroom door almost all the way. I didn¡¯t think she heard anything. Downstairs, a commercial break comes on. I enter her bathroom and grab a few white towels. After dampening them with hot water from the sink, I clear the dirty hair from her face and clean her up the best I could, although there is so much blood everywhere. Hastily, I begin to go through our first aid kit, but there¡¯s nothing there in particular that would help. I glance over my shoulder, fighting water suddenly building in my eyes. She¡¯s been out of it before, but not for this long. She usually comes to after five minutes. I run towards her and crawl under her arms. She smells like lemon. ¡±Mama,¡± I whisper in her ear, leaning my head against her shoulder. ¡°Mama, wake up.¡± I don¡¯t like the promises she makes me keep. I try to get her to drink some water. She doesn¡¯t. It dribbles down her clothes. She¡¯s knocked out cold, as usual. So I stay with her for the next fifteen minutes, my gaze on the shattered glass. I study the wedding band on her index finger, before pulling it off and throwing it out the partially open window. After bundling a few blankets around Mama, I go into my own room. I change out of my bloody jeans and T-shirt and put on my star printed pajamas. I wash my hands in the bathroom, scrubbing them with a bar of soap. It¡¯s getting dark outside anyways, and the blood has begun to dry in the hallway. It has stopped raining outside. I grab Mr. Bear from my bed and my bloodied clothes. Once I reach the backyard, I pick up Papa¡¯s container of kerosene from the garage, before dumping it all over my clothes and placing it on the grill. I light a match and watch it glow ablaze in the warm evening heat. The grass is soft against my bare feet, and I poked the burning bundle with a stick, the yellow light illuminating my face. My stomach grumbles. I can use a snack. Mr. Bear watches me on the steps. I scatter the smoldering ashes across the bushes, before grabbing and placing him on the couch next to me in the living room. Yogi Bear is currently on, and I pick up my plate and devour my birthday cake during the episode, vanilla icing collecting underneath my chin. I guzzle down my milk too fast, holding the glass with both hands. A heavy belch escapes my mouth. I place my dirty dishes in the sink, wiping the froth that had gathered on my upper lip. I glance at the clock. It is eight thirty. I frantically run upstairs to check on Mama. Papa lays as still as ever, and I hop over him with ease. This time, I curl under the blanket with Mama, who is slightly slumped over. I leaned my head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat; her shallowed breaths. For a moment, I ponder what to do, hearing the AC turn off downstairs. My stomach drops once I observe her still position. She¡¯s been out for an hour. She hasn¡¯t moved. I need her here with me. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I tell her. ¡°I have to.¡± She¡¯d understand. Once I get to my feet, I go to the nightstand and pick up the landline. My fingers slightly shake as I spin the rotary dial. A lady¡¯s raspy voice is audible on the other line. ¡°911, what is your emergency?¡± ¡°My mama¡¯s hurt bad,¡± I said, cradling the receiver in my hands. The yellow curly cord dangles near my elbow. ¡°Where are you? Are you in a safe place?¡± ¡±I¡¯m in my mama¡¯s bedroom,¡± I softly replied. ¡°Please come. She¡¯s hurt real bad.¡± ¡±Are you with someone?¡± ¡±Yeah.¡± ¡°What¡¯s your address, sweetheart?¡± I gave it to her, ignoring the shaking in my voice. ¡°Please come.¡± ¡°Tell me what happened. Do you know who hurt your mother?¡± I glance at the hallway outside the door. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Help is coming soon. Don¡¯t move. I need for you to stay on the line with me, darling.¡± ¡±I can¡¯t,¡± I answer. ¡°I¡¯ve got to go.¡± Before she could say anything else, I hang up and crawl on all fours on the floor to Mama. I curled into a ball next to her, shivering as I wrapped the blanket tighter around us. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Mama,¡± I whisper. ¡°I can¡¯t keep my promise anymore.¡± I squeeze her hand. ¡°You won¡¯t get mad, will you?¡± She faintly stirs. She¡¯ll wake up soon. I place a kiss on her cheek before turning on the light in the hallway. I kneel down next to Papa. Some of the blood is still moist around the remnants of his skull. I stick my index finger into the puddle, making sure that my nail is coated in it. I place it in my mouth, savoring the thick metallic taste, mixed with the sweetness of the vanilla cake I just had. I can¡¯t help but smile. One JUNO April 1986 My back hurts. Neck¡¯s bothering me something fierce too. I¡¯m trying to ignore the cramp building up in my sweaty legs, which binds the worn fabric of jeans into my flesh. The hot dog I had ingested half an hour ago at the fast food joint isn¡¯t setting too well in my stomach, like someone is slamming a mallet into my gut. I try to wind down my window the best I can to relieve myself from the blinding heat, but my ¡®65 Camaro isn¡¯t too keen on being cooperative today. It¡¯s barely pulling itself together as it is¡ªmy stuff is piled up high to brim in the back seat and trunk with the meager belongings I had managed to squeeze from my tiny Manhattan apartment. The weight alone is crushing its suspension. The heat is nothing to scoff at; despite my mother being born and raised directly underneath the Guyanese sun, I do not have the same tolerance as her. I try to keep my gaze on the empty, dusty red freeway, blinking away the sweat that had started to pour down my forehead and get into my eyes. No matter how many times I try to wipe them away, they keep coming back like weeds. I can see from the rearview mirror that my eyes are bloodshot and red. To distract myself, I try to play a couple of songs on the radio, next to my car¡¯s busted AC, but only static is there. My stomach turns and flops, and something rises to my throat. I immediately pull to the shoulder and open the door to lean out and vomit. As I fumble for some napkins in the cup holder, I squint my eyes to get a better look at my map. My mouth stings. Apparently, I was supposed to be here for only two more miles before I would finally be able to exit Interstate 10. Despite the dizziness in my head, I grip the wrinkled paper with my destination. I would be no one. And no one would know me. No one would turn their face away from me¡ªno pastor, librarian, bus driver, my previous landlord¡ªabsolutely no one. Not even my mother. The streets of Manhattan have plenty of room for my replacement, and I will not miss them. I have no family in New York. Four days of endless driving has indeed done wonders for me. I¡¯m so used to the bustling noise of the city¡ªand the quiet roads make me long for it. I¡¯m trapped in my own thoughts, my own head. And that¡¯s never a good thing for anybody. I need to see other people, to remind me that I am not the only person in the world. Then again, it is seven in the morning. I had slept poorly last night in my car at a parking lot, squished between all of my suitcases and boxes. The day before, I had spent the night in the cheapest motel I could find. I wanted to spend the least amount of cash I could on the road, in case of an emergency. My back had paid the price for it. Now I was aching for a good night¡¯s rest on my mattress¡ªno matter how beat up it was. I knew that the real estate lady was expecting me to move in today. I had a feeling she would immediately call the cops the moment she saw me. I hoped she could suggest where I could buy a good mattress in the area. But my old one will have to do. My hair is wild and my face is covered in dirt. I haven¡¯t showered in three days and have been wearing the same clothes since I left Manhattan that morning after aimlessly clearing out my apartment. I think I had smoked before I left¡ªthe last bit of weed I had, so I hadn¡¯t really planned this trip through. Hadn¡¯t packed the right things, like a toothbrush or a bar of soap. Hopefully I would be able to find a bathroom in a restaurant to wash up a bit. I throw up the rest of the hotdog, because my body can¡¯t apparently keep anything down these days. After taking a swig from my Gatorade bottle, I manage to coax my car into turning on, the engine making a protesting sound as I twist the keys into the ignition. I kick some dirt over my mess with my left flip flop, press the clutch and shift gears, laying down in the gas. * * * * * * * In the span of twenty minutes, I have to stop three times to throw up. I keep checking my map, staring at the worn down, old fashioned buildings that are squeezed in all together around me. There are a couple of shops and hotels, but that¡¯s pretty much it. I don¡¯t know much about Louisiana, but I had expected it to be bustling with folks like New Orleans or Baton Rouge. The red paved roads are a lot more narrow and twisted, and I have to lay down a little more on the gas to get over the potholes. After driving around in circles, I finally make it to a wooded area¡ªprobably no more than ten miles across from town. At this point, the roads are non existent, and my Camaro is struggling. I¡¯m praying the engine doesn¡¯t go out¡ªI just need a few more months until I can take it to the shop. I won¡¯t touch it much after this trip ends. I swear. When I get a job, I¡¯m going to get an oil change, coolant, new brakes, if it can make it up this hill. My mind wanders to the address that the real estate lady had given me, right after I had deposited the down payment in cash. Despite everything in the past few days being kind of fuzzy, this was the only information that I had managed to retain in my head. 1357 Blane Avenue. 1357 Blane Avenue. I say it in my mind a thousand times. The urge to throw up is stronger than ever, but I force the sour bile back down. My eyes scan the numbers of the broken down houses on the road, and I soon encounter a steep hill, where I wince as I shift to third gear. The engine makes a horrific sound, and I can see smoke starting to rise from beneath the hood. ¡°Please don¡¯t die, please don¡¯t die.¡± My Camaro¡¯s tires leave heavy marks in the red dirt. It finally makes it into the middle the yard, which is filled with towering weeds and dandelions and towering grass. I stumble out of the car after I shut off the engine. The warm glow of the orange, yellow rising sun fell upon my face, and I take a few steps forward, gazing at the sight in front of me in awe. A gentle wind blows my sweat stained back. The house is tiny, but mostly intact. The porch is sagging due to junk, shattered glass, and wooden boards. The shingles of the slanted roof had fallen around in the yard. Graffiti is everywhere on the walls, and the front door is barely hanging on. I guess there¡¯s really no point in having a house key, but hopefully the real estate lady will give it to me. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. All of the windows are broken, except for the one on the second floor, covered in a layer of thick dust. As I go up the steps, I try to avoid putting too much weight on the rotting wood less my foot go through them. A giant cobweb hangs out in the corner of the threshold. I try not to look at it as I make my way inside. It smells mostly like fresh dirt, and I could see some old pieces of furniture, and an ancient TV in the living room. The walls are stripped bare, although some remnants of the decorative paper remain. There¡¯s nothing really else on the first floor, besides a busted stove, a refrigerator, and many dead insects on the windowsill. My flip flops crunch against the dead leaves that have gathered on the dried, moldy carpet in the living room. It¡¯s a hideous green color¡ªone that reminds me of slime. I go upstairs, trying not to jump at the sound of the house creaking under the weight of the wind, or the trees rustling outside. There¡¯s only two bedrooms¡ªand, similar to the walls downstairs, everything has been stripped bare. I notice a bathroom, but the tub and sink is covered in dirt and leaves, and the mirror is smashed and covered in black spots. In the ceiling, there is a rotting ladder leading to an attic¡ªa large black square door. There¡¯s so much dust up there that I sneeze uncontrollably and decide that was for another day. I move around the ladder, trying to avoid the shadows in the upstairs hallway. When I turn the light switch, to my surprise, it came on upstairs, although the bulbs looked burned out. That was one thing the real estate lady hadn¡¯t lied to me about. I frowned and took a closer look at them, wondering if I would be able to get them replaced. I notice the door leading to a basement, but I¡¯m not ready to go down there yet. I can¡¯t explain why I don¡¯t want to go, but I don¡¯t. For a few moments, I sit on the porch steps, wondering if I should just call it quits and head back home. I callously touch the needle scars and tattoos that run up and down my arms and hug my knees. My back is killing me, and the pain is worse than before. Home. I remember how being high was all I cared about. I remember my mother disowning me after I had failed junior year for the third time. I remember her kicking me out on the street. I remember going through multiple men in a week and waking up in a different place each time. I remember crying out as waves of unimaginable pain overcame me, unable to contain myself, wanting more than this. I remember whispering comforting secrets in their ears, pretending that someone loved me. I remember seeing the homes that they have built with their wives. I remember returning back to my empty apartment. I remember being passed out behind the dumpster, going to the nightclubs, feeling that familiar soreness between my legs whenever I would approach a car. I remember applying on one coat of lipstick after the other under the fluorescent lights in the subway bathroom, being jumped by other girls for five dollars, lying in bed with my dealer every time I owed him something, or wanted to feel something, beating up girls in the street, stealing hard working people¡¯s wallets, despite me making nearly a grand each night. I remember being so lonely I could die. I close my eyes for a moment, before opening them again. A mourning dove calls out from the trees, its tune gentle again. I study my car, before glancing up at the house. First thing tomorrow, I needed to find a job. The down payment had wrecked my wallet; I had only one more week of savings. Luckily, I noticed plenty of shops in town. I sure as hell didn¡¯t have a resume, but I wasn¡¯t that person anymore. I had some volunteer experience. Maybe I could go to the library, try to make one and print it out from the computer. If this town had a library. Second thing, I needed to get into rehab. I¡¯ve gone through most of the withdrawals, although the temptation to relapse has gotten only stronger over the past couple of weeks. But that was to happen after the job. I straightened up and made my way towards my car, my keys jingling in my hand. I undo the ropes holding my mattress on top of the car. Not wanting to go back inside the house, I dragged it out on the grass in the middle of the yard and laid down on my back. A ladybug crawled up my thumb. I gently caressed it with my hands. You can only climb one mountain at a time, I heard my mother saying. I missed her terribly, and I long for the feel of her hands in my coarse hair, her home made chicken soup, the smile that gathered on her face before I became a stranger to her. We haven¡¯t spoken in six years. I wondered what she was doing at the moment, since she went back to Guyana. She did not like the New York weather. The morning air is still humid, but the coolness of the trees and branches above cause my headache to dwindle. My nausea melts away. I kick off my flip flops and sink into the familiar scent of my mattress, next to the sweet grass. The quiet of the place lulls me into a deep fatigue, and I yawn. There¡¯s not another soul for miles, and I¡¯m so exhausted at this point that I don¡¯t care if the real estate lady comes and finds me like this. I was on time, she wasn¡¯t. * * * * * * * * I awake with a start. For a moment, I think I¡¯m back at my apartment before I see my surroundings. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth as I scramble off my mattress and slip on my flip flops. The comforting shade is gone, replaced by a ray of sharp, awful heat that has fallen upon me. I need water, and fast. I go to my car, but it won¡¯t start. Raising my hands over my head, I try to remain still until the dizziness has gone. I then fumble with my keys and dig into the back of my trunk for my wallet. To my dismay, I see that I only have fifty dollars left. My heart sinks. With a heavy sigh, I reach into the passenger seat and grab my map, before making my way down the hill. Mosquitos bite at my flesh, and I keep slapping them away. The trees in front of me blur and become distorted. For a moment I think I see a shadow, but there¡¯s nothing but the silence of the branches swaying back and forth in the wind. My heel catches against a rock lodged in the ground. I trip and land in the dirt with a heavy thud, which coats my jeans and tank top. One of my flip flops have broken apart, so I just gather them in my right hand and walk down the side of the road barefoot, sweat streaming down my neck. My tank top is drenched, like I had jumped in a pond. The road was still empty, despite it being noon. I wondered if anyone else lived here¡ªif I even had neighbors. The town was almost ten miles away, and my thirst was unbearable. My steps are disoriented. I¡¯m about three miles in and am about to cross the main road when a bright blue truck pulls up next to me, spraying dust in the air. I hadn¡¯t heard it come up from behind. My hand instantly goes for my pocketknife in the back pocket of my jeans, but an old man rolls down his window, jazz music blasting from the radio. His hair is completely gray, and a cigarette is between his teeth. Despite the deep wrinkles on his face, his eyes are sparkling gray, like they never seem to stop laughing. He gives me a look of disbelief as he sees me covered head to toe in dirt. I stare at him. He guffaws. ¡°Girl, what the hell are you doin¡¯ out here?¡± Two ANONYMOUS July 1986 It is raining season. Baton Rouge itself is crawling with vermin. The people are no better. I am here to only do my work and leave. I don¡¯t like cities at all. My unlaced sneakers sit on top of a rock, collecting water. I should¡¯ve just left them in my car. I sweat profusely underneath my jeans and jacket. I must hurry. My blistered, gloved hands grip the slippery wooden edge of the shovel. I know I only have a couple more hours of darkness left before the sky becomes a soupy gray color. The hole is about five feet from the surface, which I¡¯ve started around midnight. The soil becomes softer and malleable, like the clay I used to work on in my high school art class. Strands of my hair are glued to my forehead under my muddy baseball cap, which is barely giving me enough clarity to see through the pouring rain. It had only been drizzling when I had started. Now, I was sure a landslide would come at any minute. The trees heavily bend and sway in the wind. I adjust the flashlight I left sitting on a rock before returning back to my spot. My neck and shoulders are sore, but I don¡¯t stop. I quicken up the pace, throwing mounds upon mounds of earth to the side. I¡¯ve been underweight my whole life, so I may not look strong to most people I encounter. This tends to lead them to greatly underestimate me. It is a fatal mistake on their part. In the wrapped bundle of trash bags, a pale foot sticks out. Once the hole is finally deep enough, I drag the body across the ground, rain seeping under my bare feet. I long for a hot shower, but I know that it is far too early for me to find a gym or public pool. I would have to wait at least a couple of weeks, maybe months at the very least, for things to cool down so I can step back into the public realm. Besides, I could always wash off at the lake. Once someone files a missing persons report and the police department begins their investigation is when I have to be extremely alert and take care that I leave nothing behind. In my situation, many just get up and flee the state only a few hours later. They don¡¯t even make it past the county lines and bring all their belongings with them, just to encounter the authorities. People are stupid. With the toe of my left bare foot, I nudge the body over the edge. It flops headfirst into the dark abyss I had created with my own hands below, its arms and legs extended out like a rag doll. I hear a couple of bones snap from the impact, but it doesn¡¯t make a sound, as I can credit to my skills. Death is a concept I¡¯ve always struggled to understand myself. What does it feel like¡ªto stop moving, to stop breathing? One minute you¡¯re aware of your surroundings, and then you¡¯re not. I dump and refill the hole with plenty of dirt and grass. I don¡¯t make it too neat, and years of experience allows me to make the surface look as natural as possible. Even the rocks and leaves look undisrupted. I admire my handiwork. Five hours is not a bad pace, although I hope I can make it to maybe three next time. I just have to be more aware of the weather, listen to the forecast on the radio more often, so I can dress appropriately. I carefully pick up my tools and make my way through the dark trees, making sure to grab my shoes. I know the rain is deep enough to wash away any traces of footsteps, but only an idiot would wear their shoes so that a detective could take a picture of their foot prints. The monster whom I have put into eternal sleep came out here on his own accord, so there is no sign of a struggle. He did not even make a sound. It took me no more than fifteen minutes. By morning, the earth will settle. And his family will be free. I tread carefully to my Volkswagen and toss my muddy tools in the back of the trunk. I¡¯m covered head to toe in dirt. The hemline of my jeans are soaked, and water swirls around my ankles, bubbles rising to the surface. The knotted shoelaces of my sneakers dangle between my gloved fingers as I slide into the front seat and slam the door. I stare out the blurry window, turning on the engine, watching the windshield wipers go back and forth, back and forth. My wet clothes are glued to me like a second skin. Thunder rumbles outside, sending sensations through the earth. I dump my sneakers on the passenger seat, yank off my gloves, and lean my head against the seat. I pull out a cigarette and finish that quickly, watching the smoke rise from my lips. I go through the entire pack, before turning on the engine and flooring it, the sole of my right muddy bare feet stuck to the accelerator. * * * * * * * * I drive home. I¡¯m thinking of Mama. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. I want someone to talk to. When I¡¯m not rescuing families from their own wretched flesh and blood, I take long road trips to clear and give my mind a break. I live anywhere and nowhere at the same time. I used to rent vehicles, but I recently brought my first one so that I am able to easily reach those who may need my help, rather than worry about people getting in my business. I have multiple identification cards. I¡¯ve driven to Georgia, Texas, Mississippi, Arkansas, Alabama. If I had the money to do so, I would definitely visit Japan, South Korea, Italy, or France. Maybe China. To survive, I usually go to local food banks and stock up on as many canned goods as I can, so I¡¯m set for weeks on end. For every piece of clothing I own, it comes from clothing drives. Besides computers, I absolutely love photography. I broke into an apartment and stole a camera, which has excellent quality and resolution. I take pictures of the lake, the beach, trees, insects, animals. I wish I can go to a nearby shop so I can print them out, but it¡¯s too risky. I don¡¯t want to draw any attention to myself. People are nothing but obstacles to me. I don¡¯t exist in this world. I haven¡¯t really been home in a while. It gets lonely during the holidays, so I try to move around the state. I avoid hotels and shops and other businesses at all costs. If I go to food drives or shelters, I wear baggy clothes and a ski mask. I never get too comfortable in one place. I¡¯ve driven to Minden at least twice each year, both during rainy and hot season. I don¡¯t know why I keep doing it. It¡¯s something I can¡¯t explain. I keep hoping that Mama would show up on the front steps, inviting me in for supper like she did every Sunday when I was in college. Then we¡¯d play cards, watch Leave It to Beaver, Hogan¡¯s Heroes, The Brady Bunch, Knight Rider¡ª huddle up on the couch together, and drink chai tea with almond milk and honey. Ever since her funeral, I go in and head to her empty room to talk to her, because the loneliness gets to be too much for me sometimes. I know she listens. I tell her how much I miss her, and how I wish I had spent more time with her when I was studying for my degree in computer science. I watch my house gradually fall into disrepair like the other abandoned ones around it, and I make my routinely trip in hopes that it is not yet demolished. It never is. I am lonelier than usual most nights, so I go home. It¡¯s only a three-day trip, putting plenty of distance between me and the police. I sleep in wooded areas, sometimes parks or the back of my car, making sure my gun is fully loaded. By the time I reach Minden, it is nightfall. It has finally stopped raining. I park my car in the woods, reach the bottom of the hill and walk barefoot up through the familiar twisted path I had spent so many times as a child riding my bike down. Instead of a large empty space covered in trash, I see a busted, worn down Camaro parked in the middle of the overgrown yard. I study it for a moment, before glaring at the porch, which is littered with supplies and tool boxes. The fresh scent of paint meets my nostrils, and when I touch the porch with my fingertip, a small amount is visible on my nail. My skin prickles. I enter the house. Someone is snoring. I move quietly across the threshold. The door has not been installed yet, but there is a brand new one present leaning against the railing of the porch. Something inside of me wants to smash it into bits. But I step away and go down the freshly painted hallway, before turning towards a small yellow glow that I hadn¡¯t noticed. I abruptly lean my back against the wall, before placing my hand against my gun beneath my jacket. As I blend in with the shadows, I can make out a lamp on the ground that is plugged into a wall outlet, the only light source. The rest of the house is dark. The floors and walls are bare, stripped down to their foundation. My muddy bare feet are silent against the rough wooden boards as I carefully step around each of the unpacked boxes, my shadow spreading out against the walls. It smells strongly of paint and wood and chemicals, nothing that is familiar to me. I stay still. A figure is laying on the ground in front of me. I crouch on my knees and inch forward, moving my hand away from my gun. On the floor is a lumpy mattress, covered with blankets and pillows. They are tangled around a young woman¡¯s arms and legs. She is wearing a large yellow T-shirt and shorts. Her skin is as dark as chocolate, and her curly hair is squashed up against the large pillow supporting her head. She continues to snore heavily, and I can tell that she has not slept like this in a long time, due to the peaceful expression on her face. Dried paint streaks her cheek. There is a small but visible bump on her stomach¡ªjust about the size of a ripening melon. My eyes fall on a nearby wooden crib placed against the wall, still in the process of being assembled. I see a few small boxes filled to the brim with stuffed animals, diapers, baby clothes, and formula. I kneel down next to her. She doesn¡¯t move¡ªshe lies so still on her back that I can¡¯t help but wonder what she is dreaming about. I carefully place both of my muddy palms on her protruding abdomen, my veined hands lightly resting on the soft fabric of her shirt. She jerks a little in her slumber, but then her muscles relax under my gentle touch. Very slowly, I run my palms around the outline of her swollen stomach, which forms a perfect circle. My fingers rest just above her navel. I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the lulling rhythm of her breathing. There is life¡ªsuch sweet, precious life growing between my very own hands. It sleeps, unaware of my presence, like its mother. Life. I lean forward until the tip of her nose is nearly touching mine, strands of my soaked hair brushing against her forehead, her eyelashes. I weakly exhale and remain still, only watching her, my hands carefully cradling the warmth of her growing womb. My black fingernails sharply contrast against her bright yellow pajama shirt. I sit and stay with her for hours, until the sun begins to rise and the sky has turned pink and purple and orange. I study each feature on her face. I cannot move. I am rooted to the ground like a tree. She slightly stirs in her sleep. My heart is thumping, strands of my unkempt hair falling over my eyes and nose. I see how her belly rises and falls underneath my fingers every time she breathes. Three EXTRACT 3 February 5, 1958 Kuhn Memorial State Hospital 1422 Jackson Blvd Vicksburg, MS Elijah H. Newburg, MD= EN ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€ [Begin Transcript 00:00:10] EN: Do you remember me? ¨€¨€: No. EN: It¡¯s wonderful to see you again. I hope we get to know each other better these upcoming weeks. I know our first session was a bit rough, but I only want you to know that you can trust me. You can tell me anything. I¡¯m here to listen. ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: I know it may seem scary, but I would like you to understand that we are only here to help you. [Redacted] is with you. You just tell her you would like, and she will get it for you. Whatever you need. ¨€¨€: I want to go home. EN: I understand. ¨€¨€: But why can¡¯t I go now? EN: Because it is not safe. Your parents are not well yet. You are here to get better too. ¨€¨€: ¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: Tell me why you just kicked your chair and threw it across the room. Tell me how you feel. ¨€¨€: ¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: Do you see this chart I have in front of me? Each smiley face represents a feeling. Red is anger, blue is sad, yellow is happy, green is disgust, purple is sleepy, orange is fear. Point to which one you are experiencing right now. It doesn¡¯t have to be a single one. It can be a mix of both. ¨€¨€: ¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: Orange. ¨€¨€: Uh-huh. EN: Would you like to tell me why? ¨€¨€: Mama forgets. EN: What does she forget? ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: It¡¯s okay. Can you tell me what else you are feeling right now? ¨€¨€: Blue. EN: Look at me, please. Now, can you tell me why? ¨€¨€: Mama forgets about me. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. EN: How? ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: Does she ignore you? ¨€¨€: She sleeps a lot. EN: She doesn¡¯t make you meals, take you to and from school, tuck you into bed at night, none of those things that she is supposed to, does she? You usually have to figure out how you¡¯re going to get your next meal, something you should never have to worry about. ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: I see that you are still hitting the chair with your fists. I understand that this place is big and scary. It¡¯s nothing like you¡¯re used to. But you are here because you are very sick and malnourished, so you can get well. ¨€¨€: I don¡¯t want to get well. EN: Why not? Look at me, please. ¨€¨€: Papa gets the red. EN: Can you draw me a picture and show me what that looks like? You can use any crayon you would like. ¨€¨€: ¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ ¨€¨€: He¡¯s always red. EN: Who is that on the right? That¡¯s it¡ª-where my finger is. ¨€¨€: Mama. She drinks her juice. It puts her to sleep. EN: And on the left, I see that you¡¯ve drawn a tornado. Is this your father? ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: Hmmm. There¡¯s a tiny black dot in the corner of the page. And you¡¯ve added a box around you and your mother. Is this black dot your father? ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: Would you like to tell me why you crumpled up the paper and threw the crayon box at me? Is this what your father does to you and your mother at home? ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: I see that as a nod. He yells, throws things, and calls you mean names, correct? Things that a parent should never say or do to you. ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: I know it hurts. Very much. It¡¯s very important to tell a grown up how you are feeling. When you flipped over the table and scattered all of the supplies in my office, you want to do those same things he¡¯s done to you. You want him to feel what you feel. That¡¯s okay. ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: Would you like a moment? ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: I can step out of my office and give you your space. When you are ready to talk again, just knock on the door. And when we are calmer, we can begin again. ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: Are we safe? ¨€¨€: Yeah. EN: Show me what colors you are experiencing right now. ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: Blue. ¨€¨€:¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­¡­ EN: I see you are picking up the paper and smoothing it out. Would you like to add something else? ¨€¨€: Yeah. EN: Is it alight if I take a look? ¨€¨€: Yeah. ¨€¨€: That¡¯s the monster. EN: And why is there a stick figure in the middle of the tornado? ¨€¨€¨€: Because it¡¯s inside. EN: Inside of your house? ¨€¨€¨€: No. Inside of me. [End Transcript [02:00:25] Four JUNO April 1986 ¡±Well?¡± the old man demands. He rests his arm on top of the window. He¡¯s not laughing anymore, and maybe it¡¯s because he¡¯s gotten a good look at my facial expression. I see his wedding band visible on his ring finger, gleaming in the harsh sun. ¡°Answer me.¡± I freeze. I normally don¡¯t spook easily. But I suddenly sense chills running down my back. I slip on my flip flops and try to reach for my knife, but I can¡¯t move fast enough. He¡¯s already getting out his car, reaching for his cane as he hobbles over to me. My eyes dart towards the empty seat. Before I can understand what I¡¯m doing, I make my way around him and jump into the truck, which is filled to the brim with cigar smoke. My hands grip the steering wheel, and as I press down on the accelerator I can see him standing in the middle of the road, covered in a bellow smoke, shouting on the top of his lungs. My breaths are shaky. I don¡¯t know where I am going. My map is missing, and I realized I must¡¯ve dropped it on the side of the road. My mind is spinning as I go down one road after another, hitting curves between either seventy or eighty miles per hour. All of the thirst in my mouth has evaporated, gone up on the air. After what seems to be a thousand miles, I park at a gas station, just across the street from the People¡¯s Drug Store. I finally slide out of the driver¡¯s seat and sit on the baked pavement¡ªthe familiar wave of nausea coming over me. I remain there for nearly the whole day. The sky grows darker with each passing minute as the heat starts to dwindle. I watch customers come and go at each gas pump. It¡¯s like a dream, and intense shame washes over me. My eyes wander towards the phone booth, and I decide to call the cops and turn myself in. Just as I was about to grab the receiver with a shaky hand, the sudden sound of squealing tires catches my attention. A white Subaru appears in front of me, stopping directly in front of the convenience store. The door to the driver¡¯s side opens, and out storms a woman, probably in her early twenties. Her bulging stomach pushes through her white T-shirt hanging over her jeans, and thick fuzz covers her arms, decked in beaded bracelets. Her thick, curly black hair is tucked back underneath a colorful headband, and she has nose and lip piercings. Once her round gray eyes fall upon the blue truck, and then me, a lump gets stuck in my throat. ¡°You!¡± Her voice echoes across the entire parking lot. She suddenly storms towards me and roughly grabs my left arm, nearly twisting it out of my socket. Her long nails dig into my flesh. I can see her strong resemblance to the old man¡¯s face, and yellow spots are visible on her crooked teeth. Her face is so close to mine I can smell what she¡¯s had for lunch. I shrink under her cold gaze¡ªshe hates me with each and every fiber of her being. And how can I blame her? ¡°You done and stole my daddy¡¯s truck!¡± ¡±I¡¯m¡ªI¡¯m really sorry¡­.¡± I try to get out, but she already has me pressed to the ground so fast, the left side of my face is squashed up against the warm concrete. She¡¯s more on the chunky side, so I have no doubt that she can overpower me. I close my eyes, momentarily preparing myself for a swift kick to the jaw or ribs. My fingers curl into the ground, and I can feel the gaze of other onlookers. I wonder why no one¡¯s saying or doing anything, until I realize this is a small town, where about every person knows each other. Word about my mishap must¡¯ve spread fast. Any hopes of me perhaps making new friends or becoming acquainted with these people are dashed. Her gigantic fist slams against my mouth, and all the rings on her fingers don¡¯t help. I taste metal on my tongue. Someone loudly hoots in the background, and as her blows plummet against my head, I try to focus on the rusted ice box machine, the weeds growing through the cracks on the pavement, anything to not look into her large gray eyes, which are wide with fury. I curl into a ball, but she drags me backward against the ground, pebbles and debris lodging in my back. The crowd around us jeers. I deserve this, I really do. I think. She spits in my face. I¡¯m about to let her strangle me when someone shouts at us. The passenger door to the white Subaru swings open, and their footsteps make their way across the gas lot. My eyes are puffy, and I can see drops of blood landing on the ground. ¡°Rana!¡± The woman glances up, one of her giant palms still pressed against my head. I can see the old man, hobbling towards us with his cane. The lights of the gas station illuminate his figure from above, like he¡¯s an angel. When he glances at me, I look away. I¡¯m too ashamed to make eye contact with him. I want the ground to swallow me up whole. ¡±Stop. Let her go,¡± the old man says. Rana¡¯s mouth dropped. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Let her go.¡± ¡°Daddy, have you lost your mind? You¡¯re lucky I haven¡¯t called the cops on her.¡± She roughly yanks at my hair, causing me to wince in pain. ¡°Rotten thief.¡± ¡±And when the police come here and find you on her like this, whose story are they gonna believe? Yours or hers?¡± The old man shook his head. ¡°She ain¡¯t drive the truck up too far from where I was. And besides, at least it¡¯s all in one piece. So you need to let her go.¡± ¡°Let her go? We¡¯ve been driving all afternoon looking for your property, and now you want to let her go?! This scum left you in the middle of nowhere,¡± Rana snaps. ¡°In this heat, Daddy! And you know that it¡¯s not good to overexert yourself. Anyone who messes with my family, messes with me.¡± She kicked my waist with the toe of her boot. ¡°I¡¯ll tear her up before I let her go anytime soon. I promise.¡± The old man gave her a stern look. His daughter released an exasperated sigh, before I felt her grip loosen on me. I struggle to sit up in the dirt, blood dripping down my chin. My elbows are scraped raw, and the left strap of my dirty tank top is ripped clean in the middle. My flip flops are missing, and the bottom soles of my bare feet are black. Her hand grabs at my chin. ¡°I better not see you no more,¡± she hissed in my ear. ¡°You cross paths with me again, you¡¯re dead.¡± ¡°Rana,¡± Tom says in a low tone. She reluctantly pushes past me. I watched her slink to her white Subaru, before she slams her door and drives off, tires screeching against the ground as she sped off in the distance. Smoke rises in the air above, headlights glowing in the evening night. The people around us break off towards their cars, clearly disinterested now. I cough and spit up some more blood. One of my back teeth are loose when I push against it with my tongue. I try not to focus on it. ¡±She ain¡¯t suppose to do that. Let me get you an ice pack.¡± I shake my head. ¡°No, sir.¡± The old man stands still and gives me a thoughtful look. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled napkin. I don¡¯t take it, just remained staring at the ground. I didn¡¯t know how I was going to get back to the house because I didn¡¯t have my map, and worse, it was getting dark and I didn¡¯t know where I was¡ªa fate far worse than spending the night in a jail cell. I haven¡¯t even been here a day yet, and I¡¯m already in trouble with the law for doing such a stupid thing. Rana is definitely going to call the cops on me. I¡¯ll be leaving in handcuffs soon. My mother would be so disappointed in me. ¡°Are you alright? You must excuse my daughter. She¡¯s very high strung,¡± the old man murmurs, shaking his head at the sight of my bloodied nose. He was helping me to my feet, still talking to me. I don¡¯t pull away¡ªit is oddly comforting. Gravel clings to my torn jeans. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I slowly touch my split lip with my finger, then drop my hand. My eyes are watery. All those months of saving have completely gone down the drain. If he won¡¯t go to the cops, his daughter surely will to report me. I want to disappear from everyone. ¡°Look at me,¡± the old man gently says. I can¡¯t. I¡¯m afraid to. ¡°Now, now,¡± He pauses, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out more crumpled napkins for me to take, which I finally do. ¡°How old are you?¡± ¡°Twenty six,¡± I whisper, dabbing my nose. ¡°You still ain¡¯t answer my question. What you doing back there in that area? Someone leave you behind or something?¡± I decide there¡¯s no point in lying. ¡°I brought a house. I moved in today.¡± Surprise crosses his face. ¡°A house?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°And you ain¡¯t got no one helpin¡¯ you or nothing? You out here by yourself near those wrecked up pieces of junk?¡± I don¡¯t say anything. The old man makes a noise with his throat and places his hands on his hips. I think he¡¯s going to leave, but he instead goes inside the convenience store, the door chime ringing. After a few moments, he returns with a plastic bag containing two water bottles and lemon lime Gatorade, silently handing them to me. It¡¯s only after I¡¯ve finished quickly guzzling them down that I can think much more clearly. I exhale with relief. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be damned,¡± he mutters. ¡°All this hootin¡¯ and hollering over a drink.¡± I want to ask how he knew I was thirsty. But he kept shaking his head, examining my face. ¡°If you want to go to the police station and tell them your stuff, I¡¯ll gladly take you. We can even go to the hospital to get you checked out. I¡¯m awful sorry that it has come to this, and had I known that Rana had planned to put her hands on you, I¡¯d have never told her.¡± I look at him in disbelief. He wanted me to press charges on his own daughter? ¡°I¡¯m the one who started all of this. Aren¡¯t you going to want to turn me in?¡± The old man bursts out laughing. ¡°It¡¯s your choice if you want to go to the police or not, kiddo. I¡¯m not stopping you if you do.¡± He scratches his scalp. ¡°Now, do you want me to take you to the hospital or urgent care? Looks like you might need stitches.¡± ¡±But I stole your truck!¡± ¡°Yes, and I can¡¯t help but wonder why. I didn¡¯t mean to give you a fright.¡± I stare at my bare feet. Rana had tossed my flip flops on opposite sides of the world. ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t know.¡± Then, I sighed. ¡°I¡¯m really sorry, sir. I don¡¯t¡­I don¡¯t deserve any of this from you. If I can take this back, I would. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s been going through my head.¡± I gave him a nervous glance. ¡°I¡¯m really sorry.¡± ¡±My name is Thomas Brunswick,¡± the old man replied. ¡°You can call me Tom. And since you don¡¯t want to go to the police or hospital, I guess the best course for action is to let you spend the night at me and my wife¡¯s place. Stay for supper, at least, so we can put some meat on those bones of yours. You look like a twig.¡± I could feel heat spreading to my face. ¡°Oh, no, sir. I¡­..I¡­..couldn¡¯t do that. Not after¡­¡± ¡°Listen, child.¡± Tom held up his wrinkled hand. ¡°Now I¡¯m gonna tell you what you not gonna do. You don¡¯t have a car. It¡¯s the middle of the night, and you intend to walk in the dark, all the way to a wreck of a shack that hasn¡¯t been lived in for the last twenty years near the woods. With no running water, no electricity, no nothing¡ªjust the clothes on your back.¡± He lowered his voice as I began to protest. ¡°Stop being stubborn. I understand you don¡¯t want to be a bother, but we all need help sometimes. And there ain¡¯t nothing wrong with needin¡¯ some.¡± I sighed. There was no use arguing, and he had been mostly right, except for the electricity part. But I wasn¡¯t about to mention that. I could only hope that all of my belongings in the world and my car would be there when I got back. The idea of someone smashing my windows to get my stuff my heart skip a beat, which is ironic, now that I am nothing but a dirty car thief. I am praying Rana won¡¯t be there. Her father may have forgiven me, but I know that she is far from it. My stomach churns at the thought. Tom chucked and lightly patted my arm. ¡°Ain¡¯t no need to stay all stiff like you see a ghost. It ain¡¯t right to turn a guest away. Come, child.¡± * * * * * * * * The Brunswick home is a tiny, one story house in western Minden. It reminds of me the dollhouse I used to play with when I was a little girl¡ªso tiny but incredibly cozy, as if it was only meant to be made for two people, and two people alone. Everything is clean, very clean. The lawn is mowed, and yellow daisies mark the side of bright blue porch. There are so many antique shops and restaurants that I get dizzy trying to look at them all. The drive itself couldn¡¯t have been more than ten minutes long, although I remained glued to my seat. Tom talked the entire time, smoking a cigarette and drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. When he smiles, I noticed a gold tooth visible below his lip. He says that he was born in New Orleans, but that his father had moved him and his ten siblings down to Minden to look for more work. He¡¯s been here for over forty five years, and he doesn¡¯t imagine being anywhere else. He says that the town itself hasn¡¯t changed much either. I admire how much he is proud of his roots, of where he comes from. I am glad he does not ask about where I come from, even though I¡¯m already missing New York a great deal more than I expected. But I do not have time to make sense of these thoughts when we pull up in front of the house. The screen door swings open near the porch, and an old woman rushes out, still wiping her wet hands with her apron. She is the spitting image of Rana, only smaller and shorter, and her dress is the same color as the house. Her hazel eyes glow with excitement as she makes her way across the yard, waving. Tom smiles as he opens the door to his truck. ¡°This my wife, Georgia.¡± As the couple embraced, I can¡¯t help but feel a pang of loneliness descend upon me as I study them from the passenger seat. Even if I got to keep my house, I wouldn¡¯t be able to have anyone to share it with, let alone have visitors or family stay with me. I place my hands on my lap and bite my lower lip, trying to blink the water threatening to rise in my eyes. I realize that I don¡¯t belong anywhere. Georgia studies me. Her smile fades, and just like I¡¯ve feared, a frown falls on her face. ¡°Ain¡¯t that the girl who stole your truck?¡± My cheeks flush. Tom wraps his left arm around his wife¡¯s waist and faces me. ¡°You never tell me your name, child.¡± I quietly exhale as I slowly climb out of the vehicle and stand in front of them in the sweltering heat. Georgia keeps looking at me like I plan to bite her. Maybe it¡¯s because I don¡¯t have any shoes on, there is still blood crusted under my nose, and my tank top is torn. ¡°My name is Juno Alverez,¡± I breathlessly begin, wiping my sweaty palms against my jeans, ¡°and I¡¯m really sorry for¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªand she¡¯s thrilled to spend the evening with us,¡± Tom finished for me, giving his wife a sideways glance. ¡°Don¡¯t just stand there. Come inside and wash up. We¡¯ve got gumbo for supper.¡± He grinned as he started to make his way up the porch. ¡°It smells wonderful.¡± Georgia twists her lower lip. She has noticed the many tattoos upon my arms. For a moment, we stare at each other, before she finally speaks. ¡°You too skinny. I fix you a plate.¡± I nearly collapse due to relief. Hopefully she will like me over time, as much I as I like her. I wonder if she had made her dress herself. I think it¡¯s pretty, but I don¡¯t say this to her. ¡±Yes, ma¡¯am.¡± ¡°Where your folks at?¡± Her accent is thick, very heavy. But I love the way she speaks, and I notice that her face is lined with freckles, her skin tanned from most likely gardening underneath the sun. She squints her eyes, like she¡¯s trying to figure me out. Hopefully, she can be my first friend here. ¡±My mother is in Guyana. And my father, well, he¡¯s from El Salvador, although he comes to the States twice a year. But I haven¡¯t seen either of them in a long time.¡± Georgia doesn¡¯t say anything, and we make our way up the porch. I know she doesn¡¯t trust me, and I will have to work hard to earn it. I am still so terribly ashamed of what I have done. But I try not to say too much myself, and try to focus on keeping myself calm until morning comes. The weight of finding a job pressed down upon my shoulders, and because of my stupidity, I have to look harder than ever, though the likelihood of ever getting hired is dwindling. But I plan to try. * * * * * * * It¡¯s around midnight when the overwhelming sense of nausea comes over me. I¡¯ve been fighting it ever since this morning, and I have finally lost the battle. I scramble out of bed and make it to the toilet in the nick of time, upheaving the gumbo I had for supper. The ordeal lasts for a grisly fifteen minutes, and I slump to the bathroom floor, grateful that I haven¡¯t gotten any on the long white nightgown Georgia had let me borrow. I can still hear the Brunswicks¡¯ snores down the hall, and I am relieved that they haven¡¯t heard me. After rinsing my mouth out with water, I flush the toilet and plan to head back to the guest room to sleep it off, before noticing a box sticking out of one of the drawers in the bathroom. I pick it up. It¡¯s an unopened pregnancy test. Perplexed, I began to wonder why an elderly couple would have one in their bathroom, until I notice several folded papers smushed into the bottom left corner of the drawer. They are doctors¡¯ notes, written prescriptions for antidepressants and pain medications. I notice the name Rana Brunswick visible on the right upper corner of the paper. My eyes fall upon the pregnancy test again. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s worth trying, but these bouts of nausea have continued on and off for the last four weeks. After a moment of hesitation, I slowly close the bathroom door and began to open the box. I follow the instructions, and anxiously wait, biting my nails as I sit on the bathtub. My face is sweaty, and the room seems to spin. The lights flicker for a moment. With my shaking fingers, I pick up the stick. The two visible blue lines in front of me cause water to spill down my cheeks. I quietly sob, crouching down on my raw knees on the cold tile floor. I hug the stick as close as I can to my chest. Five The fun is BACK! It¡¯s Friday night! Time to add a little fling with the whole family. Get ready to go Beserk¡ªoh look there¡¯s Qbert!¡ª-it¡¯s the all new 2600 from ATARI. The number one video system, only from ATARI , that transcends beyond your imagination and wildest dreams! Discover a world that lays at your fingertips. From Space Invaders to Pole Position, Eli¡¯s Ladder, Mangia, Gamma, Pitfall, Blackjack, Robot Tank, Miss Pac-Man, Air Raid, Spider Fighter, Super Break Out¡ª The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. You might just find yourself in the middle of the jungle on a crucial mission. With a top notch joystick that controls your screen, Solaris turns up the heat, but don¡¯t get sucked into a black hole¡ªif you think you can last. Now with the very super low price of just fifty bucks¡ªthere are more amazing graphics, color, sound, action, and galore! With only nine cartridges, you get over 187 brand new games! The possibilities are endless! It¡¯s the all new 2600 from ATARI. Discover how far you can go. Six ANONYMOUS MINDEN, LA 1963 The stench of curdled milk left too long out in the sun floods my nose. And then it¡¯s all over me¡ªmy hair, eyes, and clothing are dripping with it. I try to keep my mouth shut to avoid the gooey chunks from sliding in my mouth, but there¡¯s much more of it, so much that I can hardly see. I try my very best not to breathe in as I can hear snickers, then the sensation of someone¡¯s fist colliding against my jaw. I go flying backwards into the lockers, and my elbow strikes against one of the metal surfaces, causing a purple bruise to form on my skin. They carry me into the janitor¡¯s closet; one of the many tiny spaces around the school they enjoy trapping me in¡ªout of the sight of the teachers. Yesterday, it was behind the bleachers. I try to break free, but I¡¯m too small. ¡°Someone forgot to take the trash out.¡± Wild laughter echoes in my ears¡ªcrackling and spreading outwards like wildfire. My face is burning, this milk is like acid. I don¡¯t make eye contact with Oliver Holden, so I just stare at his scuffed up black converse with his mismatched socks, the ones that he¡¯s added stickers all over. I see his minions Jerry McIntrye and Sam Bishop, swarming around me like countless flies coming to feast over a carcass. Sam takes my backpack and tosses it over into the sink, before twisting the knobs. The squeaking sound of water gushing from the faucet makes my stomach drop. My comic books are in there. I try to get up, but Oliver roughly slams me down into the linoleum floor again. My upper lip smashes against the nearby wooden bench, and I can taste blood. They¡¯ve got me cornered in the janitor¡¯s closet. I know that no one can really hear us through the cinderblock walls. I¡¯m not going to survive next period. I¡¯m not going to survive eighth grade. So far, I¡¯ve managed to be here for about two weeks. I¡¯m not even going to survive being at this school, and it¡¯s far worse being a transfer student than just beginning the new year. I¡¯ve begged Mama a million times to just homeschool me, but she¡¯s picked up a couple of new shifts at the local hospital as a janitor to keep up with the bills. She bounces between keeping me home to learn or public school. Seems like she can never make up her mind these days. I keep telling her that I can get a job next year, soon as I turn fourteen, even register for boot camp, but she won¡¯t let me. This isn¡¯t a school, it¡¯s a damned country club. Try coming in right smack in the middle of the third quarter, where everyone¡¯s already made their friend groups, everyone knows each other, everyone has nice clothes and cars and moms who are devoted members of PTA meetings. The teachers are snobs, the work is ten times harder, and no one ever looks in my direction. The only benefit is that they have a really big library, and it¡¯s been my safe haven, especially after school. The librarian, Ms. Winters, is very nice. She was the first person who had introduced me to manga¡ªAstro Boy, Speed Racer, Adventures of Goku¡ªand a large stack of comics in my backpack, which are now ruined. I¡¯ll never be able to borrow a library book again. Oliver raises his meaty fist again. He¡¯s breathing heavy and unsteady on his feet due to having too many Twinkies. He¡¯s always the last to finish during gym period, especially when Coach Adams makes us run around the soccer field. I spit on the toe of his converse, leaving bright pink spots from my bloody mouth. He swears under his breath. I feel his hands grab me by the shirt collar, causing it to rip. I collide with the wall, and I¡¯m so dizzy at this point that I can¡¯t really see who is who. They look like a blur of smeared paintings. My left eye is swelling up like an expanding balloon. ¡±You little shit,¡± Oliver fiercely whispers in my ear. I can smell cigarette ash on his breath. ¡°Thinking of snitching on me? I¡¯ll show you how we deal with snitches around here.¡± I hardly know what he¡¯s talking about¡ªhe was the one who had decided to directly copy my answers during the history test. It¡¯s not my fault Mr. Anderson had given him detention. Oliver had gotten it in his empty head that I had directly told the teacher¡ªI could care less about the Revolutionary War¡ª a topic that was sure to fascinate eighth graders. I hadn¡¯t been paying much attention in that class, so my grade was slipping below a C. It¡¯s probably why Oliver is supposed to be a sophomore and has been held back twice, but of course I don¡¯t say this. No one else does, but we¡¯re all thinking it. It seems like an eternity before the three of them leave. The sink is still running, and when I stand up, I can¡¯t help but wince due to the pain seeping through my mouth. When I manage to turn off the rusted knob, I realized that either Sam or Jerry must¡¯ve elaborately tied the straps in a way around the nozzle that left behind a row of knots. My fingers are raw and bloody, and it takes me a good twenty minutes to pry my soaked backpack free. When I make finally make it to Algebra, all eyes are on me. My untied sneakers squeak against the floor. Some of my classmates are giggling at me and whispering to each other as I slump into a desk at the back of the room. Mrs. Simmons reminds me of a crow¡ªher round spectacles teetering over the edge of her beak of a nose, threatening to fall and crash to the floor. I do not have my homework, so I receive a zero for the day. The stench of curdled cafeteria milk has reached my nose, slowly making into my mouth. It has dried upon my skin and hair, peeling off in small chunks. Water drips from my bag and lands on the floor, creating a puddle. Mrs. Simmons passes around a quiz, and I fill my out name on the top of the page and stare at the questions, which I leave blank. She goes to her desk and perches upon her chair like the bird she is. The clock is ticking louder each minute, threatening to shake the entire room. Oliver is in French, but Jerry and Sam are in this class with me. I want to take my pencil and drive it into their eyes¡ªdeep into their sockets until the lead snaps and breaks. My broken fingernails dig into my seat. When the bell rings, I make my escape. I do not take the bus. * * * * * * * * * ¡°How is school?¡± Mama asks at dinner. We never have dinner. I don¡¯t know why she decided to cook tonight. Usually, for me, it¡¯s either a sandwich or a can of spaghetti, if I can find something in the house. If not, I go and ride my bike to the nearest gas station, and load up on snacks to carry me over for the next day. I usually find quarters and pennies stuck between the couch cushions, but most days I haven¡¯t been so lucky. My skin is still sore from spending nearly two hours in the bathtub. I notice fresh purple bruises on my back and legs, an additional present from Oliver. It hurts to sit. No matter how much I brush my teeth, the aftertaste of the curdled milk on my lips is still there. Tonight, we are having meatloaf and instant mashed potato. There are still bits of plastic in the mashed potato because Mama forgot to remove it when she put it in the oven. The meatloaf is cold in the middle, but I slather it with ketchup so that I don¡¯t taste the pink parts. Her eyes are halfway open, even though she¡¯s been sleeping all day on the couch again. She stinks of liquor, dark circles are under her sunken eyes, and her hair resembles a squirrel¡¯s nest. In the background, gray static plays on the television. Her voice is slurred. ¡°How is¡ª¡± ¡±It¡¯s fine,¡± I murmur, stabbing my fork into the mashed potato. My wet backpack is sitting on top of the heater, and my books are all lying on my dresser, facing my open bedroom window. Tonight they¡¯ll be dry enough so I can get in a couple of chapters before bed. Mama places a crooked cigarette in her mouth and lights the end. Her hand is a bit shaky, and I can see the crossroad of veins bulging through her bony fingers. Her cloudy eyes focus on me, as if she was suddenly seeing me for the first time. Gesturing to my swollen eye, a frown settles on her blistered lips, the one she kept chewing until they were gummy and bloody and she has no skin left on them. She pulls out her fingernails and her hair too¡ªa giant bald spot is slowly beginning to form on the top of her head. It is pink and smooth due to her continuously plucking the hairs around it. ¡°What happened?¡± ¡±I fell.¡± She frowned and leaned forward. ¡°Now¡ª¡± ¡±I said I fell, Mama.¡± The times of my fork scrape against the plate. ¡°That¡¯s all.¡± With a heavy sigh, she adjusts the stained napkin on her lap and takes a large bite out of her tasteless meatloaf. Bits of it are stuck between her front teeth. ¡°You like your school?¡± I shrug. ¡°It¡¯s a good school¡ªnot too far and in a good area. Much better than the last one,¡± she continued, talking slower than molasses. Smoke rises from her nostrils. ¡°It¡­it takes some time. Give it some time. You like your teachers. And you¡¯ve made many friends, I hope. You can have them over here for Saturdays. We can order plenty of pizza.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I lie, placing my elbow on the table. When she¡¯s not looking, I steal the pack of matches that she has left on the table and slide them into my pocket. ¡°Good,¡± Mama beams, ¡°very good.¡± Her eyes blankly focus on the wall. Once more, she has forgotten what to say. A spider is busy crawling its way through the worn paper, but she doesn¡¯t seem to react. ¡°I¡¯m going to lie down a bit, baby. I¡¯ve been dealing with a nasty headache all day. I have to be up by six for work tomorrow, so keep the TV low.¡± We both know it is a lie, like I won¡¯t see her sprawled out on the couch when I head out to that pathetic excuse of a school tomorrow. The electricity might be shut off in a couple of days because she forgets to pay the bill. She¡¯ll probably be looking for a new job soon, before she gets fired again. But she looks so convinced of herself, I can¡¯t help but want her to believe it. It¡¯s nice to pretend sometimes. I want her to be happy. I wonder if she thinks about Papa. She gets up, plants a weak kiss on my cheek. She grabs her pack of Camels and limps upstairs¡ªeach individual step creaking below her weight. I scrape out both of our full plates into the trash can and place them in the sink overflowing with dirty dishes, which has attracted flies and maggots floating in the gray water. My stomach grumbles, and I think it¡¯s time for a nightly gas station visit. My eyes wander to the stack of envelopes on the yellowed table, next to her vinyl purse. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. After quickly peeking to make sure Mama had gone upstairs, I reach over for her wallet. Under the mountain of past due bills, my hand brushes against a small, colorful laminated flyer. I hold it up so I can see it better in the dim light, the lightbulb in the kitchen than keeps flickering on and off. Time Zone. * * * * * * * * * Oliver has a half sister named Amy. She looks just like him, with the same round, chubby face and beady black eyes. She is always dressed in frilly pink dresses, and carries a doll on her arms. She attends the elementary school across the road from mine, and she has large ribbons in her braided hair. She is either in the second or third grade, and after school, if I am lucky to escape Oliver¡¯s clutches by leaving class early before he does, she is always waiting near the front. He promises to take her to the park, but never does. Yet, I always see her looking out for him on the front steps, her long legs swinging back and forth as she plays with her doll. I hear him constantly complain about her with his friends, that she never leaves him alone, that he wishes she and her mom never came to live with his pa. I hear him say that he wishes she never existed at all. On Monday afternoon, Oliver pushes her to the ground. His friends snicker as she laid on the dirt, near tears at the sight of her skinned knees. He destroyed her doll and tossed it into the bushes. He yelled at her to stop following him, and that he hated her, over and over and over again, until her eyes were wet. As soon as the coast is clear, I carefully approach Amy. She is sobbing so hard that she has hiccups, and when she notices me, her beady eyes get wary¡ªno doubt her brother spoke of me a lot at home. But as I kneel down next to her, she wipes her snot ridden nose with her muddy hand. ¡±Don¡¯t cry.¡± ¡°Go away,¡± Amy snaps, although she¡¯s fighting back more tears. She hugs the remaining head of her doll, shielding it away from me. ¡°I¡¯m a friend,¡± I whisper. ¡°Your friend.¡± She looks surprised at my quiet tone, before her face crumples. ¡°My doll,¡± she wails. ¡±It¡¯s okay. I promise, it¡¯ll be okay.¡± Amy¡¯s nose is bright red. ¡°How?¡± ¡°No need to worry,¡± I say. ¡°I can get you a new one.¡± Hopefully by the next week or so, if I can get access to Mama¡¯s purse. ¡°It¡¯ll be better than your old one. Much better.¡± Her beady eyes widen. ¡°You promise?¡± ¡±I swear.¡± ¡±He always breaks my toys.¡± My skin tingles. ¡°He won¡¯t break the next one.¡± Amy doesn¡¯t say anything, but I can tell that she is starting to calm down. As I help her up, I notice marks on her arms and legs. I know where they come from, and I don¡¯t ask. I don¡¯t want to bring up the memory for her. I only know what I must do so that she will never experience this from anyone again. ¡°How about we go to the park? I¡¯ll push you on the swing,¡± I quietly say. ¡°And we can get candy afterwards. Whatever you like, just tell me. I have a dollar.¡± Her tear-streaked face brightens. ¡°Really?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± I slowly hold out my hand towards hers. Since I am an only child, I want to know what it is like to have the responsibility to protect someone who is smaller than me. Her grubby fingers latch around mine, and we walk together on the sidewalk. She is still hiccuping. My ears are burning, and as we approach the playground, I silently make a promise to her that she will understand later. Every day for the next month I take her to the park after school. I buy her a new doll and a bag of taffy. During art class, I carve a small bird made out of wood and give to her, which she gladly accepts. It helps me not think about Mama. * * * * * * * Time Zone is only two and a half miles away from my school. I don¡¯t have the courage to tell Miss Winters about my catastrophe, so I skip the library and take off down the sidewalk on my bike, my fingers curling against the handlebars. I¡¯m usually supposed to come straight home after classes, but I doubt that Mama will really miss anything. After all, she¡¯ll be asleep, and I¡¯ll be home when she wakes. Although I forgot the flyer at home, I remember the bold, elaborate tracing on the surface¡ªwhich I see on the small sign hanging above. It¡¯s quite easy to miss. The wind blows in my hair, and as I come to a stop near the front of a small, tiny building squashed between a pizza shop and the barber¡¯s, I can¡¯t help but stare in awe once I enter the dim arcade. There are lights. So many lights. * * * * * * * * * Oliver¡¯s shoes crunch against the dead leaves and dried twigs. My footsteps are not as loud as his, but I make sure mine align with his every move. He¡¯s quite tall for his age and has to duck to avoid hitting the branches above. I left my bike at the edge of the road, but carry my bag with me. Inside it is one of Mama¡¯s whiskey bottles. It¡¯s a humid evening. School came by and went. During lunch, I placed a pack of Camels in Oliver¡¯s backpack. I still haven¡¯t returned my library books, and the stuck together pages are becoming so wrinkled¡ªthe text is unreadable. I¡¯m not surprised to see that Jerry and Sam aren¡¯t with Oliver. They¡¯ve gotten into the varsity soccer team, but he hasn¡¯t. He hasn¡¯t beaten me up in weeks. It¡¯s only a slither of what I want him to feel. I want him to feel a lot more than what he already does. He usually has a calm, laid back demeanor. But I¡¯ve learned that confidence is always worthless, either real or imaginary. I want him to feel. Oliver stops all of a sudden and turns around. His eyes are slightly red, like he had been crying. This delights me. I remain in the shadows. I¡¯m used to moving quietly all of my life¡ªsomething I had to pick up on quick when I was younger, especially if Papa had been in one of his bad moods. But I am no longer helpless¡ªat least, not in the way that I used to be. I do not need an emotional crutch, like Mama does with her bottle or Mrs. Simmons with her numbers and formulas. I do not need to rely on anything, or anybody, and that is what makes people utterly weak and despicable. Why try to establish something permanent on such instability? Call it happiness, if you may. Oliver walks a little faster, and he keeps glancing behind him. We reach his hideout¡ªa makeshift den that he and his now former friends would go out to smoke. I know because I¡¯ve followed them out here many times. I don¡¯t know why. To me, they put on such a strong show at school, but I don¡¯t really know who Oliver is after the bell rings. But that gives me plenty of time to prepare, to understand that he is an actor, and nothing more. What he has done to me is meaningless. What he has done to Amy is unscripted. The ground suddenly gives way, and a shallow hole forms beneath Oliver. He gives a startled yelp as his right foot becomes sunken beneath the surface, resulting in a loud crunch. I can see his bone poking through his jeans. As he cries out in pain, I slowly step out of the shadows, keeping my gaze on him. Oliver¡¯s eyes are as wide as saucers. He gives me a look of disbelief once he finally realizes I¡¯m here. He tries to speak, but his mouth only makes guttural sounds, like a demented seal. His hands claw at the soil. I study him for a moment, and for the first time, we both truly see each other. Tears are streaming down his face, collecting at his chin, but I unzip my bag and pull out the small whiskey bottle I¡¯ve managed to conceal beneath my still damp books. I pry open the lid, and, very slowly, began to walk towards him, making sure that there is a visible trail. As I finally pour the majority on top of his head, he finally finds his words. He¡¯s trying to free himself, but I know how to dig a mean hole. ¡°No, no, no¡ª-please¡ªlisten¡ª-¡± Mama¡¯s whiskey bottle is now empty. I place it back into my bag. ¡°Look¡­..I¡¯m¡­.I¡¯m sorry.¡± Oliver began to break down into sobs. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t hurt her anymore,¡± I whisper. ¡±What?¡± he weakly stammers. ¡±Amy,¡± I whisper again, reaching into the pocket of my jeans and pulling out my box of matches. As I selected one and lit the red bulb, his agonized cries filled the air, but it didn¡¯t matter. No one could hear us, as we were far out into the woods, and these roads were empty, barely maintained. ¡°You can¡¯t hurt her anymore.¡± My face is hot. He shrieks. I then drop the match. The hungry flames travel up the path of whiskey I had planted, forming a long row, until finally settling upon and devouring him. The scent reaches my nose, replacing the sour milk I¡¯ve smelled for so many days. I watch his flesh gradually bubble and swell upwards like the Jiffy Pop aluminum foil. He screams and screams and screams¡ªthe orange and the red of the flames becoming brighter and brighter until they leap off the tree branches, causing embers to fall below. He¡¯s desperately trying to bat the orange away, his skin resembling a night sky. As the flames become stronger, there is eventually silence, just a gentle, slow crackling. I gaze up at the sky for a moment, before a broad smile crosses my face. I then walk down the road, the heat comforting against my back. I don¡¯t look back. As I ride home on my bike, with the humid wind blowing in my hair, fire sirens filled the air as several trucks blasted down the road¡ªdown near where several crowds of people had gathered and looked afar, pointing at each other. The smell of smoke and wood fills the air. I go to the candy shop and buy a lollipop the size of my head with my lunch money. As the trucks come down the road, one by one, the sweet flavor of raspberry lime coated my tongue. I sit down on the edge of the sidewalk to savor my treat as I watch people get out of their cars and scramble around like mice. There are ashes starting to blow in the wind. I¡¯ll get Amy a lollipop later. From afar, I see the yellow haze in the trees above, spreading out over the horizon, people running out in the streets, shouting and pointing at the rising smoke. * * * * * * * It is early Saturday morning. They canceled school yesterday. Mama hasn¡¯t come out of her room for three days straight, and I leave meals in the hallway for her. I don¡¯t want to check on her because that¡¯s when she¡¯s out of it the most. I¡¯m immersed in the middle of an episode of the Jetsons and am digging into a large bowl of cornflakes at the kitchen table when I hear a knock at the door. I set down my spoon, wait for Mama to come downstairs. She doesn¡¯t. I¡¯m still in my plaid pajamas, but I go and open it. It¡¯s drizzling outside, and a tall man dressed in a suit and tie stands in front of me on our porch. He has a notebook in his hand, and gives me a polite smile. I stare at him. ¡±Good morning, I am so sorry to bother you. I was wondering if either of your parents are home?¡± I silently shake my head. ¡°My name is Peter Heffrey,¡± the man continues as he flashes a badge. ¡°I¡¯m a detective for the MPD. I¡¯m sure that you¡¯re already aware that there was a fire that broke out northeast two days earlier¡ªnot too far from here. So far, one body has been found, and our forensic team is still investigating the cause, although it may be an accident.¡± ¡°An accident?¡± I whisper. I want him to feel. ¡±We don¡¯t know for sure, but we did find that the victim had a pack of cigarettes in his backpack, so it is possible that it could be a moment of carelessness. He also had a severe fracture in his right leg, so many are suspecting foul play, although it¡¯s most likely the kid was just being irresponsible.¡± He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small card. ¡°Here is my contact information. When your mother or father gets home, please have them come down to the police station, if they can give an account. So far, we have no eyewitnesses. The Holdens are devastated and looking for answers. It¡¯s a very difficult time for them¡ªsurely it won¡¯t take but five minutes for your parents.¡± ¡±Will do,¡± I quietly say, slipping my sweaty hands into the pockets of my pajamas. The cornflakes are stale in my mouth. They are most likely expired. ¡°I¡¯ll let them know as soon as possible, sir.¡± ¡°Excellent,¡± Peter replies, tilting his hat at me. ¡°Have a good day.¡± I slowly close the door, watching him get into his car and drive off in the rain from the cracked window. Seven JUNO MINDEN, LA 1986 Whatever sleep I hoped to catch up on quickly dwindles from my sight. I keep the stick close to me and remain on the cold bathroom floor all night long, my back against the toilet. I forget I¡¯m in the Brunswick house. I forget that I may possibly go to jail today once the authorities start knocking on their door. I forget about my busted lip and swollen eyes. I forget about the burning, overpowering taste of bile on my tongue. All I can do is stare at those two blue lines. When the first rays of sunlight start to peek through the window, I finally rise to my feet. I don¡¯t look at the mirror¡ªI don¡¯t recognize the person who will stare back at me. There is a pen and a notepad on the dresser. I scribble a thank-you note, quickly make up the bed, and slip on the dirt, sweat stained clothes I had on yesterday. I take great care to fold Georgia¡¯s nightgown; her elaborate stitches alone shows she takes great pride with her work, and I do not want to disrespect her or her family anymore than I have already have. I don¡¯t have any shoes, since all of my things are crammed at the back of my car. I slip the stick deep into my left pocket and, as quietly as I can, make my way down the hallway and out the front door. The heat is especially worst today, and I already sense another headache settling in. The pavement of the driveway burns the soles of my bare feet, and I¡¯m about halfway past their garden when the screen door abruptly swings open. ¡°Juno!¡± I jump and turn around at the sharp voice. Georgia rushes down the porch steps. She¡¯s wearing a bright pink robe and fuzzy slippers. Her hair is braided down, and I can see the circles resting under her eyes. For a moment, I worry that my vomiting all night may have kept her up. She swats away a fly as she marches over to me. Even though she couldn¡¯t be more than five feet tall, I can see exactly where Rana got her intimidating nature from. My stomach hurts. ¡°Where the hell are you going?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± My throat is dry. ¡°I¡­I¡¯m heading out. I appreciate all that you¡ª¡± ¡±No, you don¡¯t appreciate shit. Don¡¯t start that with me, girl. What the hell is the matter with you? You don¡¯t just get up and leave without telling nobody.¡± Georgia makes a sucking noise with her teeth as she stares at my feet. ¡°For the love, child. Get back inside.¡± ¡±I can hitchhike a ride down to my house,¡± I quickly say. ¡°It¡¯s not a big deal. Really.¡± The old woman gives me a side-eyed glance. Before I know it, she is leading me up the porch, her frail hand guiding me down the hallway in the cool house. She surprisingly has a lot of strength, and I struggle to keep up with her fast pace. I flinch as the screen door slams shut behind us, worried that Tom might wake up. But his wife doesn¡¯t seem to care. She nudges me to the bathroom and gestures to the tub. ¡°You¡¯re not wearing these dirty things around my house. Bathe yourself.¡± ¡°But¡ª¡± Georgia yanks the shower curtain to the side, flings open the small closet and pulls out a few folded towels. She shakes her head. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hear another word. That¡¯s the thing with this generation. You¡¯re all so stubborn. When I was your age, we never put up such a fuss with our elders. My mama would¡¯ve whooped my behind. A good dress is what you need. Who the hell wears pants in a hundred-degree weather anyway?¡± As she rambles, my hand instinctively wanders down to my pocket. Before I can pull it away, Georgia pauses. Sweat is building up behind my neck, gathering around my forehead. She takes a step forward to me. I try not to look at her, focusing on anything else in the room. She wrinkles her freckled nose. Please, don¡¯t ask. Please don¡¯t¡ª ¡°What you steal from us now?¡± she snaps. My chest grows tight. Georgia sets the towels down with a thump. ¡°I¡¯m askin¡¯ you a question. What you take?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t take anything,¡± I say. The walls of the tiny bathroom are closing in on us. My heart is thumping harder than a drum, so hard I¡¯m surprised she doesn¡¯t hear it. I want to push past her and leave through the front door¡ªbut it¡¯s like my feet are fused to the ground. Georgia¡¯s large hazel eyes narrow. She holds out her wrinkled palm. ¡°Give it here.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡±Give to me.¡± Her tone is sharp. ¡°Now.¡± My fingers are clammy, sticky as I fumble into the fabric of my jeans. She abruptly snatches the white stick out of my hand, not apparently bothered that I had pissed on it only hours ago. After examining it for a moment, she glances at the bottom drawer beneath the sink and picks up the open box. Deep chills are running up and down my spine, and I wish she¡¯d yell at me. It would be a lot better than the silence that had fallen upon us. Georgia finally speaks. ¡°You just find out?¡± I slowly nod. ¡±Last night?¡± I nod again, since I don¡¯t know what to say. The old woman sighs. ¡°That¡¯s why you were in such a hurry to get out of here, hmm?¡± ¡°I was¡­I was going to go to the pharmacy and buy a couple more to make sure,¡± I stammer. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to be a bother.¡± ¡°A bother?!¡± Georgia examines, slamming the the test against the sink counter. She spun around and stuck her index finger into my chest. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to pry into your business, but you¡¯re about to be a mama now. You¡¯ve been running from a lot of things, but you can¡¯t run from this. You better get used to being a bother, because this young¡¯un is your main priority now. It¡¯s no longer about you¡ªwhat you think or how you feel. Those days of selfishness are over. You have someone depending on you. It takes a village to raise a child, and you must learn to find and use the necessary resources. You understand?¡± ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± I whisper. My hands are shaking. I¡¯m wondering if I¡¯m in a dream. Mother. I¡¯m going to be a mother. ¡°Good,¡± she says, although I can still see how disgusted she is with me. I don¡¯t think she wants to be friends anytime soon. ¡°Now, get into that tub. You must be crazy, planning to leave like this. Leave the clothes out; I¡¯ll wash them. You are going to drink some honey ginger tea to settle that stomach of yours, and then we are going to have a conversation, before you go or do anything else stupid.¡± A gentle knock on the partially open bathroom door startles both of us. Tom sheepishly stands in the doorway, dressed in a gray robe similar to Georgia¡¯s. His hair is tousled over his head, and he¡¯s fighting back a heavy yawn. I can barely comprehend this. Didn¡¯t anybody sleep proper last night? Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. ¡±I can hear you both down the hall,¡± he mumbles, his voice thick with fatigue. He checks the watch on his wrist. ¡°It¡¯s only five thirty. That¡¯s way too early for any sort of bickering.¡± ¡±Oh hush, you old fool. Stop flapping those gums,¡± Georgia replies. She folds her frail arms. ¡°Actually, now that you¡¯re up, I need for you to do me a favor. Can you run to the drugstore and pick up pregnancy tests? As well as diapers and formula? Bottles, too. If they¡¯re on sale, that¡¯s even better.¡± ¡±No, no, no, you don¡¯t¡ª¡± I begin. ¡°And if you happen to come across the supermarket, I need some good chicken broth. This girl has been throwing up all night¡ªwe need something she can keep down.¡± My face burned. She knew. They both knew. ¡°Really,¡± I try again, ¡°I¡¯m alright¡ª¡± Georgia glares at me. Her hazel eyes appear golden in the light. ¡°Why aren¡¯t you bathing? I told you get into that shower!¡± She shoves one of the towels into my arms, places a kiss on her husband¡¯s cheek, and marches down the hallway, her slippers pattering loudly against the wooden boards. A few moments later, we can hear pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, and then the radio turning on. Tom chuckles. ¡°Don¡¯t mind her. Once she has her coffee she¡¯ll be good as rain.¡± He then excitedly smiles. ¡°Well, you¡¯re just full of surprises, ain¡¯t ya? You¡¯re gonna be a mama, I see. My Georgia, she love babies. Been wantin¡¯ grandchildren herself for a while. Make sure to bring the little one over here sometime.¡± Before I can respond, he shuts the door. I hear him go down the porch steps, and start his engine. His red taillights glow in the dim morning air. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, before placing a hand on my stomach. * * * * * * * * After a few days, I finally make it home. Tom said he was going to swing by the next day and look at my car, check out the house as well. He had given me a new map of the town¡ªshowed me where the buses were. I had taken one close to the edge of town, then walked the remaining three miles back through the twisted path that led to the woods, down near a couple of deteriorating sheds, broken wood hanging by rusted nails. I¡¯m carrying two bags¡ªone with my freshly washed tank top and jeans¡ªthe other with jars of soup and canned foods. I¡¯m wearing the New Balance sneakers that Georgia has given me. They¡¯re a little loose, but I¡¯d take them over my worn flip flops any day. I hike through the thick grass. The house looks the same as it had when I left. I¡¯m dressed in T-shirt dress that hangs above my knees, but the fabric is soft against my skin. It lifts when the wind blows beneath it. I don¡¯t think the real estate lady is coming here. My dead Camaro is parked in the same spot, covered in dozens of leaves. To my relief, none of my windows are smashed in. I set down my bags and clear the stuff off the windshield with my hands. I even locate my car keys, where I had last found them. There is not another soul, just the trees that sway in the wind, directly below the graying sky. I pop open my trunk and start carrying out my boxes to the porch, one by one. My mattress surprisingly isn¡¯t that dirty, so I bring it into the house, releasing a heavy sigh as I set it in the middle of the living room. I keep the lights on. I try to sweep all the stuff out the door on the first floor, but I¡¯m sneezing so much that I decide to take a break and sit on the porch steps. There are cobwebs every corner, and I want to get this place in somewhat decent shape before Tom comes down here and sees how run down it is. The last thing I needed was for him to worry. And finally, I will be able to look for a job. I study my flat stomach, and, for the first time in months, smile to myself. It¡¯s an amazing yet very odd feeling¡ªto have someone growing and sleeping inside of you. Depending on you. After many tests and a visit to a clinic, the doctor had informed me that I am six weeks pregnant. I recall hearing the rapid whooshwhooshwhoosh during the ultrasound, knowing how close my child¡¯s heart is to my own. I won¡¯t be so lonely as I was before¡ªand I already had ideas of what I wanted for the baby¡¯s room to look like. Instead of crying myself to sleep, I plan to whisper thousands of promises to my child, to let them know that I will never abandon them, no matter what mistakes they will make, as my own mother had done. I have no idea who the father is, and I hate myself for it. It could be one of my many former clients, my drug dealer, as I had spent many long nights with him the previous month. But I would make sure that my child had a positive male role model in that regard¡ªI could only offer this precious little one so much, but it would be everything that I had. I¡¯m curious to know whether they will have my mother¡¯s strong, round chin, or my father¡¯s broad nose, dark eyes always sparkling with laughter. I wish my parents were here. My stomach grumbles; my appetite has been slowly coming back. I reach into my bag and pull out the chicken soup Georgia has made, still warm in the thick glass container that she has carefully wrapped to avoid it spilling. I pry open the lid and am digging in with a spoon when I hear a thump upstairs in the house, like someone has dropped a shoe or a book. I glance towards the open doorway. It¡¯s mostly silent, but I place down my still warm bowl on the top porch step. My finger wraps around the handle of my pocketknife as I ascend up the stairs. If there is someone bigger or stronger than me, hopefully I could get them into the eye before making a break for it in the woods. I ran track in high school¡ªmaybe it would finally pay off. I just hope that Rana has not found my address. The wood is rotting, groaning with each and every movement I made. I see dark green moss on the ceiling. My fingers dig into the curved, flimsy railing. The top floor of the house is the most vulnerable, and one bad move can send me crashing through the ceiling, so I walk carefully in the shadows, trying not to breathe in too much dust. Above me, the ladder to the attic is visible. After a moment of hesitation, I go up the first couple of rungs. I clear a giant cobweb and push up the attic door. The smell of damp wood and grass is stronger, yet strangely euphoric. It¡¯s pitch black once I crawl through the attic space, and mud streaks my dress. I feel around until my fingers wrap around a small, overhanging chain. I yank on it, and to my relief, yellow light floods the room. The rafters that form the shape of a triangle to support the roof loom above me, and there is a gaping hole in the corner where a small plant is growing, after receiving years of sunlight and rain. The room is mostly empty, expect for a couple of dust covered cardboard boxes, a bicycle that has rust growing on it, and a stack of old comic books, yellowed with age, which I guess dated from the early and late sixties. My right sneaker scuffs against something, and I bend down to take a closer look. A grainy black and white photograph of a man and woman is visible underneath the smashed glass frame. The man has a very stern expression on his face, matching his stiff suit, while the woman wears a patterned dress. She has a soft, but wary smile. I see that there¡¯s space for a third person in the picture, seated in front of them, but it¡¯s ripped cleanly in half, leaving crooked lines behind. Carefully, I pick up the photograph from the broken glass and flip it over. In spidery cursive, a date is written. March 1956. I find myself studying the photo for a long time, wondering if this belonged to the previous owner of the home. What were the man and the woman doing at the moment? Were they still together? If they saw their house in its current state, how would they react? I can¡¯t help but trace my fingertips over the woman¡¯s gentle face. She has such lovely pale eyes¡ªyet there was a hidden anxiety present in them, almost like she didn¡¯t want to be in the picture. I¡¯m curious who the third person in the photo is supposed to be, but like their relatives, they are mostly gone, only distant memories of the past. Vanished. My eyes wander to a black rectangular item resting on top of one of the cardboard boxes, coated in thick cobwebs. I place the photograph in a safe space and reach out with both of my hands, dusting it off. It¡¯s slightly heavy, bulky almost. Nearby, a dust covered joystick rests a few feet away from me. I see the peeling words, ATARI 2600¨C VIDEO COMPUTING SYSTEM¨Cvisible in the middle of the rectangular box, its twisted, tangled cord jammed between two dented cardboard boxes. Mouse droppings line the floor. Behind the flimsy joystick is a plastic container stuffed to the brim with ROM cartridges, labeled on a piece of wrinkled tape from ¡®79-85. A few wrinkled pieces of graph paper, written neatly in some sort of advanced programming code in pencil, catches my eye. C++, C, BASIC. Assembly language. The only reason why I recognized any of it is because I distinctly remember taking a couple of introductory coding classes during the summer of ninth grade, as my mother had wanted to keep me off the streets. And for a while, it worked. It wasn¡¯t something that I was particularly good at¡ªin fact, I was terrible at it¡ªbut it had definitely captured my attention, working with computers for the first time. I wasn¡¯t able to continue the following year because she could no longer afford them. But I had still enjoyed every single moment of it. Buried beneath these pages is a notebook consisting of multiple design character sets. Hundreds of them. Sprites. Pixelated sprites. Before I can get a closer look, the lights in the attic turn off, trapping me in complete darkness. Eight ANONYMOUS Minden, LA 1973 My hands scour through the towering pile of mail on the stained countertop. There¡¯s a stench that has settled through the house, but it¡¯s become such an after thought that I hardly smell it when I pass through the door. It settles upon me, clings to my skin, and more than once my boss has told me at the beginning of several shifts that I have to go home and shower. He¡¯s received several complaints from customers when I serve them¡ªa very bad thing for business indeed. It¡¯s resulted in my second write up. I don¡¯t get the opportunity to clean up often. Trash and old newspapers litter the living room floor, so much so that I can¡¯t see the carpet anymore. It¡¯s getting harder to move around due to heaps of plastic bins, boxes, and broken furniture. There is nothing in the fridge when I open it, besides a container of expired milk and an orange covered in green fuzz. I have not eaten since yesterday morning¡ªall I had were two slices of dry toast. I cut off the bad part of the fruit, peeling back the soggy skin with my thumbnail before wolfing it down. As I finish my snack, I observe the kitchen. I can¡¯t remember the last time I did the dishes or took out the trash, and flies buzz around the plates filled with partially eaten food. I frown when I see them. Mama¡¯s been lying to me; she hasn¡¯t been touching the ham and cheese sandwiches I¡¯ve made her every morning. She is incredibly wasteful; it takes me about two weeks of pay to scrape enough for groceries. With a heavy sigh, I dump the rotting food into the overflowing trashcan. Maybe I should get a cookbook, just to see what she likes. I¡¯ve never known her to be a picky eater, but she does like a good stew, with plenty of meat and vegetables¡ªthe nourishing stuff she needs to put on a couple of pounds. If I commute to school, I can easily make it home by noon and prepare her a nice lunch. And, hopefully, we will be able to bake together; like in the old days. Just the two of us, jamming to the radio or making fresh gingerbread for Christmas. My feet are sore after finishing a twelve-hour shift at the local Italian restaurant. There are stains and grease in my uniform and hair. I begin to scoop up the slimy spaghetti that I was able to sneak out when my manager wasn¡¯t looking from a Styrofoam to-go tray and onto a mostly clean plate. The washing machine isn¡¯t working, so I¡¯ll have to bring my clothes to the laundromat. Fortunately, I¡¯m off the following day, so I¡¯m able to catch up on some chores and much needed sleep before my shift tomorrow evening; although the idea seems daunting. I stretch my aching back and yawn. Maybe I¡¯ll do it this weekend. I¡¯m barely able to make ends need as it is to keep up with the mortgage of the house, before Mama and I end up on the streets. Even with two full time jobs; and some part time freelancer work, I can hardly seem to buy anything. I keep shifting through the mail, hoping to find a letter I¡¯ve been waiting weeks for. I¡¯ve already applied to six colleges so far¡ªgot rejected from four, waitlisted from the fifth one. The sixth one seems to be hidden from me. I swear I¡¯ve checked the post office so many times, even the mailbox every evening when I get back from work. Nothing. There¡¯s no point in calling the admissions office to check the status of my application. My grade point average of 2.1 doesn¡¯t seem to be helping me much, and it¡¯s not like I did any extracurricular activities or made honors. I barely graduated from high school. I haven¡¯t been in a classroom for over three years. A scholarship seems like a dream at this point. I¡¯m still hoping to at least go to school part time¡ªalthough the fee of the first semester alone puts a massive dent into my meager savings. I would like to buy a computer so I can continue to practice my coding, but that will have to wait until I get tuition straightened out. If it doesn¡¯t work out, there is always the local community college. It¡¯s only fifteen miles away. And I could always transfer, although I don¡¯t want to be too far from home. A heavy sigh escapes my mouth. Once the microwave beeps, I remove the plate, steam rising from the bubbling tomato sauce and rubbery meatballs. My stomach grumbles, but I know Mama needs this much more than I. She hasn¡¯t been eating¡ªshe¡¯s been hiding the food I make for her underneath her bed, or making herself throw it up once she thinks I¡¯ve gone downstairs. She¡¯s sure I poison her food, even though I make it right in front of her. That¡¯s when I have to lock her inside her room. It¡¯s very simple: if she wants to have privileges, such as going outside, moving around the house, or watching her favorite television shows, she has to cooperate with me. She¡¯s skin and bones. I just want Mama to eat something. Her face is wasting away. She won¡¯t speak or look at me, and it kills me inside. The other week she panicked when I brought her soup, and dumped it straight into the toilet. It took me two days to unclog it, and I made sure to keep her locked in her room for a good while. I¡¯ve boarded her window shut in case she thinks of trying to climb outside. It¡¯s a long drop below. She doesn¡¯t seem to remember who I am anymore, and it truly scares me. The other evening, I tried to play spades with her. Again, she had not touched the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I left for her the other day. She had ripped each card into shreds and threw them across the room. I¡¯ll have to laminate them once I get a new deck. Using the fork, I stir in the sauce to make sure the noodles are coated all the way. I slip off my shoes, and, after carefully grabbing a handful of paper napkins, make my way barefoot up the stairs. Clothes and trash litter the dirt crusted carpet, and I make a mental note to vacuum this Saturday¡ªor some day this week. I¡¯ll have to eventually do it. The upstairs hallway is dimly lit, and it¡¯s even darker inside my mother¡¯s room. I gently rap my fist against the door. ¡°Mama? Mama, I¡¯m home. I got you a little something, but you got to be careful. It¡¯s still hot.¡± She don¡¯t answer, of course, and I don¡¯t expect her to. She¡¯s barely spoken in the past week. I enter her room. She¡¯s huddled in the corner of her bed like a small child, the sheets drawn up to her chest. Her clavicles are visible through her nightgown, and a small line of drool collects at the bottom of her chin. With one hand, I grab the chair from her dresser, which is crowded with dozens of plastic medication bottles. Once I switch on the light, I sit down at her side of the lumpy mattress. Her eyes slightly widen at the heaping plate of food on my lap. She loves pasta. ¡±It was really busy tonight, Mama,¡± I murmur, gently tucking a paper napkin underneath her chin. ¡°I¡¯ve made over three hundred dollars in tips, though. So after I take care of everything, we can have a little extra for ourselves to enjoy. Maybe we can have a movie night together.¡± I squeeze her hand. ¡°And I can pick up dessert for us later. How does lemon cake or vanilla ice cream sound?¡± The tines of my fork sink into a meatball, causing watery tomato juice to leak out on the plate. I carefully blow off the steam, before raising it to Mama¡¯s lips. She stares at me¡ªit¡¯s the blank look in her eyes that get to me the most. ¡±Come on,¡± I whisper. ¡°It¡¯s good.¡± She knows her stubbornness bothers me. But I push down my exasperation and hold out the fork after twirling it around some noodles. ¡°Please?¡± I ask. ¡°You haven¡¯t eaten all day. And barely anything yesterday. If you don¡¯t eat, you¡¯ll get sick.¡± Her eyelids falter for a moment, before she takes a large bite of the meatball. She chews for a long time, probably an attempt to get me to lose interest. But I have all night, just like her. I¡¯m just as stubborn as she is, if not even more. Her napkin slips out from under her chin, and as I¡¯m bending down to pick it up, something slams against my forehead with a loud crash. The room goes white for a moment, and I realize that there are pieces of the plate scattered everywhere on the carpet, next to slippery, moist noodles. I struggle to see straight. I can hear Mama rushing out of the room. My head is killing me, and as I scramble down the steps, I can see that she¡¯s heading for the kitchen, where the knife block is. My bare feet catch against the rugged carpet, and as she reaches for the biggest one, I immediately attempt to pry it from her. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. The blade catches against my arm. I hardly feel it. Mama screams and screams. She tries to go through the front door, struggling to unlatch the chain, but I grab her back by her arm, slamming it shut with my left bare foot. The cold November air settles in the hallway, and dead leaves have already escaped inside. She gets me again, this time in the shoulder. My blood splatters against the wallpaper. This time, I manage to snatch the knife directly from her. It falls to the floor with a heavy clatter, and I immediately kick it to the side, where it slides near the bottom of the sink. She starts throwing other items at me, whatever she can find. I grab her by the shoulders after dodging a vase that smashes against the counter behind me. She bites my hand, and, this time, something hot takes over me. I roughly wrestle her to the ground¡ªshe is surprisingly stronger than she appears; and me skipping meals and missing sleep hasn¡¯t helped one bit. Her yellow teeth sink into my flesh, and she snatches at the ends of my long, disheveled hair, frantically trying to rip it out of my head. I free my locks from her balled fists. She¡¯s then reaching for the knife again, but I yank her backwards, accidentally shoving her against the legs of the slanted kitchen table. Mama slaps me across the face. Hard. The noise echoes across the room like a thunderclap. She screams so loud that I clamp my hand over her mouth as I get her to her feet. Her long nails are digging into my skin. She knocks over a chair with her foot. I get her standing again, but she¡¯s kicking me. My sweaty fingers reach for the syringe I know will be there from one of the cabinets. She delivers one final blow before I jab the needle deep into the side of her neck while I hold her down. The pure rage in her eyes is all I see before she slips into unconsciousness. Her limbs go limp. I struggle to catch my breath. My bruised arms are covered with the red scratches she left upon my flesh, and I lean my head against the bottom of the sink filled with dirty dishes. Blood is dripping down my face, splattering on the grimy kitchen floor. When I touch it with my fingers, they are coated in it. I roll up my uniform sleeve, where I examine my bleeding shoulder. There are a crossroad of other scars that she had left behind, and this one, although a little bit more deeper than normal, would heal fast. I know it will. From now on, I will be using paper plates. There¡¯s a thud in the basement, but I don¡¯t react. I simply pick up Mama and carry her up the stairs in my arms, careful to not accidentally bump her head against the wall. * * * * * * * * I quietly hum. The faucet in the bathtub is spewing out warm water. The handle slightly smeared with the blood from my hand when I turn it up to a warm setting. I add plenty of soap, and dip my fingers in the tub to test the temperature. Bubbles always seem to calm her down, and I pour a generous amount, watching the white fluff expand and grow. I want to buy bath salts for her, to help with the scabs she gets on her skin. I saw them for fifty percent off in the Sears catalog, a wonderful present in time for holidays. It doesn¡¯t take long before the bathroom is filled with the aroma of rosemary, one of Mama¡¯s favorite scents. Steam fogs the mirror. I soon find out that her nightgown is soiled with her own urine and feces, and of course, she has been hiding this from me, although I make sure she¡¯s properly cleaned every night. I need to check her bedsheets as well. The stuff has dried onto the back of her legs and upper thighs since she¡¯s been lying in it all day, causing an infection. I rub a pasty medicated cream into those areas to make the swelling go down. I then start scrubbing, getting her fully coated in the pink rosemary soap. Bubbles rise above. The sound of trickling water fills the air. Mama wakes up a few moment later. She is shivering and naked in the thick white suds, her teeth chattering. ¡°Are you cold?¡± I softly ask, and I can tell my voice startles her. ¡°Let me make the water warmer.¡± As I turn the handle, I hum a bit louder. ¡°That¡¯s better, ain¡¯t it? Much better.¡± I smile. ¡°Your skin is about to match the color of this soap, Mama.¡± She flinches as soon as she sees me next to her, my shadow on the wall. Her eyes are darting from one side of the bathroom to the other, but I know she can¡¯t really move. I want her to trust me. I want her to know that I am here. I can tell she¡¯s trying to sit up, but the hot water is lapping near the bottom of her chin. She is all I have left in this world, and I am not ready for her to leave me behind in it. She can¡¯t leave. ¡°Shhhh,¡± I murmur, caressing the side of her face with my bloodied hand. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Mama.¡± ¡±I want to go outside,¡± she mumbles. ¡°We will. As soon as you feel better.¡± I turn the faucet off and raise one of her bare arms, scrubbing with the cloth in my hand. The blood is still on my face, and my slashed arm and shoulder are starting to kill me. But I scrub as hard as I can, no matter how much she squirms. Red drops slowly fall into the soapy water. Mama doesn¡¯t move, her knees partially submerged into the suds. She just continues to stare at me I make sure to lather more shampoo onto her head, before massaging it deep into her scalp, which has been inflamed and raw due to her scratching so much she leaves a bloody mess. Her hair is just beginning to grow back. I don¡¯t want her to lose it again. Carefully, I use my nails to gently rake up the large chunks of dead skin that are on the crown of her head. I can tell that this is extremely relieving for her, although she remains stiff. She has had lice for weeks and wouldn¡¯t let me help her get rid of it. Her fingers grip the edge of the tub, feeling for a weapon that is no longer nearby. I keep humming. It seems to relax her. ¡°I remember that song,¡± Mama slowly says. A soft smile crosses my face. ¡°Of course you do. You used to sing it to me all the time when I was little,¡± I whisper, pouring a small container of lukewarm water over her head, rinsing out the shampoo. ¡°How can I forget?¡± Mama doesn¡¯t say anything else, but I know what she¡¯s thinking. I help her to her feet, drain the tub, wrap a thick, fuzzy towel around her frail frame. She¡¯s very unsteady, and I support her as I lead her back into the bedroom and help her get dressed. With a paddle brush, I gently remove all of the knots from her sparse hair, surprised that she let me to do so. She doesn¡¯t put up a fuss as she usually does, and once I have her in wrinkled but clean pajamas I find smushed at the bottom of her drawer, I help her climb into the bed. One thing I¡¯ve noticed about her fits, is that she wears herself out plenty afterwards. She smells like roses. I shake out a bright blue pill from one of the prescription bottles on her dresser and place it into the middle of her palm. She looks at it like she doesn¡¯t know what to do with it. ¡°Here,¡± I gently say. ¡°The doctor says you need one each night.¡± I reach for a water bottle and unscrew the lid. ¡°Go ahead.¡± Mama scrunches up her face like she always does, but she finally takes it. I make sure that she opens her mouth and check beneath her mottled tongue to see that has actually swallowed it. The spilled food and shattered plate covers the ground, but I don¡¯t look at it. I don¡¯t have the strength to clean it up. I¡¯ll do it later. I hold her thin hand, cradle it between my own fingers. It¡¯s rough now, but I remember when it used to be soft. I hold it close to my face, the smell of roses growing stronger against my nose. She gives me a confused look. ¡±What?¡± I kiss the bridge of her knuckles. Mama glances at the mess beside her bed. ¡°Did you drop something? That¡¯ll attract ants.¡± I smile at her again. ¡°I¡¯ve been clumsy.¡± ¡±What happened to your head?¡± ¡±I fell, Mama,¡± I whisper. ¡°I fell down.¡± She slightly yawns and leans her head against the pillow. ¡°You must be careful.¡± Her eyelids are getting droopy. She¡¯d be knocked out tomorrow, and I won¡¯t have to worry so much when I¡¯m out of the house. ¡°I went to check the mail today, but the door is locked. It¡¯s always locked.¡± ¡±We have to earn unlocked doors,¡± I say. Mama doesn¡¯t reply. She has already fallen asleep. I turn off the lamp by her nightstand and close her bedroom door, making sure that she won¡¯t be able to open it until I get home the next day. I slip the key back into its hiding place and head to the tiny bathroom in the hallway, turning on the sink. My hands are shaking very much. There is blood on my uniform. I will have to go to the laundromat tomorrow, and bring Mama¡¯s dirty things with me as well. Our washing machine stopped working last year. I begin to viciously scrub at my unbuttoned shirt with the bar of soap. I don¡¯t want to look at myself in the mirror, and my breaths grow heavier. I¡¯m surprised to sense moisture already pouring down my cheeks, hot and salty, but I splash my face with cold water until my neck and ears are freezing and my skin is electric. There is still a great deal of blood still coming down from the gaping wound on my forehead. I see the red imprint of Mama¡¯s hand on my cheek. My hair is dripping wet, and I examine my face for a moment in the mirror. I¡¯ve lost more weight than before. My hipbones and collarbones protrude through my skin. I look like a ghost due to how little sunlight I¡¯ve gotten. Blood travels down my elbow from the gash on my shoulder. I can find a way to stitch up with some needle and thread in the attic. The thumping in the basement continues. There is a distinct rattling of chains. I go downstairs, the air cold against my face. I bend down to the floor, and pick up the bloodied knife Mama has dropped in the kitchen. My sweaty fingers are wrapped so tight around the handle that they are white. Before I descend into the dark basement, I slowly close the door behind me. Nine THE ADVOCATE September 26, 1989 BODY OF A MAN DISCOVERED IN HOOPER PARK Gill Stevens CITY POLICE have discovered the remains of an adult male buried three miles south of Hooper Park in Baton Rouge early yesterday morning. The man has not yet been identified, although forensic experts believe that he had passed away either between ¡®86 or 88. It took several hours to recover the body, which will be sent in for an autopsy report. Currently, the cause of death is unknown, but the Baton Rouge Police Department and FBI are investigating further. Chief of Police Wayne Rogillo advises for the public to ¡°exercise caution when using the trail¡± and to ¡°only do so during the daytime in groups of two or more.¡± He says, ¡°No other information is released at the time as we are currently working to notify family.¡± Hooper Park was closed yesterday. So far, there is no suspect. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. The male victim¡¯s personal items, including his watch and wedding ring, have been brought to the lab for DNA testing and fingerprint analysis. Forensic experts intend to identify the man with dental records. The BRPD is hoping that anyone who may have any information can come immediately to the police station. ¡°What a shame,¡± says fitness and lifestyle coach Rachel Bruner, who usually takes her morning jogs on the Hooper Park trail. ¡°This is a place of community, where people walk their dogs, have picnics, and hang out with friends. I¡¯m a mom of three. You saying that I can¡¯t even bring my kids out to the park anymore? It¡¯s absolute madness.¡± Other Baton Rouge residents share completely different perspectives. ¡±I just hope they find whoever they did it, and fast,¡± says John Beckman. He is a cyclist and has competed in the Olympics twice. The trail is a popular training spot for athletes. ¡°Whoever could¡¯ve done something like this needs to take full responsibility and come forward, but we know that¡¯s not going to happen anytime soon. I¡¯ll sleep better at night knowing when that individual is finally placed behind bars. You can only hide for so long. My thoughts and prayers go out to the victim¡¯s family.¡± ¡°It ain¡¯t fair to the rest of us,¡± says Monica Taylor, a regular user of Hooper Park says, who usually takes her hikes there on the weekends with friends.¡°I don¡¯t care how long ago this happened. I¡¯m concerned that the perpetrator is going to continue to do this to the other parks in the area, and now no one will be able to escape the bustle of the city and unwind with nature. Working out in the gym ain¡¯t the same as working out outside, and no one can convince me otherwise.¡± Police plan to have updates ready for the public within the following days. In the meantime, the BRPD strongly recommends for city residents to never go to the park at night, to be aware of their surroundings, and to always have a partner. Ten JUNO SEPTEMBER 1986 MINDEN, LA My palms are raw and sore from scrubbing my clothes in the large pail of soapy water. I manage to hitch up a clothesline for them to dry. My eyes are puffy. I am going to lose this place in matter of months. Two long months of job hunting and not a single reply. I¡¯ve used all the spare change I¡¯ve brought with me at the pay phone. I go in stores, out of stores. I¡¯ve been turned away so many times that I¡¯ve lost count. Salt water spills down my cheeks. My head throbs from a lack of sleep. I am going to be homeless. I can¡¯t put a roof over my baby¡¯s head. Once the state finds out, they will take my child away from me, and I will never see them again. They will be placed in the foster care system, and when they turn eighteen they will want nothing to do with me because they think I¡¯ve abandoned them. And then I will have no family, no one¡ª A lump rises in my throat. My fingers tighten around the shirt I am ringing out with my hands. I walk barefoot across the yard and attach it to the clothesline, which sways in the wind. The smell of laundry detergent fills my nose. I dump out the soapy water on the side of the porch. I don¡¯t usually get emotional easy. It¡¯s these damn hormones that got me all choked up. I¡¯ve been crying for days like a maniac over pointless, worthless stuff. Yesterday, I was sobbing because I was craving peanut butter crackers and pickles. Breathe, I remind myself. You¡¯ve got time. Try again tomorrow. There¡¯s always tomorrow. You just gotta improve upon your interviewing skills. Make a good first impression. People won¡¯t know what you don¡¯t tell them. You got to stay focused. I exhale, easing the pressure in my chest. Once I place the pail back on the porch, I enter the kitchen. Since I¡¯m too nauseated to leave the house and try my luck at the job search anyway, I decide a little bit of cleaning will keep my mind off things and open the windows to let the place air out. I pick up my wilted straw broom and start sweeping the floor, wiping my snotty nose with the back of my stained sleeve. I¡¯ve made good progress, and I push aside a table to get at a stubborn cobweb before something catches my eye. Something white. A cream colored envelope is tucked between the two loose floorboards. Once I set down the broom, I pick it up. It¡¯s a very thick wad of cash. And another. I glance around me for a moment, before peeling back the flap with my thumb. I silently count out the bills, which ends up totaling over four grand. I see a note at the very bottom. Just to get you started, Tom Brunswick. The writing is boxy, in all caps, scrawled out in dark blue ink. It seems a bit familiar to me, but I don¡¯t know why. I rub my eyes, wondering how it got stuck into the floor. Maybe the wind knocked it over. Maybe Tom stopped by, realized that I wasn¡¯t home, and dropped this off. Why he didn¡¯t he just ask if we could take a trip to the bank is beyond me. I reckon he¡¯s just old fashioned. He seems like the type of guy to store his birth certificate and social security card underneath his mattress. When I swallow, I wince. My throat hurts; I must be coming down with a cold. I wearily sit down on the wooden stool and cough. I need to return the money to him and Georgia, since I can¡¯t take this. It¡¯s far too much, and they have already done enough for me. It¡¯s worse that their daughter knows I stole from her father. Now she¡¯ll think that I¡¯m scamming them out of more money too, and I don¡¯t want her to find out where I live. I fold the wrinkled bills back in the envelope and slip it into its hiding place, admiring how Tom has such a knack for detail. As soon as I am able to reach the bus, I¡¯m heading back to the Brunswick home to get this ridiculous heap of cash off my hands. The last thing I want to be in more crippling debt. I¡¯ve always hated owing people things, money included. When I finish sweeping, I reach the bottom of the stairs, still holding my broom. I stop when I see something sitting on the third step. It¡¯s the notepad of the strange video game sprites I¡¯ve seen before. Each page is completely filled with them. The graph paper is completely crumpled with the bizarre designs, like they¡¯ve been stepped and kicked on multiple times. I can see from downstairs that the attic door is closed, the cord from the pull-out ladder dangling in the air, swinging back and forth. My mouth goes dry, and I suddenly snatch the notebook and head outside. The sky is cloudy and gray above. I dump it straight in the trash. * * * * * * * * I¡¯m having a hard time sleeping at night. My nose is stuffy and all blocked up, and I can¡¯t stop sneezing. I blow my nose repeatedly. During the day, the house is peaceful, with its ordinary creaks and groans. It¡¯s not unusual for such sounds to occur. As a matter of fact, I¡¯ve gotten used to them. The wind howls, shakes up the place. It does what any old house is supposed to do. But once evening falls, and the sun disappears in the horizon, is when that strange, queasy sensation settles inside of me. It¡¯s extremely quiet. Perhaps it¡¯s just nausea¡ªit hasn¡¯t completely gone away yet. I was relieved to finally install the new door, so now, I don¡¯t have to worry about someone breaking in. But I don¡¯t know if it is safer to be in or outside the house. It is very, very quiet at night, and my mere desk lamp doesn¡¯t seem quite enough to keep the shadows away. The move-in process is very slow, but simple. I carry my meager belongings from my broken down car, trudging through the thick, tall grass. I nearly fold my clothes and place them on a small shelf. Since I¡¯m not yet comfortable with sleeping upstairs, my makeshift bedroom is in the living room, nearby the old television. I use a few of my sheets as drapes to cover the windows to catch some privacy, in case someone may be poking around nearby. All I have are mostly canned foods and microwave dinners. The refrigerator door doesn¡¯t even open, and I don¡¯t want to find out what is inside of it. After several hours of unpacking, I eat out on the porch. I¡¯m craving ginger tea for my stuffy nose, but there¡¯s no money for a stove right now. It¡¯s my favorite spot out of the entire house, because I am able to watch the sun go down. When there is just enough sun in the sky, I muster enough courage to go up the steps. I hold up my flashlight and make my way towards the smallest bedroom. I walk to the middle and spin around. I can¡¯t help but smile. It¡¯s completely bare, covered in dirt and cobwebs, but I can imagine shining it up, painting the walls a nice yellow color. Perhaps add some decorative wallpaper with teddy bears, a dresser to match the crib I could barely afford. And toys. Lots of toys. A fat, fluffy beanbag, perhaps, with a nice bookcase. A desk wouldn¡¯t hurt either when they get a little older¡ªsomething that my child could use to do their homework, or draw and paint pictures. I chuckle at the thought of tiny painted handprints against the wall. My mother would¡¯ve thrown a fit¡ªshe couldn¡¯t stand a messy room. As I inch closer to the small window, I can see the entire view of the front yard, covered in weeds. My hands rest against the dirty ledge. I continue to squint through the stained glass, when a creak in the hallway causes me to spin around. The bedroom door is open just an inch. I had closed it behind me when I came in here. With my right hand, I whip out my pocketknife. The blade catches in the light, and my shaking hand is glued to the handle. But when I go out in the hallway, no one is there. I check the attic and the bedrooms, and the bathroom in that room, too. Clutching my knife as tight as I can, I descend down the creaky steps, and open the front door. The yard is empty, and dried leaves had begun to collect on the porch and my dead car, barely visible in the warm evening air. No one is there. * * * * * * * * This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.I¡¯ve went to the Brunswick home three times this week. It¡¯s empty when I knock on their door, or peer through the window. I think they¡¯re out of town, so I¡¯m stuck with the money. I make sure to guard it carefully, placing back into the floorboards each time. There¡¯s a water pump outside that I¡¯ve been using to bathe with every evening, and I¡¯ve positioned the rusted pipe above so that it falls above my head. The water itself is heavenly in this heat; it is pleasantly freezing as it travels down my hair, neck, swollen breasts, and protruding abdomen. I assume the house was built in the late thirties, early forties¡ªprobably one of the things that the real estate lady did not lie about. I depend on that tap for drinking water, too. It¡¯s not like anyone can see me undress. No cars, if any, ever pass by on the roads, so I often hear the singing of birds and the rustling of trees. As I adjust to the quiet sounds of nature around me, I can¡¯t help but remember the bustling sounds of Manhattan¡ªthe smell of exhaust in the air. Crickets whirr around me, and I can see fireflies light up in the growing dark as I wrap my wet frame in a towel and make my way back into the house. I know that the plumbing works sometimes¡ªjust the other day, the faucet in the kitchen sink spewed out thick brown water¡ª but I don¡¯t want to go upstairs or anywhere near the attic, especially after stumbling upon that video game system. Or the basement. I haven¡¯t gone into the basement yet, and I don¡¯t plan to soon. Somehow, the toilet still flushes. The first floor is the only place where I feel the most safe at. mainly, the living room and kitchen area. It¡¯s the closest to the door¡ªrather, there are two doors¡ªthe front door and the side door, which leads to a fenced backyard, where a rusted metal fence is eaten up by tree branches. It¡¯s the spaces of darkness, such as the stairwell or the locked basement door underneath the stairs that make me freeze. I try not to go past there as much as I can. I even contemplate sleeping outside to calm my mind, but finally decide at the last minute to camp out in the living room. I finally unpacked all of my things from my car. Tom has promised to find a new engine for me, but I know that he¡¯s most likely extremely busy. I have to be up early tomorrow to catch the bus into town. My job search has not been going well, but there is a waitressing job that I have an interview for¡ªsome place called Tito¡¯s Diner. The clothes I plan to wear are neatly folded on a chair, pressed and ironed. My arms burn, but I sit on a stool, take a paddle brush, and rake it through my thick hair. The knots seem to have worsen over time, and once I finally get to wrestle it into some cornrows that hang down my back, I am startled to see that it is already dark outside. I yawn. It¡¯s been a long day¡ªa lot of rejections from employers, walking around town, going from one bus stop to another by using the map Tom has given me, and accidentally getting the printer jammed at the library because I put too much paper into the tray. I brought a soft pretzel nearby a concession stand, and fed the geese near the pond, seeing my reflection in the murky water. A car sprayed mud over me, ruining my clothes. The only news is that at least the manager appeared slightly interested in me, and that I was going to convince him that my pregnancy would in no way affect my availability. I would be able to work nights after the baby comes¡ªI just have to find a sitter. Satisfied with my plans, I change into some pajamas, brush my teeth, spit the foam out into the grass and rinse my mouth with the cold, clear water from the pump. It tastes oddly sweet, refreshing, and had I known that it was located right by the house, I could¡¯ve saved myself from all the trouble I got into the first day. But in a strange kind of way, I¡¯m relieved to have met the Brunswicks, although I don¡¯t want them to see this place in its unfinished form. I know that Tom would handle its appearance better than Georgia. The ATARI 2600 and box of cartridges sit on the broken kitchen table. They¡¯re all quite worthless to me, since I don¡¯t have a television to even use it. The ancient one mounted against the wall doesn¡¯t even look functional. Probably hasn¡¯t in years. I have an inkling to try to turn it on, but don¡¯t. I¡¯ve had enough distractions already; I need to get to bed. It¡¯s midnight, and I plan to be up by five. As I wearily settle on the mattress, I wince with discomfort. It¡¯s getting a bit harder to move, but I chuckle to myself when I feel my baby begin to stir. ¡°Oh, no you don¡¯t,¡± I softly say, placing a hand on my abdomen. ¡°Not tonight. You¡¯re going to behave yourself.¡± My stomach has grown a quite a bit. I can still hide it with baggy shirts and jackets, but it¡¯s getting to a point that it¡¯s very noticeable. My baby is asleep during the day, but kicks at night, which wakes me up. I¡¯m only five months in, but I still read bedtime stories to my child, sometimes out loud. This helps me with my nerves, the sound of my voice filling the still house. Fairy tales, especially. I have them on audio player, and I place the headphones on my stomach. Tonight, I quietly sing to my child while lying on my back, with plenty of pillows and blankets to keep me warm, since the house can get very cold most evenings. To calm my nerves, I sing for myself. Oddly enough, I can¡¯t help but feel as if someone is listening. * * * * * * * * * * A door upstairs creaks. Groggy with sleep, I sit up from the mattress with a start, feeling around for my pocketknife, which I usually keep under my pillow. It isn¡¯t there. The only light in the living room is off. It¡¯s plugged in the wall like before. When I look closer, I see that the bulb is shattered. What time is it? I must¡¯ve misplaced my watch. The house itself pitch black. I can¡¯t see anything. No matter how many times I try to turn the light back on by clicking the switch, it¡¯s completely dead. Swinging my legs over the mattress, I wrap the blanket around myself, as it is suddenly freezing. I try to open the front door, but it is locked. There is a faint noise on the landing upstairs. I freeze for a moment, before dropping the blanket and running into the small pantry in the kitchen, beside the rusted stove. As quietly as I can, I shut the door. It smells sour in the tiny space, and to my relief, the doorknob has a tiny lock inside, which I turn. I crouch against the corner and hug my knees, breathing as quietly as I can. There¡¯s a brown stain on the floor. Sweat gathered at the base of my neck, and I freeze, my back pressed against the peeling wall. The pantry door has shutters, thin slits of where I can make out moonlight pouring from the kitchen windows outside. My heart is pounding so bad I¡¯m surprised it hasn¡¯t popped out of my chest. My throat is dry. Where is my knife? There are footsteps descending down the stairs. They are quiet, but I know that they are there. They seem to stop at the bottom, where I dropped my blanket. My eyes adjust to the darkness, as I¡¯m planning to think of a way to run out of the house and book it into town. I don¡¯t have a telephone. I frantically fumble at the metal knob, but I see a shadow on the wall, just halfway up the stairs. It has stopped moving. Slowly, I back away, accidentally knocking over a plastic flower pot. It clatters loudly on the ground, and I flinch. The footsteps pick up once more, growing closer to the sound with each passing moment. I clamp both of my hands over my mouth to stifle my breathing. The kitchen floor is cold against my bare feet, and I am shaking so badly that I can hardly keep my arms still. There is a moment of silence, and I hold my breath. Maybe they will go back upstairs. Or the basement. Then I can smash the window and climb out. Book it into the woods and run for the hills until morning comes. I bite my lower lip. The footsteps enter the living room, where I had been lying on my still warm mattress only a few minutes ago. They remain so still for a moment that I think I¡¯m beginning to imagine things. But as soon as they enter the kitchen, I shrink back as much as I can against the wall. They pass the table where the ATARI game system is sitting. Their footsteps slow down, right in front of the pantry door. I only know that they are there because the moonlight in the kitchen is blocked. They are barefooted like me, their muddy toes visible. They have left prints and dead leaves on the floor I spent a day cleaning up. In their left hand they are still holding my blanket. They look like they have just come from outside, which means that they know these woods far better than anyone. Far better than me. They don¡¯t try to open the pantry door. A dark palm appears on the shutter, their fingers curling around the edges. I can¡¯t scream, or move. I simply stare at the shape, and I realize that my pajama pants are now soaking wet because I pissed myself. A puddle of cold urine is slowly growing on the ground. But I don¡¯t move. There is a strange humming noise, coming from their throat. It¡¯s very quiet, warbled, distorted like it is underwater. And the words are something that I don¡¯t recognize¡ªlike they¡¯re speaking in another language. I try to feel around for something, anything to get my hands on in the enclosed space that I can potentially use to defend myself. But my arms are not moving. Neither are my legs. If that pantry door is unlocked, I¡¯m not sure what can happen. They most likely have the key to open it, and they are leaning forward against it, their darkened fingers still cradling my blanket. I don¡¯t want to imagine it. I know I¡¯m not imagining this. The figure remains at the pantry. I¡¯ve never seen anyone stand so still. It¡¯s like they are a statue. There¡¯s a faint tapping on the surface with their grimy fingertips. Their face is concealed in the shadows, but I all I can make out are two extremely bloody, chapped lips; covered in various scabs that are cracked all over, which look like they hurt to eat or drink with, let alone talk with. They have the key to get in here, and they know this, too. They know. Slowly, a faint, timid smile begins to form on those lips, before growing broader, stretching out on both sides of their darkened form. The singing quietly continues, lyrics passing through those scaly lips. It takes me a moment to realize that they are humming my tune, my special song for my child. My back is scrunched up against the wall. I¡¯m on the verge of vomiting, but I can hardly make a sound. My eyelids are fluttering. My stomach churns. I can no longer breathe. I am drowning. There are dark spots filling my vision, and I suddenly slip into darkness. Eleven ANONYMOUS JANUARY 1975 SUNNYVALE, CA ¡±So, tell me about yourself.¡± The man leans back into his chair. His hand is poised¡ªa thick cigarette placed between his ring and index finger. He missed a couple of spots on his jaw from when he last shaved, as the outline of his regrowing beard is greatly visible. There are wrinkles that settle beneath his eyes and around his nose. His messy desk is piled high with papers, and the smell of fresh coffee and cigarette smoke is filling up the office. It¡¯s too tiny for the both of us, and the sunlight streaming into the window behind us is causing sweat to build up on my face and neck, ruining the plaid button down shirt and khaki pants that I had to hunt in the thrift shop for. I can¡¯t afford office clothes. I could barely afford the bus ride I took to get over here. I¡¯ve always hated interviews. It is simply not possible to fully assess a candidate¡¯s skill set within thirty minutes. No one can convince me otherwise. I see it as more of a confounded personality test¡ªthat type of thing that the girls in my elementary class would do with each other with those cheesy teenage magazines during lunch break. A job itself isn¡¯t supposed to be a friendship club. My previous one definitely wasn¡¯t. I have very poor social skills myself. But I¡¯ve spent many weeks practicing for this moment in front of the bathroom mirror of my apartment, which is much smaller than this office. With both of my palms, I smooth the nonexistent wrinkles from my freshly pressed pants and sit up straighter in my seat. The man¡¯s eyes are boring into mine, behind his thick-framed glasses. I don¡¯t know why he called me here on the phone. Perhaps I dream too much, hope too much. I¡¯ve been rejected from over a hundred jobs so far¡ªsome in the field I want, others not. I¡¯ve filled out so many applications that there are permanent ink stains on my fingers. I¡¯ve only been on three interviews prior to this one. This one will make no difference. I will most likely end up returning to restaurant work; maybe become a dishwasher or a server for the next couple of years, that is, until I can finish my education. I can perhaps find an internship upon graduation. I can mop floors, scrub sinks and toilets, just like I¡¯ve been doing in the past few months. I can leave this place today accepting that my goals may not be as attainable as I once believed. But it doesn¡¯t hurt to try. ¡°I¡¯ve always had a knack for arcade games, even as a kid.¡± I say, looking down at my clammy hands. ¡°And¡­and computers. I often tinker with those from time to time.¡± He looks at me and loudly clears his throat, as if he is expecting me to continue. I do not. ¡°I saw on your resume that you have quite a bit of restaurant experience, but you¡¯ve listed out a couple of personal projects.¡± The man takes another puff of his cigarette, and smoke escapes from his mouth. I want to shove it directly down his throat. ¡°You in school now?¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± I slightly bounce my left shoe against the wooden floor. ¡°But I take night classes, so I¡¯m available every day of the week. I¡¯m familiar with BASIC, Pascal, and C. I¡­I¡¯m still learning BCPL. I¡¯m able to assemble any hardware if needed.¡± I pause for a moment, realizing I¡¯ve spoken too fast. I look down again, avoiding his gaze. He raises a gray eyebrow. ¡°Do you have these projects of yours with you?¡± I nod. ¡°Can we take a look?¡± My hands slightly shake as I reach into my messenger bag and pull out the cartridges. They are marked in pen with random numbers that I have selected. The man frowns as he examines them. ¡°Are these¡­.¡± ¡±Just a couple of games that I¡¯ve programmed in my own time outside of school,¡± I reply. ¡°I¡¯ve recently restored an 8-bit CPU computer that I found in the dumpster and been using that for my projects ever since. It took me a while to save up for some new parts, but I don¡¯t mind at all. I have the punch cards for the programming language I used for those too, sir, if you would like to see them.¡± But he¡¯s no longer listening to me. He¡¯s gotten up and moved to the television set on the other side of the room, and places one of my cartridges into the console sitting on a coffee table. I stand up from my chair as the screen flickers to life, and the white dots become visible. His back is faced to me as he picks up the console¡ªhis face illuminated by the light. ¡±You¡¯re the spaceship,¡± I quietly say, as he moves one of the pixelated sprites from left to right. ¡°The goal is to protect yourself from the flying saucers, asteroids, and aliens that are coming to attack you. I¡¯ve¡­.I¡¯ve always been a fan of science fiction, you see. Outer space, that sort of thing.¡± As I approach the screen, I can see the delight in his eyes. With my finger, I point at the left side of the screen. ¡°The more enemies you strike down, the more points you get. If you get hit, you lose all your points and have to start over from the very beginning. You see that line? Once you cross it, you make it to the next level.¡± The sound of beeping and crashing sound effects fill the room as we both stand in silence. He manages to make it to level two after fifteen minutes, before putting the console down, chuckling upon seeing the rocket get smashed into a thousand bits. He places the cartridge on top of his desk. I glance at it for a moment, then back at him. ¡°How long did it take for you to develop this?¡± My ears tingle. ¡±A little over nine months.¡± The man smiled. ¡°I see it was well worth it.¡± I remain still, and I¡¯m not sure what to say. He keeps nodding his head over and over again, like he¡¯s on the phone with someone. It¡¯s so quiet in here, yet the hallway outside is bustling with people drinking coffee, marching back and forth, and working on typewriters. For a second I think he¡¯s going test out the other cartridges, but he speaks again. ¡°When you designed this, what did you have in mind for your players?¡± I study the wall for a moment, listening to the ticking of the clock hanging above. ¡°You know how when you¡¯re playing in the middle of an arcade game, and you just know when it¡¯s going to end? You got your coin, you put it in the slot, but the game only lasts for a short time, which kind of takes the player out of the experience. It makes them feel as if they have to rush before time runs out.¡± The man sits on the side of his desk, folding his arms. He¡¯s placed his cigarette into a marble ashtray. ¡°Of course, all games have a time limit,¡± I continue. ¡°But with this one, I provide them with a destination they know they are able to reach. A place where they can belong. And that they are going to, that is, if they plan and strategize. It¡¯s pointless to have a player do the same mundane task multiple times. That¡¯s why I wanted to add several levels to mine. Each level has a different setting, a place. Because there¡¯s new challenges. New monsters and creatures to encounter. Who doesn¡¯t want to fight a monster from time to time?¡± I shove my hands into my pockets, surprised that I¡¯m smiling. Drawing out the sprites was my most favorite part. ¡°But that¡¯s just for this particular game. The other ones, I¡¯m¡ª¡± ¡±Can you start Monday?¡± he asks. I stare at him as if he¡¯d suddenly grown a second head. My heart skips a beat. He reaches for his cigarette again. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Pardon?¡± ¡°How does Monday at 8 am work?¡± Unable to speak, I nod and pick up my messenger bag. The strap digs into my shoulder, causing pain to shoot up my neck. ¡±Very good. On your first day, you¡¯ll get your badge. I¡¯ll get you all the necessary paperwork, which will be at your desk.¡± I nod again. ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Nolan Jenkins, but you can just call me Nolan. No need for formalities.¡± He wheezes, and his yellow teeth glint in the light. ¡°Just make sure you keep school separate from this. Stay focused on your classes. And don¡¯t let those grades of yours slip. What year are you in?¡± ¡±I¡¯m¡­.I¡¯m a sophomore.¡± ¡±You from here?¡± ¡±No,¡± I whisper, my smile fading away. My stomach tightens. Once Mama passed, I couldn¡¯t stay in Louisiana for another minute. Couldn¡¯t see them lower her into the ground in a wooden box. I couldn¡¯t eat or sleep for days, or stay alone in that empty house without her presence, her footsteps. ¡°Are you planning to create more?¡± His voice draws me back. I blink. ¡±More of what?¡± Nolan tilts his head. ¡°Games like these.¡± ¡±Games?¡± I softly ask. ¡°No, no, sir. I don¡¯t create just games. I create worlds.¡± ¡°I see,¡± he says, although there¡¯s mild confusion in his voice. ¡°Worlds, you say.¡± I nod. ¡±Well, there¡¯s no point waiting further. Are you interested in the position? Right now, we can only offer a junior role, but with a couple more years of experience, I can easily see you transitioning into a leadership position.¡± He gazes at the cigarette in his hand. ¡°Of course, we will discuss pay, benefits, all of that.¡± I nod again. ¡°Welcome to ATARI.¡± Nolan picks up my cartridge and wags it at me. ¡°8 am sharp.¡± He doesn¡¯t give it back to me, and walks out into the bustling hallway, disappearing into the swarms of people. The building itself is a nauseating shade of red, with circular outlines visible on the walls. I stand in his office for a long time, before finally exiting that tiny room. * * * * * * * * Big Basin Redwoods is only an hour away from Sunnyvale. It is one of the oldest parks in the state of California, abundant with conifers, oaks, chaparral and riparian in a vast redwood forest. Because I do not have a car, I take the bus out of the city and walk the rest of the way there, with only a small bag, fifteen dollars in cash, and a water bottle in the backpack I am carrying. It is dark when I arrive, and I made sure to check the forecast on my television before I left my apartment for the weekend. It is Wednesday evening. I should be back by Saturday at the same time. I¡¯m still getting used to California. I don¡¯t like beaches¡ªthere are crowds upon crowds of people there with their families, a constant reminder of what I have lost forever. I can¡¯t stand their voices, see their smiles as they play with their children, swim in the waves, build lopsided sandcastles, slather sunscreen on their peeling skin, eat ice cream and drink fresh lemonade from the vendors on the boardwalk. Their hair matches the sun. I burn with envy when I see these people, and I cannot stay and watch them flaunt in front of me what I can never have in this world. There are so many palm trees that I¡¯ve lost count of them all. Despite the sweltering heat, I remain in baggy, long sleeved faded button-down shirts and jeans, while everyone wears bathing suits, shirts, shorts, mini skirts and dresses. My tiny apartment provides a vast perspective of the city¡ªa massive view that many people would kill for, but it only makes the emptiness worse. I know that Mama would¡¯ve loved the beach, though. She grew up in Miami, and when I was really little, around three or four years old, she would take me there to visit my grandparents before they passed, and we would swim in the waves. We would split a bag of salt water taffy together as she would tell me funny stories about her childhood. And I can imagine her laughing when the water licks her heels, when she collects broken seashells. I miss her smile. I miss the sound of her voice. I miss seeing the clear glow on her face once she¡¯d go a period without drinking¡ªin between her relapses. In a way, I am relieved to escape my apartment for a couple days. Since I own very little, the move was very smooth. I have my own bedroom, bathroom, living and dining room. I have my computer, my graph paper, my punch cards, my designs, my overpriced schoolbooks that I have highlighted page after page to remember each programming language I am taking courses for. I have only seen my landlord once, and I am never late with the rent. When I remember to bathe, I soak in my bathtub in the evenings as I go through a cigarette, the water being so hot it scalds my skin. It¡¯s harder most days, as I spend the entirety of my day laying in my bed, only crawling out at night to make it to my former restaurant shift. I don¡¯t brush my teeth or comb my hair; those things take too much effort. I¡¯m tired all the time, yet I can never really fall asleep. I regret how I used to judge Mama so harshly for sleeping all day when I was a child; I understand the heaviness that falls upon your shoulders, how it seems impossible and meaningless do anything. Because of this, my grades aren¡¯t the best¡ªI have failed two of my classes and must repeat them next semester. I am on academic probation; my GPA is a whopping 1.9. I¡¯ve only started smoking more heavily after Mama¡¯s funeral, but the sight of spirits and whiskey disgust me. I need the structure of a new daytime job much more than the money. I love hot water. It makes me understand what it is like to be held, mimic the feeling of someone¡¯s flesh against my own. My wilted plants sit on my bedroom window back at my apartment, and I water them daily, tend to their leaves. In the midst of my loneliness, I talk to them, imagine that they listen and understand me. I don¡¯t know how many meals I can take by myself when I sit alone at the dining room table, and there is no point in preparing them, if I have no one to share them with. The unfamiliarity of my surroundings do not help either. I¡¯ve stopped eating all together, and I am wasting away. Food tastes like sawdust, and cigarettes are much more appealing. I can see my ribs. Each month, I carve out another hole in my belt. My red Converse crunch against the leaves. Despite the darkness, a sky of glistening stars above awaits me. The air is deliciously cool, and I tread through the grass, avoiding and cutting through all the trails, listening to each tree branch sway back and forth in the wind. The scent of pine trees and sweet earth fill my nose, so strong I can almost taste it. I can hear the crickets sing their song, the gentle trickling of fresh water pouring through the thick rocks through the towering waterfall. I remove my clothes and shoes, place them into my bag behind a bush, and slowly step into the water. Mud clings to my bare feet, gradually rising to my ankles with each step I take. No one will see me out here. It¡¯s freezing, and my skin tingles as I submerge myself deeper below, my hair swarming around my eyes, nose, and face. It is so much louder below, but I am floating. I am so very much lighter in this place than on land. Whatever tension and soreness settles into my joints gradually fades away. Bubbles rise from my mouth. After a few moments, I break through the surface and step out of the water, which drips off my soaked hair. I am no longer cold, and when I lay on my back and gaze up at the sky in the grass, moonlight spilling upon my nude form, a small smile forms on my lips. My fingers run across the soft dirt on the ground, and I imagine, just for a moment in time, if a video game could provide such an experience as this¡ª-not to simply see a programmed world, but be in it, to physically interact with it just the same as outside of a mere television or arcade game screen. To have it right at their fingertips, so they understand that there is no reason to leave such a wonderful, glorious place. I want to create this. I shall create it. The grass is so very soft against my wet skin, resembling a fuzzy blanket. The aching that has been present in my stomach ever since Mama¡¯s funeral and my own coming to terms that I have no family on this earth begins to disappear. But it is only temporary. It will come back. It always does. Beneath my bare flesh, the earth is warm¡ªpulsing, almost alive. I know it is alive. I sense it. I want it to stay with me, as it is the only companionship I have. Yet it must depart, as everything does. My chest rises and falls; something has gotten stuck into it. I am so lonely. Loneliness is what I know; it is all I know, a part of me that I have learned how to accept. Now that Mama is gone, I must ensure that those I wish to help with my work will never experience being completely alone, as I am, and will always be. But this sensation of peace is strangely overwhelming, and the trees bring me in. They come closer and closer, until I can lean my head against their sturdy bark and seek refuge, their leaves comforting me. I exhale and slowly close my swollen eyes. * * * * * * * * 0599 REM * * * * * * POPPING SOUND 0600 REM * * * * * * COLLISION 2990 REM * * * * * * DRAW SCREEN LM 109 REM * * * * * TALLY POINTS 1520 REM * * * * * * DRAW SCREEN 1069 IF ATTR, (l,x)( ) 5B THEN GO T 0700 Twelve JUNO MINDEN, LA September 1986 I open my eyes. I am covered in a sticky sweat. The faint sound of rain pattering against the windows makes me shiver. A dense fog has settled over the living room, and the kitchen pantry door is halfway open. Below me, the floor is clean. It takes me a while to realize that I¡¯m lying sideways on my mattress, and what has most likely been a vision or nightmare has long since faded away. I have a horrible headache. My sheets are strewn all over the place; and my throat is so sore it feels like someone has taken a match and lit it ablaze. With my nose having only been slightly stuffed yesterday evening, it is now running, flowing like a waterfall¡ªgreen snot stains my pillow case. I am hot and cold at the same time, but if I can just make it through this interview, I am able to rest for the remainder of the gloomy day. And hopefully, no more nightmares. I check my watch. It is five fifteen. It is raining outside as I trudge out to the porch. Pouring, in fact, but I wearily stumble to the pump outside and splash cold water over my face in a desperate attempt to wake myself up and slip into my clothes, throw on my coat. When I make it down the winding hill, my ballet flats are halfway filled with mud. I have to breathe out of my mouth, and I cannot stop sneezing as I sit on the bus, going through a second round of used tissues I keep shoving in my backpack. A woman gives me disgusted look as I loudly sneeze again, covering the sleeve of my coat with snot. I fumble for one of my tissues and blow my nose to provide myself a bit of temporary relief. Although the bus is packed, I am relieved that no one has decided to sit next to me¡ªtheir judgmental stares are already unappealing to me. I try to enjoy the empty space, using it as a leg rest, creating a my own personal nesting place of germs. To distract myself, I stare out of the blurry dreary window. The pain in my throat is unbearable, but I can¡¯t afford to miss this opportunity. I can¡¯t. Caney Lakes is only twenty minutes from my place, but the drive seems longer than ever. It¡¯s a popular spot in town; I read it in the tourist guide I picked up once I crossed the state line. Upon arrival at the bus stop, the area does resemble my former home in Manhattan. Multitudes of people walk through the rain, their shoes splashing against the puddles they hold onto their umbrellas. The cold air slaps me in the face once I step off the bus; its black exhaust fills the air. I wish I had a decent coat, maybe a scarf, and yet, I am so sweaty. How is it possible to be so hot in such a cold environment, especially in the south, out of all places? I do not know¡ªI cannot ponder it. I simply cannot. I have twenty dollars in my coat pocket¡ªmoney I have shamefully stolen from the stash that Tom Brunswick has left me underneath the floorboards in my kitchen. I promised myself I wouldn¡¯t take it, and yet, here I am. But it¡¯s only a little. If I can just keep awake a little longer, I can find a pharmacy, buy some cough syrup, and be in bed by noon, even though the thought of sleeping in my house sends chills down my spine. But a nightmare is only a nightmare, and besides, I am too exhausted to care. As I head down the sidewalk, my arms shoved deep inside of my coat, I catch glimpse of a Vietnamese restaurant. I press my hand against the glass, my mouth watering at the sight of a hot bowl of pho¡ªrice noodles, meat, and vegetables. But it¡¯s packed to the brim with customers standing in line, and wading through the line in such a tight space with this nasty cold and making everyone sick is too much for me to bear. Reluctantly, I turn away. Tito¡¯s Diner is hidden between two gray buildings, even grayer than the sky. I have to do a double take at the sign. One of the bulb is burned out at the O, a laughing gag for most the youth passing by, as I can imagine. The windows are dirty, and when I go inside, a small chime echoes above near the door, caused by a bell covered in layers of dust. It¡¯s completely empty¡ªalthough I assume that they¡¯ve just opened. Some of the tables are mismatched, and when I sit down at a booth, a spring pokes me in the middle of my thigh, having made its way up to the surface after years of being buried underneath duct tape. I shift uncomfortably and yank my long skirt down, trying to resist the growing urge to grab a handful a tissues from the plastic dispenser and blow my nose until it is raw. It¡¯s already as red as a tomato. I hope I am not here for too long, and I can see people hustling to and from on the sidewalk. It¡¯s pouring harder than ever, and I can see water coming in through a small leak from the ceiling, causing a puddle to grow on a table. My house is cleaner than this place, which is quite hard to believe. In the corner by a gumball machine, the jukebox is completely covered in dust. The floor looks like it hasn¡¯t been mopped in ages, and there are cracks in the peeling walls. The trash cans are overflowing. I need to pee, but I decide it¡¯s better to wait until I get back home. I try very hard not to move. It¡¯s about six thirty when a freckled face boy comes up to me from one of the kitchen doors, probably no older than sixteen. He¡¯s loudly chomping down on a piece of gum, and dark brown hair escapes from the backwards hat on his head. He resembles a beanstalk, like he¡¯s far too tall for the dining room, for this restaurant. His uniform shirt is crushed, and he smells so strongly of marijuana and cigarettes that it manages to reach my blocked nose. Must¡¯ve come back from break, I think, even though I wonder what he is exactly taking a break from. I don¡¯t see a single customer coming through. The dining room is still completely empty, despite the restaurant nearly being open for almost two hours. ¡°What do you want?¡± he asks in a monotone voice. His words are slurred, and his gray eyes are slightly bloodshot. In his left hand he is carrying a worn menu, its edges coated with a brown stain, which I assume is coffee. I hope it is coffee. He drops it on my table with a thud and whips out a notepad and a pen. I notice that his worn sneakers are wrapped with duct tape¡ªthe same kind on the seats. ¡°I¡­.¡± It hurts so bad to talk, and my throat is so sore that I¡¯m thinking about just going home, even though I have no options left. My voice is husky due to the congestion building up in my sinuses. But I then remember why I am here. Instinctively, my hand goes to my stomach. ¡°I¡­I have an interview. May I have a word with your manager, please? We spoke on the phone.¡± The kid just blankly stares at me, chewing incessantly. He blows out a large bubble. It loudly pops, clinging to his mouth and chin like demented paper, before he uses his finger to shove it back into his mouth again. With that same hand, he¡¯s already placing a glass of water on the table¡ªice cubes floating to the surface. I try not to flinch. He yawns and glances at his watch. ¡°Can¡­.¡± I weakly try again, before a coughing fit seizes my lungs. My throat. There are razor blades embedded into it. ¡°Huh?¡± ¡±Can I please speak to your manager?¡± I rasp. ¡°Your manager, please.¡± A dull light suddenly matches his gray eyes. ¡°Oh.¡± He continued to chew on his faded gum for five minutes, and I am sure that all of the flavor is gone. ¡°You mean Amy?¡± ¡°Is that who¡¯s in charge?¡± The boy shrugs. ¡°Who?¡± I want to rip my hair out. ¡°Your boss.¡± ¡±What about her?¡± he asks. This conversation is going to last for an eternity, I am sure. Is he the only one here? Given how slow this place is, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised. ¡°Amy. Is she here?¡± ¡±Huh?¡± ¡±Is she in today?¡± ¡°I dunno.¡± The kid scratches the back of his neck. ¡°Sometimes she comes in around twelve. She wasn¡¯t here yesterday. Or last week, really. I don¡¯t remember seeing her.¡± I sigh. I¡¯m about to thank him for his time and head out when he glances behind at the sound of the kitchen door opening. A tall, extremely curvaceous woman with blonde highlights in her hair emerges from behind the cash register. I don¡¯t know how long she has been standing there. An apron is tied around her waist, and I can see streaks of flour on her face. She¡¯s dressed in a tight pink dress, with large hoops dangling from her ears. Her painted nails match the same color as her outfit, and as her eight inch stilettos echo across the grimy dining room floor, I wonder how she is able to prepare anything back there with them on, especially on top of wet tile. One wrong move and she¡¯s bound to land in the hospital with a broken ankle, maybe a couple of shattered toes. Her beady, dark eyes met mine, and I stare back at her, tensing up. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Lucas, darling, why don¡¯t you check up on the cook, sees if he needs anything?¡± Her voice is eerily high pitched, and the disgruntled teen mumbled a swear word under his voice as he moves away. The woman giggles and slides in the seat in front of me. When she smiles, I see that she has two rows of extremely neat, white teeth; like the people in those toothpaste commercials. ¡°You must excuse him. He¡¯s a little¡­slow. Kind of stupid too, but aren¡¯t we all? We just pretend that we¡¯re not.¡± ¡°I¡¯m Juno,¡± I try to say, but cough in my arm. I would shake her hand if it was appropriate. Amy tilts her head to the side, then chuckles. She suddenly reaches into her purse¡ªsomething that I haven¡¯t seen her carry with her, and applies a fresh coat of lipstick over her mouth. She puckers them for a moment, before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up. The sudden smoke makes it harder for me to breathe. I am suffocating. She offers me one, but I shake my head. My nose is blocked. ¡°A modest one you are,¡± she mutters. I can¡¯t breathe, I think. This stuffed nose is becoming more unbearable by the minute. ¡±You can work nights?¡± she asks me. ¡°It¡¯s 7.50 an hour. Otherwise, we won¡¯t be talking.¡± ¡±Yeah,¡± I say, although my heart drops. I¡¯ll have to take a second job, maybe sell my car, which still won¡¯t work, if I am able to. But a start is a start. And I am a quick learner. The woman frowns. ¡°You smell like piss.¡± I suddenly glance down at my skirt. Had I actually wet the bed during that horrendous nightmare? If I had the strength to bathe before I came here, I would. I really would. She points at my enormous stomach, visible under my blouse. ¡°How far along are you?¡± ¡°Six months.¡± Amy wrinkles her small, button shaped nose. ¡°I can¡¯t stand children. Hope you never think of bringing that in here. And if you plan to have more, you can just forget coming in all together. I don¡¯t want to be a babysitter. You¡¯re better off taking up welfare checks.¡± What a glorious start, I think. And suddenly, my face burns. I have nothing more to lose. I¡¯m not feeling too well, anyway, and the idea of sitting on my mattress with a large cup of tea sounds much more appealing to me than listening to her talk. She¡¯s not that far behind me in terms of how the current state of the establishment is. A look of surprise crosses her face as she watches me slide out of the booth and stand up. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and began to head to the door. ¡°Wait!¡± Amy¡¯s heels are clacking against the floor, and she suddenly stands in front of me, her arms held out towards me. ¡°Wait a minute, now, sweetheart, I don¡¯t mean all that. I just say whatever comes to my head. It¡¯s a bad habit.¡± She sighs, before putting out her cigarette, and clearing a strand of hair behind her ear. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, that was rude.¡± I don¡¯t say anything. I just want to lie down. She rubs her forehead. ¡±You still available nights?¡± ¡°Once the baby comes,¡± I croak, ¡°I can do nights. I can do the daytime shifts too before then.¡± An enormous sneeze takes over me, and I reach into the pocket of my coat and blow noisily into a used tissue. ¡°But I think I¡¯ll pass.¡± Any purses her lips. ¡°Eighteen.¡± I blink. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Not enough?¡± She suddenly grips my arm. ¡°Alright. Twenty-two a hour, and that¡¯s my final offer. Just to get you up and going with the little one. If you want to quit before the baby comes, fine. But I¡¯ve never had an employee stay here for more than a month. I know Lucas is going to leave soon, and he¡¯s only been here a week.¡± She clicks her teeth. ¡°Look. If you don¡¯t believe me, I¡¯ll have that written down in the papers for you confirming your pay, so if you decide to sue me, you¡¯ll know that everything is legitimate.¡± Quit? I didn¡¯t even know she intended to offer me the job. A brief desperation linger in her beady eyes. They look almost black. They were. ¡°I¡¯m going to lose this place in a year, anyway. Can¡¯t pay back anything. I know my father thinks I¡¯ve wasted my time believing I could ever run a restaurant. And my brother¡­¡± Her voice trails off. ¡°Well, he¡¯d be laughing in my face.¡± ¡°I¡¯m a bit under the weather at the moment,¡± I manage to say, not sure how to respond to her words, ¡°but when do you¡ª¡± ¡°Sweetheart, I ramble too much.¡± She then abruptly giggles, her curls bouncing around her shoulder. She licks her finger and wipes at the flour that streaks her cheek. ¡°Yes, well, we can all do without snot in our soup, can we? You come back here once you¡¯re your old self, and we can begin.¡± She bites her nails. ¡°Yes. Okay. Very good.¡± An awkward moment passes between us. ¡°I¡¯m Amy Holden,¡± she bluntly says. ¡°I¡¯ll give you a call in a week, give you your uniform on the first day. Just show up, please. I¡¯ll have all the paperwork ready, and you can meet some of the kitchen staff.¡± Without another word, she saunters off in the kitchen, walking flawlessly in her very pink stilettos. * * * * * * * * When I finally get home, I peel off my clothes, climb into my mattress in a wrinkled nightgown, and close my eyes the moment my head touches the pillow. I am so exhausted I do not care that my lamp is missing, or that my pocket knife is nowhere to be found. For the first time in ages, the house¡¯s darkness does not send shivers down my spine. It brings me down, engulfs me in a warm, thick, healing blanket. I wake up the next evening and realize that I most likely have the flu. I wearily stumble to my feet. My mouth is dry, and an incredible thirst has come upon me, so much that I go straight to the kitchen sink and eagerly drink the brown water gushing from the rusting pipe. It tastes like sweet wine to me, so incredibly good, and I gulp it down until it stains my neck, chest, and face. The house is pitch black¡ªbut I hear a static sound coming from the television. The television is on. There are many black dots flickering to and from on the screen. Despite sleeping for so many hours, I don¡¯t feel better, but not worse. My nose is still blocked, but at least I can think alright. In a daze, I slowly step towards the screen after wrapping the blanket around my shivering form. Only a few feet from my empty mattress rests the game console I placed on the table. I don¡¯t remember how it got here. A gray cartridge is placed in the open vent. In the flickering light, I can just make out the words, visible with Tom Brunswick¡¯s boxy letters. The same one on the envelope full of cash. I have to return that, I must¡ª A loud sneeze escapes from me. I should put this down, and try to make some tea. Maybe canned soup. Then go back to bed and sleep this off. Maybe it¡¯s the cough syrup I¡¯ve recently ingested, but that was over forty-eight hours ago. My limbs are so heavy. I don¡¯t know what time it is. My watch is missing. My pocketknife has disappeared. I don¡¯t know how Tom keeps getting into my house. I don¡¯t know why he keeps doing this. He doesn¡¯t have a key, as far as I know. And isn¡¯t Georgia concerned in the slightest? I blink a couple of times, flipping the cartridge over and over in my palms. It doesn¡¯t say anything on it, so as I place it back into the console system, my hands are drawn towards the joystick, the plastic cold against my flesh. Piece by piece, the room disappears. I no longer hear the static sound of the television¡ªI only feel it: white, glowing warmth, like I am suddenly touching the sun. And maybe I am, before the pressure drops in my ears, and my braids rise above my head. * * * * * * * * * * * It¡¯s okay. I look down. My body is not my body. I don¡¯t know what I am, but my nightgown, arms and legs and feet have disappeared. Boxy, colorful pixels replace my flesh, but I do not understand what creature I am supposed to be. Around me, strangely enough, looks no different than I. I am floating, not flying, just levitating off the ground. I cannot move. It is not okay. I am trapped. My child is gone. My child is¡ª I know what¡¯s best for your baby. My child is not in this place with me. I try to scream, but not so much as a sound escapes my mouth¡ªwherever it is. I know what¡¯s best for you. There is pressure building up in my lungs¡ªif I have them. I do not understand this place around me. I wish you¡¯ll stop running away. I squirm uncontrollably, teetering more towards the left. It is the worst pain of my life, and my eyes bulge. I need to get out of here, although there is a pixelated path ahead of me, I refuse to follow it. I attempt to reverse backwards, but there is an overbearing force that shoves me forward, leading me headfirst into it. I do not know how to move. With all of my strength, I barrel forward again. I am shaking, breathing heavily. I remain still for a long time, wondering if I am stuck here forever, or if this is another bad dream that I am unable to wake up from again. I try to pinch myself as hard as I can. It doesn¡¯t work. Please, don¡¯t go. I push off again, turning away my head. Why am I here? I don¡¯t belong here. I want to destroy this place. I will. I shall. I slam into the wall, causing glowing neon streaks of red, green, and blue to cross in the front of me. I want it to crash and burn and crash and¡ª Don¡¯t leave me here by myself. * * * * * * The sound of broken glass falling echoes in the entire house. Deep lacerations mark my arms and legs as I lie down next to the completely smashed television set, gasping heavily. My nightgown is stained with blood, and there is so much of it everywhere. I don¡¯t realize I¡¯m holding onto a shard of glass until I drop it. It makes a clattering sound on the floor. My left arm is twisted in an unnatural angle. I can see the bone showing through it. A noise escapes from my mouth as the worse pain I have ever experienced in my life settled in. My mouth is partially open, and I claw my bloody fingers against the ground¡¯s surface. Get to the door. Get to the¡ª And then, what? There is no one out here for miles. I don¡¯t have a phone. I have no neighbors nearby. As I roll over on my back and clutch my swollen stomach, there is a creaking noise nearby; footsteps in the kitchen; as gentle as ever. I begin to drag myself across the floor, gasping heavily. Crickets are chirping. I don¡¯t know how long I¡¯ve been asleep. I need some fresh air. I am dizzy from the aftermath of this nightmare. It is pitch black outside. Moonlight streams through the window, although the living room is dark. The game console, cartridge, joystick are gone. I don¡¯t know where they are, and I notice that the notebook full of sprites¡ªthe one that I had thrown away in the garbage¡ªhas been directly placed on the kitchen table. One of its pages is ripped out. My eyes are slowly closing; I don¡¯t know why I am so exhausted. My blood slowly pools on the carpet. Thirteen ANONYMOUS MINDEN, LA September 1986 I didn¡¯t mean for this to happen. With ease, I step over the broken glass in the shadows, my bare feet barely making a sound against the carpet. She had taken too much cough syrup; perhaps the ketamine that I had slipped into the bottle was a little stronger than I had anticipated, and I can tell that she is slipping away. Mama had a much stronger tolerance than her, so I only gave her a reasonable dose. I¡¯m not a doctor; but there is always an opportunity to learn from mistakes. Both for her sake and mine. Juno. I want to say it, but I don¡¯t know how. It¡¯s a beautiful name¡ªyet she doesn¡¯t look like a Juno to me. More like a Dana or Lucy or Sydney or Tonya. The other day, I spent all night admiring her New York driver¡¯s license, which I¡¯ve taken from her bag. I¡¯ve never driven up there before, although I do fancy a trip one day. Her birthday is March 22, 1960, so she is some nine years younger than I. She is five foot six, and weighs only a hundred and twelve pounds. I remember studying her picture, tracing my finger over each dimple on her brown face. I never knew it was possible for someone be so pretty. I¡¯m not ready to return her driver¡¯s license yet. As I bend down next to her still form, I can¡¯t help but gaze at the sight of the broken glass shards, some coated red with her blood. Instinctively, my hands go to her large middle. As soon as I sense a small kick against my palm, I breathe a little easier. If anything happened to the little one, I would never forgive myself. I then hang my head low¡ªthe idea of putting a child in such a situation makes my throat tighten up. When I lift her up, I pull her directly into my arms, my eyes burning as I stare at the wall behind us. My finger brushes against the back of her head. You don¡¯t have to fight me, I think. Her blood stains my clothing, but I don¡¯t mind. I need to be much, much more careful, given that she is with child. I do not wish to startle her, as there are a million ways to make an introduction, and I¡¯ve screwed this one up in the worst way possible. I¡¯ve noticed she¡¯s been very jumpy lately¡ªshe¡¯s catching on that she¡¯s not quite alone. But this does not surprise me, although I am trying to make her understand that I am an ally, nothing more. She is quite fortunate. She has brought this precious child all the way from New York, and has entrusted them in my care. I¡¯ll see to it that her little one receives only the best the world has to offer. Don¡¯t run from me, I want to say, but she won¡¯t ever believe it. She has nothing to fear. It only takes a few more minutes for her body to become accustomed to the drug. I manage to get the bleeding under control. Her eyes are closed, and yet her breathing is shallow. I scoop her up from the floor, carry her to the chair next to the kitchen table, so she is sitting up straight. There is a great deal of blood all over my fingers and clothing, but her swollen abdomen is unharmed, to my great relief. I grab a stool, sit in front of her with a plastic bucket of water, and begin cleaning out the cuts, one by one. They¡¯re not all that deep; but I am as gentle as I can be and am diligent with making sure I reach all surfaces. If she catches an infection, it could harm her baby, and I¡ª ¡ªI could lose them both. I try to say her name for the first time. ¡±Juno.¡± My voice is barely audible. ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t want to frighten you.¡± I release a shaky breath. Her eyes squeeze shut, like she is in the middle of a rough dream. In so many ways, she is like Mama, so stubborn, but so determined. It is what I admire the most out of people in the face of adversity. I hope she knows that I am telling the truth. ¡°I don¡¯t. I only want to be your friend.¡± As I wring out the rag with my hands, the water gradually turns pink as I wash her arms and legs thoroughly. I dump out the water on the porch, return with a fresh refill until the blood is gone. I do this in the silence of our house, no longer mine, but ours. There is residue and slight scarring around her nose from her blowing so much due to the flu. I gaze at her broken arm. It is facing the wrong direction. One of the bones has a clean break, but it is just dislocated at the shoulder¡ªa common injury that Mama and I had both experienced during Papa¡¯s fits. The skin is lacerated in several places. It is nothing new to me. I gave myself stitches all the time when I was a child, with or without pain killers. Mama used to be a seamstress, so her sewing kit was always nearby. I have mastered this skill over time. Using the pocketknife that I took from her a couple weeks ago, I saw off large chunks of fabric from her blanket on the quilt and set them on the table in neat strips. When I stand up and come closer to her I suddenly glance away, my hair falling over my face. I can¡¯t look at her while I do this. I really hope that she had taken enough of the ketamine, though she appears to be in a deep sleep. ¡°You¡¯re going to have to trust me,¡± I whisper. My voice comes out hoarse and raw¡ªdue to me not speaking in months, weeks, mostly. Both of my hands gently wrap around her thin shoulder¡ªher skin warm and sweaty under mine. There is a loud crunch as I pull her arm straight forward towards me. At least it¡¯s in the correct position, so when she scrambles out of here the doctors have a head start; whatever hospital she¡¯s thinking of going to. She¡¯s going to run out of this place in hysterics once she comes to¡ªof course she will. And if she¡¯s wise enough to use the money I left for her under the floorboards, she could easily cover the bills. She¡¯d never have to worry about paying anything else; she¡¯ll receive it every month once the baby comes. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. And what if she thinks of moving out of our home? My face stings. No. She won¡¯t be like Mama, who abandoned me, left me alone for good. She will raise her baby here, give them the childhood that was ripped from me; that was supposed to be mine. We will have a good, happy life together. I will watch her grow old, bake lopsided chocolate chip cookies, mow the lawn, and water the petunias Mama used to grow. I will keep her out of harm¡¯s way. She doesn¡¯t have to see me, but she will know that I am here. She has a lovely voice, and I enjoy listening to her sing to her unborn child at night. I have so, ever since I saw her. I will always have someone to come back to between my work. She cannot leave. She won¡¯t leave. I¡¯ll make sure of it, that I will never be lonely and forgotten again. She will stay with me. Hopefully after destroying my television set, she won¡¯t attempt to take off. But I think we needed a new one, anyway. And she can stay in Mama¡¯s old room. I don¡¯t mind at all if she moves there¡ªfor the life of me; I can¡¯t understand why she won¡¯t take it. It¡¯s the largest bedroom in the house. It is hers. I bet she¡¯s grown tired of sleeping on that dingy mattress for months. She doesn¡¯t yet truly realize that she is welcomed here. I yank the blanket resting on top of it and drape it around her shoulders, to keep her warm, as the house has a sudden chill most nights. In the South, hospitality is a priority. Blood rushes from my knuckles once I set her broken arm into a splint and create a makeshift sling. I¡¯m thinking of stitching up those cuts of hers. They¡¯re too big, and I don¡¯t want to tie them up without getting them a chance to properly heal. After retrieving a needle and a spool of thread from the attic, I gently reach for her left wrist. She is waking up. Her eyelids flutter, and I can tell that she¡¯s trying to move, to speak. But her body is paralyzed. Her eyes are seeking me in the dark, but I know that she shall never find me. The thread is lime green¡ªa good color. Using my thumb and forefinger, I moisten the edge with my tongue until it is no longer frayed. ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± I softly say. ¡°I promise.¡± Her breaths are heavy. My fingers lightly press against her forearm, her soft, warm skin bending underneath my nails. I know she¡¯s still under the medication, but her muscles are tense. Her jaw is stiff, and her eyes, growing large as saucers, scan the pitch black room. She doesn¡¯t realize that I live in darkness, thrive in it. Therefore, I am not afraid of it. It is a part of me as my own hand or elbow or foot. But she knows I am here, and I want her to. As I begin to work, her bare toes are clenched against the carpet. Her chest then gradually rises and falls. She is watching my steady fingers; yet she is doing so well for her first time. But I can tell her nerves are getting to her, even after I complete her left arm. I hope she does not experience any pain. She exhales. I then set down the needle and thread on the table, carefully caressing her hand. It is soft and warm, just Mama¡¯s. Her fingers are much smaller than mine. Whether she thinks I¡¯m an illusion or not, it hardly matters. She is home, a place where her, her baby, and I can belong. A smile slowly forms on my face once I realize that have a family that will last forever. She¡¯ll eventually learn to trust me. I know it. Her brown eyes fall upon the table. ¡±Don¡¯t worry,¡± I continue after looping the thread through the eye of the needle. I¡¯ve had to do this quite often for myself, but she has already demonstrated that she has incredible pain tolerance once I break through her delicate skin. ¡°You won¡¯t feel a thing. I swear.¡± As I begin to work on the next gaping wound, now pink instead of red, I continue speaking. ¡°I won¡¯t hurt you. I know you¡¯re scared, but I won¡¯t hurt you. There are a lot of scary things in this world, but I will protect you and the baby from them.¡± A sound escapes from my lips as I examine my handiwork. I look up from underneath the worn rim of my baseball cap. ¡°There you are. Much better.¡± Her lower jaw is trembling. When I have only two more wounds to go, I snap off the green thread with my front teeth. I pause. I want to come a bit closer to wipe away a drop of blood escaping down her mouth, but there is a patch of moonlight by the window, where she will catch a glimpse of my face. So I hold her hand once more, in hopes of calming her. I just need to finish stitching her up, but not when she is so very tense. It¡¯s not good for the little one either, so I wait, carefully tucking her hair behind her left ear, so it is not in her face. She has such nice, pretty hair, although it¡¯s up to her ears. Soft and curly, seeming to defy gravity. It¡¯s still in those large braids I watched her do the previous night; as I was completely mesmerized by how her hands worked through her thick locks. I had picked up a generous strand from the brush she was using and placed it into my mouth, savoring its glorious taste. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to end up like this,¡± I quietly say. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure it¡¯ll never happens again.¡± Her eyebrows become knitted. I may need to get her to swallow a little more ketamine to calm her nerves, but not too much. She is in the advanced stages of her pregnancy, and I do not want to do anything to put her baby in harm¡¯s way. I see that she is slipping back into unconsciousness again, although she¡¯s fighting it, like a fish squirming and flopping helplessly about outside of water. Her eyes are beginning to close. Fighting me. I wonder how long it¡¯ll take her to stop hating me. I am no stranger to hatred, I saw it every time when others, including Mama, looked me in the face. I wish there was another way to get people to stay with me outside of sedation, but I haven¡¯t been quite successful. Hopefully, my new friend will make it so that I won¡¯t have to use it so often. She doesn¡¯t seem to have a rebellious nature, and that is one that I find quite rare in humanity. My hand gradually tightens around hers. I¡¯ve still expected her own personal hatred of me, as it¡¯s a very normal occurrence with my work, but it tears a hole inside of me. I don¡¯t understand why I dislike seeing her in such distress unlike the others. She needn¡¯t be afraid; I have everything under control. But that will come with time. She shall learn. Very slowly, I cup the left side of her sweaty face with my darkened hand. I cannot stop smiling, because she is beautiful. Has anyone told her so? I am definitely not the first, nor will I be the last. My fingers flex around her warm, velvet flesh. Her blood is stained on the sleeve of my jersey, which hangs onto me like a tent. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever wash it again. A part of her is with me forever, bound to my heart, no matter where I go. I am home. I am truly home. ¡°We¡¯re family,¡± I whisper. ¡°I won¡¯t hurt you.¡± Fourteen COUNTY OF LOS ANGELOS DEPARTMENT OF MEDICAL EXAMINER 1104 N MISSION ROAD, LOS ANGELOS 9003 DEATH INVESTIGATION SUMMARY Examiner Case Number: 1085-1188 Decedent Name: JENKINS, RICHARD NOLAN Date of Birth: 09/24/1936 If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Date of Injuries: Unknown Date of Examination: 1/2/1979 Deputy Medical Examiner: Dr. Stephen Huler Forensic Technician: Milton Henry CAUSE OF DEATH: The body is of a normally developed Caucasian male measuring 5¡¯8 and weighing 170 lbs. The body is cold and unembalmed. The eyes are open. The irises are brown and the corneas are cloudy. The body is in the advanced stages of decomposition and dismembered into forty-five separate pieces, including the head, neck, torso, arms, and legs. There are three lacerations across the base of the neck, approximately measuring six inches wide. There is blunt force trauma to the left side of the skull and nasal cavity. One hundred and fourteen stab wounds are present around the abdomen, back, and chest areas. Fifteen JUNO MINDEN, LA SEPTEMBER 1986 ¡°Hello?¡± There¡¯s a knock on the front door. At first, it is so faint that I think I¡¯m dreaming for a moment. Then there¡¯s a jiggling of the knob, like someone is jimmying it from the outside. A creaking sound echoes in the hallway, followed by a thick rattling of the small chain; in which I hear the main latch being undone. ¡°Hello?¡± the voice repeats. ¡°Juno?¡± I want to turn my head to the side, but I can¡¯t move. I¡¯m struggling to move. I hear footsteps across the wooden boards of the floor, a distinct shadow bouncing up against the walls. Tom Brunswick comes into view¡ªhis boots are leaving a puddle of water upon the ground, and he is soaked from head to toe; the rain from outside is still dripping from his coat. The umbrella he is carrying slips towards ground as he rushes towards me in the living room, where I am seated at the table. My eyes are so swollen they hurt to move them. There is a desert in my throat. ¡±Juno,¡± he says, lightly tapping my cheek with his hand. ¡°Come on, girl. Come to me.¡± ¡°The TV is broke,¡± I rasp. I want to tug him away from it. ¡°I made the screen come apart.¡± ¡±Why ain¡¯t you call me or Georgia?¡± he replies in a accusatory tone. ¡°I gave you our phone number. You can¡¯t just cut people off like that. She¡¯s worried sick. It¡¯s been weeks since we¡¯ve seen ya.¡± Slowly, he shakes his head as he places a hand on my forehead. ¡°For heaven¡¯s sake, you¡¯re burning up. We need to get you to the emergency room.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± I manage to grab a fistful of his sleeve. ¡°Don¡¯t go near the TV.¡± A bewildered look falls upon Tom¡¯s face, especially when he notices my broken arm. He then scans the room, which is relatively in good order¡ªthe shattered glass and blood that had littered the ground from what only seems like an hours ago is now spotless. But I had seen it. My skin had been sliced through because of it. He tried to help me to my feet, but I collapse on the ground like a sack of potatoes. My legs don¡¯t work properly, and before I know it, he¡¯s carrying me in his arms. He¡¯s surprisingly strong for an old man, and as we cross the driveway, I can see the hood of my Camaro is open¡ªthe engine is missing. It is raining very hard, and Tom has taken off his coat and draped it around me. I¡¯m in my thin, ugly nightgown, and I don¡¯t even have my shoes on, but he has already placed me into the passenger seat of his blue pickup, which is already running. My teeth are chattering. I need more cough syrup to numb these symptoms. Tom slams my door and rushes to the driver¡¯s seat. The smell of cigars are faint, but welcoming, and I want him to mash on the accelerator, as the sight of the two-story house in front of me, gloomy as ever, makes me want to vomit. I don¡¯t care if he drives to Arkansas or Florida, or the nearest gas station. I just want to get away from it. Once Tom climbs in, he begins to drive down the hill, and only then I am able to lean my head against the seat and breathe a little slower. His normally care-free face is pale, and his large gray eyes focus upon the road. There is only static on the radio, and the windshield wipers scurry back and forth. ¡±I¡¯m taking you to a hospital,¡± he snaps. ¡°I don¡¯t¡­I don¡¯t need a hospital.¡± My words are slurred, slower than ever. I know how mad he is at me, that I haven¡¯t even bothered to call him or his wife, despite me going to their house three times in one week and not finding them there. But I can¡¯t have him enter the living room again. Let alone the house. What if he¡¯d encountered the game console? A shiver runs down my spine. I have to warn him. I must. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell us that you don¡¯t have a phone, Juno?¡± Tom asks. The line on the speedometer only rises, and I want to tell him to slow down. ¡°We could¡¯ve given you one.¡± ¡°I went into the TV,¡± I try to say, but I¡¯m coughing so badly it¡¯s impossible to breathe. ¡°The TV¡ªthat TV, it traps people inside it.¡± Tom slams his fist on the steering wheel. ¡°Enough with this talk. You¡¯re clearly intoxicated. Have you been drinking or experimenting with other things lately?¡± He suddenly glares at me. ¡°You know it¡¯s not good for the baby. I can¡¯t believe this.¡± ¡±No, I¡ª¡± Panic rises in my throat. My fingers dig into the seat cushion. ¡°You don¡¯t understand. There really was a¡ª¡± ¡±We are going to the hospital. And when you are discharged, we are discussing a few rehab programs for you. I can¡¯t trust you to live by yourself while you¡¯re feeding your bloodstream with God knows what.¡± His hand tightened around the steering wheel. ¡°Do you want your baby to be born addicted to that?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not on anything,¡± I fire back, losing my temper. My cheeks burn. ¡°I¡¯ve been clean for three months. Look, I¡¯ve been sick, okay? The only thing I¡¯ve had so far is Contac. I¡¯m not a child, for Christ¡¯s sake. I don¡¯t need your permission to do things. I don¡¯t need you or Georgia to constantly look after me. You don¡¯t know me. You know nothing about me.¡± He gives me a side glance. I¡¯m furiously scratching my broken arm, blood gathering under my broken nails. It itches so horribly I suddenly want to chop it off. I want to rip out the stitches embedded in my skin. ¡°You need to go to the hospital,¡± he slowly says. ¡°And I don¡¯t want to hear anything coming from you.¡± ¡°I¡¯m clean,¡± I repeat. ¡°I am. You don¡¯t need to call nobody¡ªI am fine. Just¡­you can drop me off at a hotel somewhere, and I¡¯ll figure it out. I¡¯m not going back to that house.¡± Tom shakes his head in disbelief. ¡°You look like you¡¯re going through withdrawals.¡± ¡±No, I¡¯m fine.¡± We¡¯ve reached town at this point, where the bright red brake lights of the cars glow in the downpour. I can hardly see through the window. ¡±When it¡¯s the well being of a baby being threatened, it is my business,¡± Tom snarled through his teeth. ¡°You can go ahead and destroy your body and mind on your own¡ªthat¡¯s fine. But I¡¯ll be damned if your child comes home to a run down place and to a junkie lying down on the couch, with nothing to eat, just shit upon shit lying around. If it¡¯s not rehab, and if you don¡¯t get yourself together soon, then I will get CPS involved.¡± ¡±No, no, no! Don¡¯t you see? I don¡¯t want to put my child into any danger. You¡¯re not¡ª¡± ¡±I mean it.¡± My baby. He¡¯s going to have my baby taken away. ¡°The TV set broke, because I was trapped inside of it, and I needed to get out.¡± He gave me a confounded look. ¡°Juno, I¡ª¡± ¡±Listen to me! I told you already that I¡¯m clean,¡± I weakly say. ¡°I¡¯m telling you the truth, even though I know I sound crazy. But I really am. And I was planning to go to rehab once I came here.¡± I ran my fingers through my hair. ¡°That was my original plan. I¡¯m going to get clean. I won¡¯t ever touch a needle again.¡± ¡±Isn¡¯t that what you all say?¡± ¡°So we¡¯re all the same, apparently.¡± A lump rises in my throat. I want to hurt him as much as he has hurt me. ¡°Given with all the medication you have Rana on, I suppose you¡¯re an expert when it comes to raising children. She grew up in your household, and look at how she¡¯s turned out. She¡¯d have been better off in foster care.¡± The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. A long silence passes between us. Tom slams on the brakes. He does not look at me, only focuses on the blurry windshield. I can see that we are in the parking lot of the hospital. His jaw clenches as he unlocks the doors. A red shade has settled upon his face, and his gray eyes are suddenly moist. ¡°Get out,¡± he quietly says. I swallow hard. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t¡ª¡± He doesn¡¯t say anything. Once I slip out into the rain, still huddled in my blanket, I wrap it tightly around my shoulders and watch his truck speed off, leaving a long spray of water. My heart is thudding. I have a horrible temper, but that is no excuse. There¡¯s no point in dwelling on it. As I enter the hospital and check myself into the large waiting room, where it is packed and full of families and crying babies and children, I can only slip into a small chair in the corner and bury my face into my hands. What was I thinking, pissing off the only friend I had down here? My stomach hurts. Everything hurts, and I realize that my face is wet. Tom doesn¡¯t believe me, and no one will. But the idea of someone else raising and loving the only family I have down here¡ªI can¡¯t let that happen. I can¡¯t lose my marbles over two atrocious nightmares. Although every time that I glance at my arm, the green thread is still there, embedded in my flesh. To keep my child, I must assure myself that what happened the previous night¡ªor two nights ago¡ªwas a dream. I bite down on my tongue. It was a dream, nothing more. I¡¯ll end up in a psych ward soon if I don¡¯t shut up. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. I wish I had never left New York. I¡¯d never thought I¡¯d find myself admitting it, but I realize that I am completely alone. At least back home I had my dealer, a circle of girls who weren¡¯t really my friends but coworkers, and after work we¡¯d spend our weekends in Times Square, before splurging on pizza, Chinese, and Italian food. I miss the smell of my old apartment and my neighbor, Mr. Hidgens, whose cat I used to feed and watch over when he went to his doctor appointments. Being a WW II vet, he¡¯d always invite me over for stories, hot chocolate, and his grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. I even miss the rats present on the street, or how the snow would land on the roofs of the towering skyscrapers above. I miss home. * * * * * * * * * I¡¯ve been at the hospital for three days. It¡¯s beyond painful to tug at the sling hanging from my shoulder. I¡¯m supposed to return in a couple weeks for a checkup and to remove my stitches. My brand new cast is itching me. I can¡¯t stop picking at it as I stand on the Brunswick¡¯s freshly painted porch the following morning, balancing a cherry pie that I had brought from the supermarket with the last bit of change I had in the pocket of my nightgown. Before I was discharged, the doctor had commented how well I had managed to stitch myself up upon cutting myself up on the glass from the television set, asking if I had attempted to do this myself at home. I could not give him an answer, because I didn¡¯t want him to think that I was crazy too. He didn¡¯t remove them because he didn¡¯t want to interrupt the healing process, and just cleaned my cuts. There are light scabs from when I had been scratching my arm so vigorously¡ªcriss crossed lines upon my skin, next to that bright green thread. The lady at the front desk informed me that a bill would be arriving in the mail¡ªa bill that I won¡¯t be able to pay off soon. I lied when I reassured her that I had a ride, and yes, that my imaginary husband and friends would be there to pick me up soon. I¡¯ve decided not to take the bus. I¡¯m too scared to return back to the house myself, so I had taken a trip to the store before I return to the Brunswicks. Despite how strange this past week has been, I¡¯ve managed to catch a good night¡¯s rest in the waiting room. No one escorted me out, and I fashioned myself a makeshift bed by pushing two chairs together and wrapping my blanket around myself. No nightmares, no hallucinations. I can think clearly, and after enjoying a cup of coffee and a warm bagel at the hospital cafeteria, I have plenty of energy¡ªa rare instance for me. I¡¯ve received a lot of stares from customers as I wandered in between the grocery store aisles, walking barefooted and in a stained, crushed up nightgown. The cherry pie is a bit wilted at the edges due to the heat, but I hope this peace offering will be able to mend things between the Brunswicks and I. I hesitate for a moment, before knocking on the door, rehearsing what I am planning to say. It takes about five minutes for the doorknob to turn, before Tom¡¯s downcast face appears behind the screen door. To my surprise, he grins when he sees me, and it startles me to see how fast his expression changes. A chuckle escapes from him as he glances at my bare feet. Sweat drips from his face. ¡°How come whenever I see you, you ain¡¯t wearing no shoes or nothing?¡± He peeks outside at the empty road. ¡°Did you walk here? Don¡¯t tell me you walked here like this. Why didn¡¯t you call me at the hospital, let me know they was dischargin¡¯ you? I could¡¯ve given you a ride home, let you get your stuff.¡± This is exactly what I don¡¯t want. I don¡¯t recall him giving me his number. I don¡¯t want to go back to that house. I can¡¯t go back. All my belongings there could catch on fire, and I still wouldn¡¯t return. The word home makes my stomach churn, but I hold out the cherry pie. He looks astonished at the sight of it. I need to do what I¡¯ve come here for. ¡±I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say. ¡°About what I said the other day. That was real rude of me, and I hope you don¡¯t continue to harbor any hard feelings.¡± I pause. ¡°And I am¡­I am planning to go to rehab. I was before I even moved here. I just¡­I only needed to get myself situated¡ª¡± To my surprise, Tom pulls me into a hug. ¡°I want you to know that Georgia and I are here for you and your baby, no matter what.¡± I don¡¯t reply. His gray eyes are growing wet again. ¡° I owe you an apology. You¡¯ve been dealing with a bad bout of influenza, and I came on too harsh with you. I wasn¡¯t listening to you, and I¡¯m sorry about that.¡± He heavily sighs. ¡°I don¡¯t want to see you lose custody of your baby. I hope you understand. It¡¯s just that I want you provide a healthy environment for the child. I don¡¯t mean to impose on your decisions, but I was getting concerned when I hadn¡¯t seen you in a while. And then, when I saw them scars on your arm, you bein¡¯ so skinny¡ªI tend to jump to conclusions too quick.¡± I release him and step back. ¡°I wasn¡¯t lying about¡ª¡± ¡±It¡¯s them night terrors, Juno.¡± He placed both of his hands on my shoulders. ¡°You¡¯re stressed. New place, no family; it¡¯s enough to get anyone unhinged. And you need to go to the doctor regularly, since the baby ain¡¯t too far from coming.¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°Go to your checkups. Please.¡± ¡±I can¡¯t afford to¡ª¡± ¡°When they send you the doctor¡¯s bills, you mail them over here. I¡¯ll pay for everything. All I need for you is to focus on getting healthy. And eat well.¡± He pats my arm and places the cherry pie on a porch chair, before pulling out his keys. ¡°Come now. I¡¯ll drop you back to your house so you can get changed into some proper clothes. And we can look at some rehab programs in the area, then grab a bite once we get right back here. Georgia¡¯s making fried fish and mashed potatoes for supper. She¡¯s been asking plenty about you.¡± I freeze. He¡¯s halfway to the driveway when he notices I¡¯m not behind him. I haven¡¯t even left from the porch step. A concerned look crosses his face when he notices that I am shaking. ¡±Juno,¡± he softly asks, ¡°what¡¯s wrong?¡± ¡°There¡¯s something in my house,¡± I stammer. ¡°It¡¯s waiting for me there.¡± Tom frowns. ¡°An intruder? Did anyone break in, steal your stuff?¡± Frantically, I begin to bite my nails. ¡°My pocketknife is gone, the one my father gave me when I was real little. I haven¡¯t seen him in years, and I used it on our hunting trips.¡± I pause. I¡¯m heated it about it¡ªthat thing is all I have of him. ¡°And my driver¡¯s license. I can¡¯t find them anywhere.¡± He rubbed his forehead. ¡°You sure you didn¡¯t replace anything? I think you may be getting a bit paranoid, now.¡± I shake my head. ¡°I¡¯m not going back there.¡± The stitches under my cast are sore, and I can still feel the imprint of that thing¡¯s fingerprints on my arm. My hand instinctively goes to my protruding stomach. ¡°No, no, no.¡± Tom places his hands on his hips. ¡°Tell you what. I¡¯ll call the police; let them search the place from head to toe. This is fine, anyways, because Georgia and I were hoping you¡¯d stay at our place for a couple days to discuss rehabilitation places. However, you¡¯re going to have to return this week. Rana is moving back in, and this tiny house of ours can barely hold two people, let alone three. If I could, I really would let you stay as long as you want.¡± My mouth goes dry. ¡±But,¡± Tom says, holding up a hand. ¡°I have a friend who works in real estate, deals with with several apartment complexes in Baton Rouge, if you¡¯re interested. He¡¯s pretty much booked throughout all next month, but I can give you his number, so he can schedule a tour.¡± A smile crosses his face. ¡°You think you are able to hold out until then, and find a job?¡± I grin, truly smile for the first time in months. ¡°I already got an offer. I wanted to tell you. It¡¯s more than enough to cover rent.¡± He laughs with excitement. ¡°When do you start?¡± ¡±In a week. At small restaurant.¡± I didn¡¯t tell him that it probably won¡¯t last for a couple or months. But a job is a job. A glow crossed his face. ¡°I am so proud.¡± He glances at the pie, his mouth watering. ¡°Well, this ain¡¯t going to eat itself, isn¡¯t it? Don¡¯t tell Georgia, she¡¯d never let me have any sweets. Good thing she ain¡¯t up yet. Let me grab a few plates; you just wait out here. I saw some brochures in mail that I want to go over with you for a really good treatment center.¡± He swings open the porch door and wags his finger at me. ¡°No more walking around here without shoes, young lady. I mean it.¡± I sink down into the porch chair and exhale. One more month. Just one more. * * * * * * * * The night before my first rehabilitation session, I return back to the house. The cereal that I scarfed down this morning churns in my stomach, but I force myself to walk into the steps. It is quiet and still, just as I have left it. There is no television in the dark, empty living room. Even though the police found nothing, I planned to call them the moment I saw something suspicious. Thanks to Tom, I have a brand new telephone, which I make sure to place in a good hiding place, underneath the floor. Before I arrived home, I brought a flashlight, a small knife, and a package of batteries. I drag the mattress off my porch, give it a good beat down, which is hard to do with only one arm. I layer it up with freshly washed pillows and blankets. It is getting dark, but I yank it up the steps until I reach the smallest out of the two bedrooms¡ªthe room that would have been my own child¡¯s. A lump grows in my throat as I shut the door behind me. The baby is asleep; but I still plan to read a couple of stories for them. I want them to become familiar with the sound of my voice. I place an empty bucket in the corner of the room in case I need to answer a call of nature, there is no way that I would be going downstairs in the pitch black. Using the knife, I mess with the doorknob until it is locked. I press as many heavy boxes against the door as possible to barricade it, so nothing can enter, nothing can leave. As it grows darker, I turn on the flashlight, which illuminates the room. My breaths are shaky, but I have made up my mind. I shall repeat this process every night here I leave for good. After positioning my flashlight, I crawl on the mattress and wrap the blankets around me, my eyes focused on the closed door. My knife is hidden underneath my pajama pants, the folded blade cold against my upper thigh. I take a deep breath. The house is silent. Silent. Silent. Silence. * * * * * * * * My eyes open. I am soaked with sweat under my blankets, but I do not move in the pitch black room. My flashlight is smashed into pieces, but the door remains the same¡ªthe cardboard boxes not even shifted. It must still be locked. I stare at it, wanting to run outside, but I do not look anywhere else, or the dark shape lying next to me on the floor, only inches from my mattress. Their presence is strong, and their breathing is still, very quiet. I feel their eyes upon me, and bile rises in my throat. I cannot move. I must pretend to be asleep. I squeeze my eyes shut. This is a nightmare, I remind myself. Just a nightmare, a nightmare. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep. A thought then comes to my mind. Do they have a weapon¡ªa gun they want to point against my head? Maybe they desire money, but if they would¡¯ve already taken what little I have. No, they are not real. They aren¡¯t. I shift my arm under the blanket to shield my stomach, preparing to reach for my knife. I try not to flinch as a rough, calloused hand, much bigger than mine, carefully wraps around my left palm. I¡¯m surprised by how gentle their grasp is¡ªit reminds me of how my mother used to hold my hand when I was a child. It¡¯s a very strange sensation, yet such a comforting, familiar hold. This is a hungry hand that has not held another in years, one that has been empty too long. It gives my own a light squeeze. I try to close my eyes. But my hallucination realizes that I have awakened. I can¡¯t make out anything in the pitch black room, just the shape that is lying mere inches on its side. Rough fingers tuck strands of my damp hair from my face. A mouth is so close that scabbed lips brush against my temple. Then there is rancid breath, smelling of trees and dirt and cigarettes, hot and moist in my left ear. It¡¯s a very soft, delicate whisper, mostly broken and shaky, but audible. Barely audible. I missed you. Sixteen ANONYMOUS DECEMBER 1978 My eyes are sore and red¡ªI¡¯ve been looking at this computer screen for an eternity. There are painful scabs on my lips that won¡¯t go away. Around me are blurry faces, people walking around me, hurrying to and fro from one side of the building to the other like ants. I can¡¯t remember the last time I¡¯ve taken a shower or eaten a meal, but none of that matters, because I only have five more days until the release date for one of our most anticipated arcade releases on the market¡ªPinball Adventure and Rainbow Warrior¡ª just in time for the holidays. First person shooter games are my kryptonite; I¡¯m nearly finished with the sound effects. I lick my scabbed lips. I am almost finished. My fingers are glued to the keyboard; the clacking of the keys are making my head spin uncontrollably. How many cups of coffee have I had? Too many. Dark stains underneath the sleeves of my wrinkled plaid shirt; the top buttons are missing, it is glued to my sweat soaked collarbones. My desk is covered in crumpled paper, cigarette ashes, candy wrappers, and pencil shavings. Wads of bubble gum¡ªa whole month¡¯s supply¡ªare stuck to the bottom. I cough and wave the smoke rising in the air in front of me from my cigarette. I¡¯ve also dropped out of school. It¡¯s not like the things they were teaching me were useless, but the classes were taking too long. Four years is too much of an investment that I just can¡¯t afford at the moment. And with that time, I could be practicing my code¡ªlearning new languages. I¡¯ve been blowing out my paychecks on the thick textbooks and reviewing them myself each night. If I have any questions or if I am struggling with a concept, I know I can snag a tutor from the yellow pages. School will have to remain on the back burner for now. I don¡¯t know why I believed college was necessary. I just wanted to impress Mama. So far, I have developed and designed Elimination, Air Raids, Adventure, and Human Cannonball, both for the arcade and console. I am working too slow. Nolan reminds me of this every day. My coworkers get a kick out of it. I try not to pay attention to the bubbly chatter around me; my coworkers are preparing to fly off for the holidays, to spend time with their family and friends. I don¡¯t know who these people are because they come and go so fast. I can¡¯t recognize anyone. Some are even wanting to go skiing or hiking. I¡¯ve never encountered any snow in my life, but a change of scenery would indeed be lovely, to get away from the hot weather. But I have no money to do such things, so a night swim at one of the local beaches, where no one can see me, will have to do until I can make it happen. I just need to get better at saving. I¡¯ve listened to my coworkers ramble on and on as they complain about their assigned tasks. I can¡¯t help but notice how nice their office clothes are¡ªit would take me months to afford what they have. I¡¯m there before them and the last to leave. I hit my deadlines while other developers lag behind. I draw my concepts on the chalk board, spend hours upon hours writing, reviewing, and rewriting code again¡ªboth for the arcades and the consoles. No one ever talks to me, and I don¡¯t know why. People only place unfinished projects on my desk and say that they need it done by a certain time, before walking off. In a way, I enjoy the extra work because it gives me more opportunity to practice. I¡¯ve tried to ask a couple of people who work in the same department to come with me for lunch break, but they only give me a dirty look, before heading outside in the humid California air. It is not so bad, though. I try to convince myself this. They can invite me another day. I pick up my wrinkled paper bag and head to the tiny lounge, sitting noisily at an empty table. As I continue to gnaw on the corner of my tuna and mayonnaise sandwich, I sketch out some new sprites on my notepad with my dull pencil for another personal project that I am working on. What it is supposed to be, I am not sure yet. But I know that I want it to be ocean themed. I¡¯ve had my fill of outer space and galaxy games¡ªit gets dull after a while. I¡¯m sure the market is sick of them too. The concept is simple. A giant, enormous squid chases the player across the ocean. The player has to navigate their way through clusters of other sea animals to avoid being snatched and captured by the squid, while navigating constantly changing sea currents. If the squid catches them, they are eaten. If the player can swallow a precious oyster that they find in the sand, they are able to gain immense power and destroy their attacker. It¡¯s a stupid idea, but I can¡¯t help but smile as I add some wonky details around the frames of my wacky sea creatures with exaggerated eyes and teeth. I¡¯m drawing in a long, twisted tentacle when I hear footsteps echoing in the room. A satchel slams on the surface of the table, causing coffee to slosh over the rim of my paper cup. It gets all over my notepad, soaking the page through. I slowly look up. ¡±There you are.¡± Nolan releases an exasperated sigh as he unzips the top of the satchel and pulls out a folder of papers and takes the seat in front of me. He puts on his glasses and began shuffling through each page. Despite his neat, clean suit, his hair is sticking up in all directions, and there are bags visible under his eyes. His dark eyes meet mine. ¡°What are you doing? Whenever I need you, you¡¯re not there. I¡¯ve been looking for you for twenty minutes straight, going all over the place.¡± ¡°I¡­.I was just¡­¡± I glance at the clock. ¡°I was just taking a quick break for lunch.¡± Nolan picks up my soaked notebook, dangling it between his fingers. Coffee drips from the edge of the page and creates a growing puddle on the surface of the table. My throat tightens. ¡°Here¡¯s the thing, alright?¡± He leans forward, causing his seat to creak. ¡°Time is money. We don¡¯t pay you to hide out here in the staff lounge and make doodles when the rest of us are hustling. I need you to stay focused. You have a deadline to meet, and here you are, just wasting time.¡± He stabs his finger into the surface of the table. ¡°I want those games finished¡ªsound effects, color design, cartridge case, everything on my desk by tomorrow morning, do you hear me?¡± I stare at him. ¡°You¡¯re leaving more work behind for those on your team who have to clean up your mess. You¡¯re not following our guidelines, you keep implementing new designs. You¡¯re not authorized to do so without permission. If you do this again I will take it up with management.¡± His eyes narrows. ¡°Or is that too hard for you country hillbillies to get?¡± My face burns¡ªI need to get better at hiding my accent. ¡°I¡­I really like the designs, it just that they become repetitive after a while, you know? I¡¯ve got plenty of new ones we can choose from.¡± I reach for my notebook. ¡°We can bring the others in, so we¡¯ll have a meeting about it. Look, I can show you¡ª¡± Nolan scowls and snatches it away. ¡°This isn¡¯t about you. This is about us getting that game out on time. I¡¯m getting complaints not just from management, but from staff around you.¡± He wrinkles his nose. ¡°Have you even looked in the mirror lately? You can¡¯t even keep up with basic hygiene. I¡¯ve talked about this with you before. You need to shower before you come in; employees have been telling me all month that they can¡¯t stand being around you.¡± He tosses my notebook into the trashcan. ¡°How are you supposed to represent us in this way?¡± I look down at my scuffed sneakers. ¡°I¡¯ve¡­I¡¯ve been¡­behind on a few utility bills lately, so they cut off my electricity and water.¡± I rub the back of my neck. ¡°But I¡¯ll take care of it, I promise. You won¡¯t hear any more of it.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve been real sluggish lately, but that¡¯s not really why I¡¯m here.¡± Nolan rubs his forehead. ¡°The CEO has an assignment for you.¡± He shoves the folder directly in my hands. ¡°He¡¯s asking to develop a prototype for a new game. Not for the arcade, for the console.¡± His dark eyes gleamed. ¡°He insisted that he can¡¯t find another programmer who¡¯ll deal with it. I recommended you. You¡¯ve got some extra hardware experience, don¡¯t you?¡± I pick up the folder and flip through it. A brief moment of silence passes between us, and I purse my lips, scanning the information. In my mind, I can see where each piece is meant to fit, although there are some tangles. I¡¯m going to have to go to the chalk board and draw it out, get a picture. Once I have my plan, I should be set. My jaw tightens at the sight of my notebook in the trash, still dripping with lukewarm coffee. It took me weeks to come up with those designs. ¡°Well?¡± Nolan demanded. I gaze at him. I don¡¯t think he knows yet I flunked out of school. Till then, I¡¯ll keep him guessing. It¡¯s either a hit or miss, anyways. ¡°Don¡¯t be like that.¡± He rolled his eyes. ¡°Yes, you¡¯ll be compensated, okay? Ray Kassar made sure that you¡¯ll receive five thousand for the job, as well as a three hundred and seventy-five bonus. We¡¯ll get that ready for you. In the meantime, I need you to focus.¡± He points at the garbage, then the office door. ¡°Not on that, nor those people. This. I¡¯m the tester for this project, you¡¯re the engineer.¡± Now you¡¯re talking. I only make twenty-five thousand a year with this job anyway. Five grand would help me immensely, as I¡¯m already at risk from being kicked out from my apartment. Silently, I reach over and wipe up the coffee spill with the napkins, before taking another huge bite out of my sandwich, wiping the crumbs from my hand. I¡¯m not really hungry anymore, but I could use the energy. ¡°How long?¡± ¡°What?¡± I¡¯m still chewing. ¡°When does he want it?¡± Nolan stands up and smirks. ¡°Three days. And once the prototype is complete, he wants it presented at a conference in LA with our investors.¡± He patted my shoulder. ¡°So if I were you, I¡¯d better get to work.¡± Before he leaves, he points to the overflowing trash. ¡°Be a sport and take that out, please. Thanks.¡± Once he¡¯s gone, I fish out my notebook and carefully go through the wrinkled pages. My squid is immersed in a sea of caffeine. * * * * * * * Maze Jumper. Turns out Ray Kassar is far better at coming up with decent names for games that I. But after spending the rest of the day at the chalk board, drawing and then erasing, and then drawing again, my ideas are set into place. I am drowning in paper and ink and coffee and cigarettes. I¡¯m on my third pack today. It is significantly more challenging to work on three separate games at the same time within a short time frame because it is easy to get confused which punchcards are for what. My messy desk didn¡¯t help that much either, but I just created two large piles so make it simpler for myself. By five thirty, the office is completely empty, and I am pacing back and forth, reviewing my designs. Mr. Kassar wants me to use less than two hundred microchips¡ªwhich is what a normal game requires. I can probably do about forty-five for this one. The sun is setting, and the office is soon dark except for my desk lamp. I make my routine trips to and from the coffee pot, before just taking the entire jar to my desk. I¡¯m pretty sure they won¡¯t mind if I remember to place it back into its original place. Each night seems longer than the last, and I actually wake up slouched over in my chair at the sound of my coworkers coming in through the office door in the morning, chatting about their plans for Christmas. I place my cartridges for Pinball Adventure and Rainbow Warrior on Nolan¡¯s desk without a word and leave. He gives me a sideway glance as I sleepily stumble down the hallway for more coffee. All I can taste in my mouth is coffee. I can¡¯t remember eating food, or taking piss breaks. If I even do those things, I¡¯m automatically coding in my head. All I¡¯m doing is coding. 6502 assembly language is not in my favor all that well, so I switch back to BASIC. The biggest obstacle is developing the new code that eliminates the need for excessive microchips. It takes me nearly all day to come up with a new solution, and when Nolan leaves his desk to head out for the end of the day, he scoffs at when he sees me standing on top of a chair and writing out on the board. It is the third and final night, about one in the morning, and I am in the last stages of placing the Maze Jumper cartridge together. I am pacing back and forth, barefooted, my baggy shirt untucked from my jeans, making sure that all of my code is coming together. I close my eyes for a moment to give my mind a break, maybe catch a few minutes of snoozing. I prop my legs up on my desk and sigh. I just need to shut my eyes a little. It¡¯s only a few moments when I hear a creak in the door, and then a little thump. The office is completely dark except for my desk lamp, and I slowly open my eyes and turn my head to the side. A middle aged man, wearing a gray uniform and pushing a broom bucket, pauses in the doorway. He freezes when he sees me quietly smiling at him in the dark. ¡±I¡¯m sorry,¡± he says, ¡°I didn¡¯t know anyone was in here.¡± He hesitates. ¡°I¡¯ll just start in the other rooms, if that¡¯s fine.¡± ¡°Wait, no, no, no!¡± I immediately stand up from my chair and flicker on the light switch, tugging at my sleeves. ¡°Don¡¯t go. Stay¡­stay here. I could really use the company.¡± He gives me an odd look. ¡°You sure?¡± I lit a cigarette. ¡°You like video games?¡± ¡±Huh?¡± ¡±I asked if you liked video games.¡± He shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡±Would you like to be the first person to test out my prototype? I¡¯d love some feedback.¡± ¡±What is a prototype?¡± he asks, but I¡¯m already reaching for his set of keys. I know exactly where the television set is. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. ¡±Come here,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s perfect timing actually, when you¡¯ve arrived. And it¡¯s good to get fresh perspective. Fresh perspective is always important, don¡¯t you think?¡± ¡°But I don¡¯t know a thing about video games!¡± ¡±No worries,¡± I gently say. ¡°I¡¯ll show you.¡± I unlock Nolan¡¯s office and turn the screen on, before returning the key. The janitor follows after me, a confused expression on his face. Smoke rises above my nose and lips as I slip the cartridge in the console system and watch the screen flicker to life. Astonishment fills his eyes as I hand the joystick over to him. He glances at me, before he squints at the screen. Just as I¡¯m getting ready to explain to him what it is, he¡¯s already immersed in the first level, shifting the joystick back and forth. I don¡¯t think he cares too much about the context, but it¡¯s the pure look of contentment in his eyes that made all those hours absolutely worth it. He hoots with laughter as he gazes at the screen. I can¡¯t help but grin. ¡°They want to call it Maze Jumper,¡± I say. ¡°But I think I¡¯ll change the name. It deserves far better than that.¡± I fold my arms. ¡°Far better.¡± ¡°I love it.¡± The man chuckles. ¡°Great stuff.¡± His face suddenly drops. ¡°My grandson would love this, ya know? Christmas is coming up, and his mom has been in and out of the hospital.¡± He runs a hand in his hair and handed the joystick back to me. ¡°Medical bills eat our finances up. No money for presents.¡± I watch him trudge back to the mop bucket across the hallway. Just as he¡¯s moving to the next office room, I remove the prototype from the console, lock Nolan¡¯s office door and block his path. The words are out of my mouth before I can even stop them. ¡°Hold on. Just wait here.¡± The janitor stands in the hallway, completely in awe, as I make my way barefooted through the rest of the building, not bothering to put my shoes on. Most of ATARI¡¯s merchandise is usually sent to the warehouse, but I know what to find what I am looking for. ATARI always produces too many copies of games they think will sell well. An unopened 2600 box, several cartridges¡ªmy hands wrap around them. I gather these all together in a large paper bag, fold it at the top, and hand it over to the janitor, who is still waiting for me on the third floor. He¡¯s probably wondering why I don¡¯t have shoes on. I¡¯m too tired to explain¡ªI pretty much live here at this point. I think this guy gets that. ¡°Here,¡± I say, holding it out. He raises his eyebrows looks into the bag, before shaking his head, although he can¡¯t resist a smile. Releasing a deep sigh, he begins to give it back to me, but I wrap both of my hands around his wrinkled one, which is worn from decades of calluses. ¡°Please?¡± I ask. ¡°Come on. Please.¡± The old man hesitates. ¡±All I want is for your grandchild to have a Christmas present. ATARI makes millions of dollars a year. These greedy bastards have never struggled a day in their lives.¡± I wiped my sweaty forehead. ¡°Take it already.¡± A startled look crosses the janitor¡¯s face. ¡°Won¡¯t you get in trouble? I don¡¯t want you to lose your job.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry about me,¡± I reply, leaning against the wall and releasing a puff of smoke in the air through my mouth. ¡°It¡¯s the least you deserve, being away from your family so late at night.¡± I then sigh. I need to return to my desk and conduct some more testing. ¡°I better not be in your way; I know you are busy. And I appreciate you taking the time to test out my prototype. There¡¯s some things that are quite iffy, but this is the exact input that I need.¡± He¡¯s clutching the paper bag against his frail frame. Before he can get out another word, I closed my office door and return to my computer, the illuminated light glowing across my sweat soaked face. I set the prototype back down on my desk. A smile spreads across my face as I begin to frantically type. * * * * * * * * I can only catch three hours of sleep before the conference. As I collapse into my bed, my head is spinning. I don¡¯t know how I am able to pull myself from my blankets when my alarm clock goes off, but when I catch my reflection in the mirror, I resemble a ghostly skeleton. My ribs are showing through my skin. I manage to pull myself together, shower, swallow some dried cereal with expired milk, and caught my flight heading for downtown Los Angelos. I can¡¯t remember what was being said, what I said to explain Maze Jumper¡¯s prototype, or who those people were, but I see the relieved look on Nolan¡¯s face during the whole meeting. For once, he shakes hands with me. His face is pink, and his hair had been combed back from his face. His dress shirt and tie has been neatly ironed and freshly pressed. He wouldn¡¯t shut up about the game, not for one moment. As for me? I just want to lay down. After lunch, I knock on the door of the small office he is using. There is a bit of giggling inside, followed by other noises, before the knob turns and Nolan stands in front of me, adjusting the belt on his pants. A young woman is leaning against his desk, who is frantically buttoning up her shirt. She hides a deep smile as she moves past us in the doorway. Nolan¡¯s gaze lingers on her behind for a moment, before he adjusted his tie. I can see a bit of lipstick on his lower jaw, just directly below his beard. ¡°We did it,¡± he excitedly exclaims, patting my back. ¡°Well done. Well done indeed. We are expected to make massive profits within the following three months. They¡¯re anticipating that we should land between ten to fifteen million in sales with Maze Jumper alone.¡± He chuckles and pulls out a cream colored envelope from his breast pocket. ¡°Ray wanted me to give this to you, as we have discussed.¡± I study it in my hand. ¡°This is for three hundred and seventy-five dollars. Where¡¯s the five grand you were saying I would receive?¡± ¡±What five grand?¡± I heavily exhale and glare at him. ¡°You said¡ª¡± Nolan smirked. ¡±There was a double price for the project. One for the tester and the programming engineer. I conducted all of the testing, therefore, this is my side of the¡ª¡° My head hurts. ¡°You said I would receive five grand. Where is it? I need that for my bills.¡± ¡±Mr. Jenkins!¡± We both look up. A young woman steps out into the hallway. She is wearing high heels, a pencil skirt and blouse. Her blonde hair is piled up high above her head in thick ringlets, bouncing over her shoulders. ¡°Your wife waiting for you.¡± Nolan¡¯s face reddened. ¡°My wife?¡± He storms out. ¡°She is not my wife. What is she doing here?¡± I stand for a moment in the hallway, my face burning. I might as well pack my stuff up from my apartment and leave this place for good, because my landlord isn¡¯t going to compromise in the slightest. After a few moments of raising my arms over my head, fuming, I decide to leave and go back to my hotel room to cool down. I won¡¯t return to Sunnyvale anyway until tomorrow. I desperately need a nap, and stressing about money was only making my headache worse. Yes, this is what I need. A good nap and a big old bowl of gumbo¡ªLouisiana style only, with plenty of saltine crackers. And then, maybe then, I could finally think clearly about what I would do next. I am eager to escape the swarm and heavy chatter of the people around me. I¡¯ve only made it outside past the fancy lobby in the building and through an alleyway, when I heard muffled shouting. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I remain in the shadows, where I could make out just two figures in the distance. My stomach churned. ¡±For the love, Hannah,¡± Nolan yelled. ¡°Why are you following me out here? Didn¡¯t I tell you never to contact me again?¡± The young woman is hovered in the corner. She is attempting to protect herself with her arms, but she can¡¯t get a word out, because there are only smacks and blows. There¡¯s a muffled scream as he roughly grabs her by the shoulder and shove her against the brick wall. I want to move, to stop him, but I cannot. My eyes sting. My heart is thudding. I am five years old and helpless again. ¡°We need money,¡± she chokes out. There is blood trickling down her face and nose. ¡°Leah and I. She¡¯s starting preschool. I tried to call, I tried to write, but you wouldn¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡±She¡¯s not my daughter,¡± Nolan snarls. ¡±You¡¯re her¡ª¡± There is another heavy smack, and he then roughly drags her by the arm, before leading her out of sight. I stand there for a long time, hours in the alleyway, until it rains and it is cold and slippery and wet. I do not return to my hotel room. I sit on the curb, my clothes soaking to the marrow and clinging to me. * * * * * * * It is three days until Christmas. I¡¯ve returned back to my house. I knew I should¡¯ve returned back earlier. It¡¯s been in bad shape, ever since Mama passed, but I get this place spruced up. The roof has caved in. I scrape away all of the black mold on the floor with a rusted fork. I then add a wreath on the front door, mistletoes hanging on the walls. ATARI placed me on administrative leave, so I am able to work from Sunnyvale for a while, even though I have no intention to return. Not yet, anyways. I call Nolan on the phone, ask him to come by and visit for dinner. I¡¯ve never again questioned him about that stupid paycheck, although I¡¯m sure his conscience has nagged at him, because he agrees. Once I¡¯m finished giving this place a good scrub down, I set up my Christmas tree in the corner and prepare to make dinner with the same cookbook I planned to use for Mama¡¯s meals. The pages are yellowed and wrinkled with water damage, but I can tease them apart with my black fingernails. After an extensive grocery store visit, I lay out my ingredients on the table. I prepare the ham, making sure to roast it upside down in the backyard on a spit with a glowing fire so all the juices get soaked in real good. I prepare my mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, cornbread, and collard greens. It¡¯s quite a bit for two people, but I finally set the table for us, with paper plates and silverware. The TV still works. There¡¯s a Frank Sinatra special going on, so I let it play in the background. I am humming Silent Night, Holy Night, as I change into a large sweatshirt and comfortable jeans. I am barefoot. Outside, the ground is very soft and moist beneath me¡ªa comfort from the endless cement and concrete I always encountered in Sunnydale. While the food is being kept warm, I go upstairs to the attic and retrieve my axe. It¡¯s a good, sturdy, dependable axe, and I make sure to sharpen it until the edges are real nice and pretty. I carry it downstairs and place it by the television, where the music is swelling. There¡¯s a knock on my door. I open it. Nolan stands on the porch, confused for a moment. He looks a wreck, and I can smell alcohol coming from him. In the overgrown yard I can see the rental car he used to get down here. It¡¯s parked lopsided against one of the oak trees. ¡°God, this place is so ridiculously obnoxious to find,¡± he mumbles. ¡°You live in the middle of nowhere.¡± He then grins. ¡°At least traffic isn¡¯t as bad down here like LA.¡± ¡°Happy holidays,¡± I say. ¡°Come in. Please.¡± Nolan steps in the middle of the living room. ¡°Pretty nice thing you¡¯ve got going on,¡± he says, his eyes following the cracks going through the walls. ¡°Although it definitely needs some renovation here and there.¡± He wrinkles his nose. ¡°You ought to call someone, get this inspected. It¡¯s practically falling apart. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s safe to live here.¡± I shut the door and lean my back against it. My fingers lock the rusted chain. ¡°Money¡¯s been real tight lately,¡± I explain. I fold my hands. ¡°But I¡¯m glad you¡¯re here.¡± He turns around, his eyes wary. ¡±How was your flight?¡± I ask. ¡±Alright,¡± he murmurs, still scanning the kitchen. ¡°The hotel I¡¯m staying at¡ªnot so much.¡± ¡°It gets really lonely during the holidays,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s nice to share them with someone.¡± ¡°You¡¯re pretty young,¡± Nolan says, folding his arms. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to pry into your business, but don¡¯t you have any family here? Or at least dating someone?¡± ¡°No,¡± I whisper. My skin prickles. Doesn¡¯t he know how badly I wish I had one? How I¡¯ve dreamt of being part of one? A real one? ¡°My mother passed away a couple of years ago. My father died when I was ten.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± he mumbled. ¡°Sorry.¡± I wave my hand to dismiss his apology and gesture to the table. ¡°Please, help yourself.¡± Nolan sinks into a chair. I sit down across from him and began to pile up macaroni and cheese and ham on my plate. He looks amused at the amount I am digging into. And it is really good food. I wish Mama was here to taste some. I am starving at this point. You can¡¯t work on an empty stomach. ¡°You¡¯re absolutely puny,¡± he says, reaching for his own plate. ¡°Never knew you could put away so much like that.¡± I grin. ¡°You like my cooking?¡± He takes a bite of his ham and nods. ¡°I do.¡± There¡¯s a long silence at the table, with our silverware clinking against the plates. Nolan picks at his macaroni and cheese. ¡±Look, about the other day¡ª¡± I shake my head. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I probably misunderstood our initial agreement. I should¡¯ve never came at you like that.¡± I¡¯d forgotten about that incident. I could care less about money at this point, because there are two other people who are far worst off than me. People whom I am indebted to protect, even though they are thousands of miles away from me, and whom I will never meet face to face. My hand tightens around my fork. I must put a stop to this, once and for all. Leah and Hannah. His eyes light up with sickening relief. ¡°Really?¡± You greedy snake. ¡°No issue.¡± I shrug as I begin to dig into my soggy collard greens. ¡°I don¡¯t even know if California is right for me. I¡¯ll probably stay here. I¡¯m not sure.¡± He sets down his glass in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re quitting?¡± I stare at him but don¡¯t reply. Nolan sighs. ¡°I can speak to the CEO about a pay raise. Those games you developed are completely selling like hot cakes. At least tell me you¡¯ll think about it.¡± ¡±Probably,¡± I lie. ¡°It¡¯s a lot to consider.¡± He nods and picks up his fork. ¡°Understood.¡± ¡°How is your wife doing?¡± I slowly ask. With two breaths, I blow out the candles on the table, a twisted trail of smoke rising in the air. Nolan looks up. ¡°Hmm? Oh, you mean Hannah. No, she¡¯s not my wife. Just a little fling who got herself knocked up with some pimp and has been after my finances for the last couple of years. I¡¯m not the father of her child, but she keeps bluffing. She¡¯s like a leech. She needs to take accountability, and be put into her place. It¡¯s as simple as that.¡± I stand up and shut off the television. I do not face him, but my pale hands slowly wrap around the wooden handle of the axe. Strands of hair have fallen over my face. ¡°Did you love her?¡± I whisper. ¡°Huh?¡± Slowly, I turn around. Nolan¡¯s face grows pale. ¡°I asked if you loved her,¡± I whisper again. My voice belongs to someone else. He is struggling to get up, his belly swollen from all of the good, nourishing food I have prepared for his rotten soul. There is nothing left to give. He is fat and round and ripe, ready for harvesting. Hannah and Leah and Hannah and Leah Without a word he attempts to flee from the living room, but I rapidly rush towards him, knocking over the table. Plates smash in the ground, and food stains the carpet. My breaths are heavy. I must protect them. I must protect Hannah and Leah. As I swing, I catch him in his left side. Blood spurts out, splattering the wall. He collapses onto the floor, attempting to crawl away. The axe, which has been heavy only moments ago, is now light in my arms. The blade slices into his juicy soft flesh, like butter. His screams echo in my house, but there is no one here for miles, no one to hear his strangled cries, no one to answer him at his beck and call, as he is so used to. He starts to vomit as my breaths grow heavier. I pin him to the floor, my chest rising up and down. The smell of his bile is filling the air; it is a thick, yellow paste that has bubbled up around his chin and neck. He is going to choke on it, and I will gladly watch him do so. I will shove it back down with my fingers. He has no control. He has no control over their lives. Hannah and Leah and Hannah and Leah I raise my arms to bring the axe down again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again until the entire floor is flooded with dark red blood, bones, vomit, organs, meat, fat, and flesh. He is scattered in a lot of places, like code that must be put together. At this point, the blade is becoming dull, but I do not stop. I do not realize that I am gritting my teeth so hard my gums burn, until my face is soaked and water is running down the bottom of my chin. I can¡¯t stop. My shoulders burn and sting. His limbs flop against the floor like a struggling fish. The room spins. I am gasping, completely coated in sweat and blood, bathed head to toe in glorious crimson, but my slippery fingers grip the axe handle tighter until splinters form in my palms. I swing faster. Chunks of wood and human bone fly from the ground, from the hole I am creating. I will bury him in the floorboards, where the rats will eat his flesh. I shall send him to a new world. Seventeen JUNO MINDEN, LA SEPTEMBER 1986 My back is pressed against the door. I tug at the locked doorknob, banging upon it with my fists. I¡¯ve misplaced the key. I push over the thick cardboard boxes that I had spent countless hours stacking in front of it. Tugging, pulling, straining. It simply won¡¯t budge, and I begin to viciously punch at it with my clammy fists. The filthy imprint of the creature¡¯s palm is still freshly pressed upon my hand. There is sweat pouring down my face, and I am struggling to breathe. I turn around again, yanking at the doorknob. Something is barricading it from the other side. The shadowy figure has moved around my mattress and sprawled sheets. It¡¯s coming closer to me, and I am glued to the door. They take another step forward. ¡°Go away,¡± I scream at the top of my lungs. Silence. My eyes are wet. I don¡¯t know what this person wants¡ªis it a person? No, there is no person here with me. It¡¯s a hallucination, the very same one that Tom Brunswick has repeatedly told me about. I remember him telling me to think logically. It has spawned from the depths of my deprived mind. Otherwise, how could someone enter a locked room from the inside with only one door? I had checked everything¡ªeven bolted the window. In reality, I am still asleep on that mattress. This is a nightmare that I am still in. I must wake up. I must. I roll up the sleeves of my wrinkled nightgown and begin to slap and pinch at my arms. There is pain, so I pinch harder until the skin is red and sore. Come on. Wake up, wake up, wake up. Two bare feet leave muddy prints against the rotting bedroom floor, visible in the moonlight. There is a heavy silence in the room, other than my futile, pathetic attempts to leave this room. I can¡¯t stay here another minute. I simply can¡¯t. I should¡¯ve begged Tom¡ªpleaded with him to remain at his place for the next two months. I¡¯d have gladly slept in the backyard or garage. I should¡¯ve borrowed some money, rented a hotel room; with decent running water and electricity. I should¡¯ve called the cops and have them check every sprawling inch of this place. What was I thinking? I should¡¯ve¡ª Juno. I begin to kick at the door again with my bare heels. I¡¯m trying to shut its quiet, broken voice out of my head. It sounds very human, but I don¡¯t want to acknowledge it as such. I hate that it knows my name. I want to get away from it. I¡¯m tired of being afraid of something I can¡¯t see. This fills me up with a heat I can¡¯t comprehend¡ªand my tongue is loosened from its weight. All the weeks of anxiety and stress and sleepless nights seem to bubble over and spill out of me. Who did this thing think it was, and what right did it have to reign dominion over my own life? I didn¡¯t sign up for any of this. ¡±Let me out of here.¡± Silence. ¡±Let me out of this room,¡± I slowly repeat, although I can see how pointless it is to say such a thing. But I still want to establish some sense of authority. It has me here for a reason, to commit a deed I am not prepared for. ¡°Let me go. You can¡¯t keep me here forever.¡± There¡¯s a shifting noise, followed by heavy, distilled breathing. ¡°Show me your face,¡± I demand. ¡°Or are you too scared to do that? Come out in the light so I can see you, you animal.¡± I narrow my eyes. ¡°Do it. I dare you, since you have the guts to keep me here against my will.¡± My hands are shaking. ¡°You¡¯re nothing but a dirty thief, too. You have my driver¡¯s license and my knife, don¡¯t you? I know what you took from me. Give back my stuff! I¡¯ll call the police on you myself.¡± My voice is shaking. No reply. ¡±I will! And then everyone in this town will see how rotten you are.¡± My throat burns. ¡°I will!¡± An inky figure spreads out against the wall¡ªthe rotting floor, which groans and strains under our weight. In the moonlight, I catch a glimpse of dried leaves and twigs stuck upon a matted head of tangled, filthy hair¡ªwild and long and unkempt¡ª facial features swallowed up by the darkness. It remains standing near my mattress, silently watching my every move. My throat burns. A deep heat suddenly settles upon my face. Resting on top of one of the cardboard boxes is a book, and my shaking hands feel around it in the dark. If they wish to kill me, I¡¯m going to do whatever I can to delay this creature. I will make sure my child is able to live another day, even if I won¡¯t, just as long as this thing doesn¡¯t cross paths with it. I throw it at the figure. The book falls to the ground with a thump. ¡±I hate you,¡± I yell. ¡°I hate you.¡± I don¡¯t know what or who I am talking to, but I do. I truly hate this presence. And it has ruined everything, made my life a living hell for the last four months. I think about all the months of endlessly working to save up for the down payment of this house. My dreams of a hope and future for my baby and I are shattered. My blood shall be dashed upon the floor¡ªmy unborn child cut from my womb and placed into someone else¡¯s despicable arms. Practically the thing that is standing in front of me now. It is waiting to attack, like a fox that watches its prey from the shadows. ¡±I hate you,¡± I shout. ¡°You hear me?¡± It doesn¡¯t answer me. Of course it doesn¡¯t. As I move, I stumble over a cardboard box and hit my right knee. I am gasping for air. My arm goes into it, fishing for another random object, and I pull out my water globe. I chuck it at the figure again, which doesn¡¯t flinch. The globe crashes to the floor, leaving behind shards of glass. A large puddle of the gelatinous, glittering liquid spreads outward, glowing in the moonlight spilling through the window. I can about make a pale bare foot that steps into it¡ªthe nails are dark, thick, and long. There are gashes and small cuts that mark the dirt-caked flesh. I can¡¯t help but wrinkle my nose at the stench coming from them. When was the last time this thing has taken a bath? Have they ever heard of soap or deodorant? I imagine my father shaking his head, like he always did when he was disappointed. Trabajas demasiado rapida mija, he¡¯d scold me when I attempted to make a cake for my grandmother one time; I was ten years old. I ended up putting in salt instead of sugar, and she had gotten so ill from the first bite that she had to go to the emergency room. I was in such a rush to have it ready for her I had skimmed over the directions in the cookbook. ?Necesitas planificar y tomarte tu tiempo! The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Defeated, I lean my sweaty head against the door. I will never be able to see my kid grow up, go to college, get a job, get married, or have children of their own. I will die on the moldy bedroom floor on the second floor of some asbestos ridden trap house that hasn¡¯t been renovated since the forties. One that I was too stupid to buy in the first place; all because I was so desperate to own a home. The figure stares at me. My knees are weak. I curl sideways against the door, my hand still wrapped around the knob. I just want my mother to have a place to come to, if she ever decides to come back to the States, if she ever decides to forgive me. If she ever changes her mind¡ªshe could come and visit her grandchild for the very first time, hold them in her arms. I miss her more than ever in this moment. I¡¯ve dreamt about it for years. I¡¯d show her the backyard, the rooms, the freshly painted walls¡ªand see her smile¡ªwe could forget about the past. We could laugh and smile like the old days. I am nothing but a failure; perhaps she could see that I had made something of myself. Those days seem further away than ever. My attention drifts back to the figure. It¡¯s just standing there, watching me loudly sniff and wipe my puffy eyes, which haven¡¯t yet gotten used to the dark room. It is so still it is like a statue. Maybe it is only my imagination. Everyone wants something, Juno, my mother used to say. Everyone¡¯s looking to fill a hole. ¡±Is it money you want?¡± I wearily ask. ¡°Look. You can take everything I have. Take it all. My car, my clothes, my wallet, everything. You can sell them. I don¡¯t care. Just let me and my child out of here. Please.¡± There is no answer. I draw in a shaky breath, preparing myself for the worst. When are they going to do it already? It¡¯s torture to wait for this long. I¡¯m expecting a knife to be plunged deep into my side, a blow to my face. Maybe they have a gun and plan to blow my brains out. They¡¯re going to take my baby, leave my corpse up here. I will become forgotten and alone, like this house is. The figure slowly takes a step towards me. ¡°No, no, no, stay there!¡± I shriek, motioning with my hands. ¡°Away. Away. Go away.¡± They pause, before they take another step, gracefully moving around the shattered glass from the smashed globe. I¡¯m feeling around in my cardboard box until I pull out a hanger, pointing the wired edge at the shadow. My hand is shaking so bad I can hardly hold it straight. They are still moving towards me, and I can feel their eyes directly on my soul. ¡°No! Don¡¯t come any closer.¡± My voice is raw, and I shield my large abdomen with both of my arms. ¡°Get away from us. I¡¯ll use this.¡± The metal wiring of the hanger digs into my hands. My arms are extremely shaky. ¡°Leave.¡± The figure tenses up, as if taken back by my words. They suddenly stop by the window. I¡¯m surprised that they do so¡ªas I can be easily overpowered by its twisted, towering frame. ¡°I hate you,¡± I repeat. I mean it with every fiber of my being. The words just flow out of my mouth. ¡°I hate you. I wish that I had never moved here. I can¡¯t even get a good night¡¯s sleep because I¡¯m always worrying about you!¡± I clench my teeth. ¡°I hate you, you hear? Nobody loves you. That¡¯s why you have to do this. Because people get sick just being around you. You make me sick. Why can¡¯t you just go home? Mess with someone else for a change. You ever thought about that?¡± Silence. ¡±What do you want from me?¡± I explode. No response. I am startled to see the figure¡¯s demeanor change, their shoulders slump as they look down for a moment. My chest is still rising up and down¡ªmy face is still warm with rage. Tears are escaping down my cheeks. You are my home. It¡¯s a soft, yet clear whisper. Barely audible to the point I can just about make it out. The entire house creaks, like it is struggling to support our weight. I drop the hanger, and it loudly echoes against the floor. There is a rapid sound of their footsteps rushing towards me at full speed in the pitch black. The room in its entirety disappears. A tingling, itching sensation suddenly over my flesh, before there is nothing left at all. * * * * * * I open my eyes. No, no, no¡ª What has only existed moments ago is gone. My arms, legs¡ªthe rest of my body as I know it, including my unborn child. I can¡¯t feel a kick¡ªany sense of movement in my stomach, which has been the only thing keeping me going the last couple of weeks. My body has been replaced with the same abysmal pink blob, pixelated and sharp at the edges¡ªlike the strange road in front of me. There is no pain, only a fierce numbness, and I cannot tell which one is the worst out of the two. I fight to make sense of it all. How is it that I have landed here without the television set or game console? That doesn¡¯t matter. How am I supposed to do anything without arms or legs? Who designed this? The path, which reminds me of the yellow brick road I read in the Wizard of Oz as a child, itself twists and goes off into the distance, but I don¡¯t wish to follow it. I turn around and start heading the opposite direction. My new body tingles and burns. I¡¯m too exhausted to care. I shiver, it is beyond freezing in this place. It takes me a few moments to figure out how to move up, down, left, and right. It¡¯s like driving a car, expect without the skills or the engine. I just have to maneuver forward, and although I can go very fast at times, I slow down too often. I don¡¯t know where to go. I just have to keep moving until I can figure a way out of here, which is probably a slim chance. There must be a way out, right? A dense, colorful forest lies ahead, full of blue and green trees. Clearly, there is some attempt at nature here¡ªlike I¡¯m in the woods or a national park. The background is some strange, stupid tune that echoes in this place¡ªlike the ones I used to hear in those cheap arcade games. Does it ever stop? Will it ever stop? I want to cover my hands with my ears. I look up, down, left and right. Gasping frantically, I rush through the endless trees¡ªmore like float¡ª trying to make sense of my surroundings. Trying to find a way out of it. I am no longer human, but I regret all the times I had taken it for granted. Pink does not look good on me; it¡¯s such a stupid color. I begin to destroy each and every pixelated tree in front of me, bits of green and brown and black dissolving. I shall never see him again. As I blast through one row after another, a number floating above my head increases, but I don¡¯t care, nor pay attention to it. My mind is spinning. I know if I try to break out, it¡¯ll result far worse than a broken arm and a couple of stitches. I think the creature that¡¯s holding me hostage knows that. It¡¯s not a chance that I¡¯m willing to take at the moment. I¡¯ll need to destroy this place if I have to. I should¡¯ve never returned to that house. I am a horrible mother. I failed to protect my child. I¡¯m beginning to demolish another row of trees in this programmed forest when a sound reaches my ears¡ªdo I even have ears? I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s loud enough for me to hear it. I spin around, turning away from a smoldering tree, which has caught fire and is burning nicely. I am still floating off the ground, and I can¡¯t deal with the fact that I don¡¯t have feet anymore. A strange yellow creature is behind me. I¡¯m not sure how to describe its shape¡ªit¡¯s round at the top like me, but much more spiky at the very bottom. I can see its black eyes shyly meeting my own, and it says something before I can even comprehend what I am looking at. It tilts its head to the side. I stare back. ¡°Who are you?¡± it asks. Eighteen ANONYMOUS MINDEN, LA JANUARY 1956 My untied shoelaces dangle midair from the bench I am sitting on. The parking lot in front of me, which was full of pastel colored cars and people hours ago, is now completely empty, filled with puddles that reflect the weeping gray sky. It is pouring harder. I shiver and pull my soaked, worn sweater as tightly as I can around myself, but it seems no good to block out the enormous gusts of wind and rain that keep coming my way, no matter how hard I try to shield myself away from it. My hair is wet and plastered to my face. In order to distract myself from my growling stomach, I try to focus on counting the different kinds of cars that speed down the road across the street, going over potholes and spraying water in the air. My backpack is soaked to the marrow, and I loudly sneeze, before hugging myself tighter. I watch the way the other children would run up to their parents with open arms, waving goodbye to their friends, sometimes walking arm in arm to their cars with their siblings or whatnot. I watch them from afar, a deep ache forming in my chest. The trees near the parking lot bend and sway in correlation with the wind. It is getting colder by the minute. I then count the raindrops dripping from the roof of the school building, whispering each number to myself. It¡¯s fascinating to me that they can come down rapidly at once, then very slowly crescendo into a light, calm rhythm. I am almost to thirty when the sound of two high heels clacking against the asphalt makes me jump up from the bench. I almost trip over my laces. A tall lady, wearing a thick coat with a flowered dress underneath it, is carrying an umbrella. Her large blue eyes are round with surprise, and she holds the striped umbrella over me. ¡±My goodness,¡± she says. ¡°What¡¯s your name, sweetheart?¡± I quietly tell her. It takes me a moment to recognize her. Miss Holt. I think she¡¯s a replacement for the other class, whose teacher had to leave because they got sick. She laughs a lot more than the others do, and when she smiles at me, her teeth are very white. But she¡¯s not very good at hiding the concern in her face. She looks down at me and slightly frowns, even though now that she doesn¡¯t have shelter from the rain, she doesn¡¯t seem to mind in the slightest. When she offers her umbrella to me; I hesitate, before holding onto the handle with both of my muddy hands. ¡°What on earth are you doing here all alone?¡± she asks. It¡¯s not an accusatory tone¡ªbut a gentle one. ¡°Do you know who¡¯s supposed to pick you up? Where¡¯s your mommy and daddy?¡± I shrug, even though I¡¯m fighting back the stinging in my eyes. Big kids don¡¯t cry; that¡¯s what Papa says to me all the time. Miss Holt doesn¡¯t give me the time to reply anyway, because she¡¯s already taking off her coat and wrapping it around me. She¡¯s muttering to herself, shaking her head at my worn shoes submerged in a large puddle beneath me. The weight of her coat on me is a relief. ¡±You¡¯ll catch a cold in this draft. Come on, sweetheart, let¡¯s go inside. We can¡¯t wait out here.¡± Miss Holt holds out a hand. ¡°Come.¡± I glance at the empty parking lot. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± she says. ¡°My classroom is right by the window, so we can see when your parents will come by, yes? We¡¯ll come out and meet them there.¡± A smile flashes across her face. ¡°You just point and tell me what color their car is. I¡¯m sure they¡¯re just running late.¡± With a sigh, she glances at her watch. ¡°It¡¯s past four thirty. Let¡¯s give them more some time, shall we? Lots of traffic, I¡¯m sure. The weather is practically in a bad mood today, but that doesn¡¯t mean we have to be in one either, do we?¡± I take her hand, and she leads me back into the building. It¡¯s empty, with only the janitor there down near the end of the hallway, who is mopping the floor and whistling a loud tune. Miss Holt smiles as he waves as both to us. I don¡¯t like how quiet and empty it is are, and when we enter her colorful classroom, I am unable to hold back my tears. They are dribbling down my face and curling around my chin, and Miss Holt immediately kneels in front of me and takes both of my wet hands into hers. The sobs are shaking my entire body, making my chest ache a great deal. ¡°There, there now,¡± she softly says. ¡°It¡¯s alright, sweetheart. It¡¯s alright.¡± I sniff and wipe my nose with my palm. Miss Holt reaches into her pocket and pulls out a wad of thick napkins, before dabbing against my cheeks. ¡°I¡¯m not going to leave you here by yourself. I¡¯ll stay here as long as I can until your parents arrive. Until then, I need you to be brave and wait here with me. Can we do that? Can we at least try that?¡± I nod, releasing a hiccup. ¡°Good,¡± she replies. ¡°Very good.¡± She sighs and glances at my wet clothes, before picking up my backpack. ¡°You are not dressed right for this weather. When your mother comes, I¡¯m going to have to ask her to make sure you don¡¯t leave your house tomorrow morning without a decent outfit. It¡¯s raining cats and dogs, for heaven¡¯s sake. She ought to buy you a proper raincoat and boots.¡± I¡¯m relieved that she doesn¡¯t ask for her coat back. She¡¯s placed her large purse her desk and is digging through it. It¡¯s still freezing, and it smells strongly like her¡ªginger and honey. I sit down at one of the round tables, now neatly placed in order with pencils and crayons in each plastic container. The wrinkling of a brown paper bag catches my attention, but I try not to look at it as she opens it and places it on the table. I¡¯m too nervous to look at her. She smiles at me and pulls out a foil wrapped square, which glows between her bright red nail polish. ¡±How old are you, my darling?¡± I hold up five fingers. ¡°So you are in kindergarten?¡± My stomach growls. ¡°Well, I¡¯m just silly.¡± Miss Holt continues. ¡°I was so busy today that I forgot to even have lunch. Spent all of last night packing it, just to not eat a thing. I¡¯ve been forgetting a lot of things lately. First my glasses, my car keys, and then this. I¡¯m lucky if I walk out of here and don¡¯t leave my shoes behind next.¡± I finally make eye contact with her. It¡¯s quite hard to imagine her with glasses. Her eyes are so big I don¡¯t think she has trouble seeing anything, like my grandmother does. But my hands tear at the foil before I can stop myself. It¡¯s a ham and cheese sandwich, slightly smushed with the crust at the end. I am cramming it into my mouth as she places an apple and a package of cookies on the table as well before standing up, pursing her lips. ¡°Who¡¯s your teacher, darling?¡± Chewing and smacking loudly, I pick up the crumbs that have fallen on the table. I take a large bite of the apple. I¡¯m a bit afraid to answer, but she gives me a warm look. ¡°No need to be shy. You are not in trouble. I just need to make sure you are eating properly during the day. That you get the hot lunch if your parents don¡¯t send you in with a cold one.¡± ¡°Mrs. Crenslaw,¡± I whisper. ¡±Come again?¡± ¡±Mrs. Crenslaw,¡± I say a little louder. ¡°She won¡¯t get in any trouble, will she?¡± Miss Holt shakes her head. ¡°I think you need to worry about finishing that first. Your classroom is right down the hallway from mine. I¡¯ll pass the word to her tomorrow.¡± I want to ask what sort of word, but I don¡¯t know how. The taste of apple is sweet against my tongue as I watch her reach into her drawer and pull out some thick pieces of construction paper, brushes, jars of acrylic paint, and some small cardboard boxes. There are a ton of pictures of nature and that cover the cinderblock walls, including the gigantic, colorful rug that covers the floor. This place is like a rainbow, and I don¡¯t remember it being so decorated like this. In the corner is a rocking chair with a pillow on top, next to a neatly polished bookshelf. The rain is pounding hard against the window. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡±I like your classroom,¡± I whisper. Miss Holt sets down the items with a thump on the table and beams. ¡°Thank you. I looked up some pictures in a catalogue for inspiration.¡± She raises an eyebrow. ¡°Who says waiting has to be boring? I thought we could just do something fun in the meantime.¡± As she holds up both of her hands, I notice that they¡¯re still stained with paint. ¡°See how messy mine are?¡± I look down. ¡°I can¡¯t paint. I¡¯m not a good artist.¡± My cheeks burn. ¡°Nobody likes my drawings. They laugh at them.¡± ¡±Now, in my classroom, we have a rule. We don¡¯t say the word can¡¯t. As long as you work hard, you can achieve anything you wish.¡± Miss Holt sits down across from me. ¡°You can either listen to what people say, or choose to believe in yourself.¡± Her blue eyes sparkle. ¡°I know that you are a wonderful artist, and I would love to see your work someday.¡± I faintly smile. ¡°You think so?¡± ¡°I know so.¡± She shuffles through the pile of thick construction paper. ¡°Which color?¡± With my hand, I point to a bright orange one. She selects red, and sets a jar of clear water between us, which soon becomes murky and cloudy due to our dirty paintbrushes. The classroom becomes warmer, so I take off her coat. My hand is clenched around the plastic edge of my brush, making a perfect arc around the strange creature I¡¯m drawing based on Tom Corbett-Space Cadet¡ª one of the shows on TV that comes one when Papa is usually asleep on the couch and that I sneak down and listen to. I¡¯m almost done, since my fingers are stained with purple paint¡ª when I point to one of the cardboard boxes. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Miss Holt says. ¡°I thought we could play a board game.¡± She frowns and glances at her watch. ¡°But given how much time¡ª¡± ¡±What¡¯s a board game?¡± She looks up at me and smiles. ¡°It¡¯s a game with pieces that you can move on a flat surface.¡± With both hands, she taps her palms against the table. ¡°Like this.¡± ¡±Like a game show?¡± I ask, ripping open the pack of cookies and chomping into one. ¡°Is it like What¡¯s My Line? You guess what jobs people have. It¡¯s a game show on TV.¡± ¡°Sort of,¡± Miss Holt says, reaching for the box that caught my eye. ¡°But you know how you see the game show on the screen? It¡¯s already played out for you. With a board game, you see it differently. You are in control. And you can play with other people.¡± She looked like she wanted to ask me another question, but stopped herself. ¡°It¡¯s a live game. Without any distractions or commercial breaks. No interruptions.¡± ¡±Oh,¡± I reply, licking the frosting off a cookie. ¡°What does this say?¡± Miss Holt asks. ¡°Can you read this for me?¡± Still chewing, I point a purple index finger across the bold, rounded letters. ¡°S-O-R-R-Y.¡± I pause. ¡°Sorry.¡± ¡°Very good!¡± she exclaims. ¡°But what is the game sorry about? Why would it be sorry about anything?¡± ¡°It¡¯s called that for a reason that we will soon find out,¡± Miss Holt chuckles. ¡°Would you like to play? Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll show you how. The rules are very simple. Once you master them, you¡¯re on a roll. We can switch up cards.¡± I open the lid and pick up a four-sided dice. * * * * * * * There is some arguing down the hallway, and I can make out staggered footsteps. At first, Miss Holt and I are laughing so hard we don¡¯t hear it. But it¡¯s not until the classroom door bangs against the wall that I quickly jump up from the table, knocking over the game pieces. They fall and roll down on the carpet. Papa stands in the doorway. His eyes are bloodshot and his dark hair sticks upward. My stomach churns, and all of the warmth in the room seems to evaporate. My breaths become shallow, and I gaze up at him. Miss Holt quietly stands up, and although her demeanor is calm, I can see that the color has drained from her face. The janitor is leaning against the wall outside in the hallway, clutching his stomach and wincing in pain. Outside, the sky is darkening. It is no longer gray, but a midnight black. For a moment, Papa examines the classroom, his black eyes scanning the area like a hawk. When he finally notices Miss Holt, he tilts his head at her and smirks. Stubble has gathered across his cheeks around lower chin. I can see that he¡¯s not in his work clothes, rather, jeans and a stained white shirt and jacket, all soaked to the bone. ¡°Evenin¡¯ ma¡¯am,¡± he says. Miss Holt loudly clears her throat. ¡°I¡¯d like to request that you please pick up¡ª¡± Papa¡¯s gaze settles on me. ¡°Get your bag.¡± I freeze. ¡±Now.¡± A sweat has settled upon me. My fingers wrap around the strap of my backpack as I sling it across my shoulder. I keep my head low as Papa roughly grabs my left arm. His shoe smashes a plastic green game figurine into pieces. I¡¯m not able to grab my picture, as I really wanted to hang it in my room, but he¡¯s already yanking me, roughly pulling me forward down the hall. I¡¯m struggling to keep up with his long strides, but he only quickens his pace. Outside, the scent of fresh rain and soil meets my nose. His fingers tighten around my arm once we approach the car. I keep glancing behind me as Miss Holt and the janitor gather around the entrance of the school building, still talking. The scent of alcohol and cigarettes grow stronger as I climb into the back seat and Papa slams the door in my face. He¡¯s mumbling something at first, but as soon as he speeds from the parking lot and enters the main road, his voice grows louder. The windshield wipers are beating harder against the rain. ¡°Shoot,¡± he snaps. My fingers dig into the stained seat. ¡°That stupid teacher.¡± He takes a deep swig of beer. ¡°Now she¡¯s gonna call the authorities, have them do a visit at our house.¡± His stone eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. ¡°All because you couldn¡¯t keep your mouth shut. Spreading lies. What did you tell her, huh?!¡± ¡±I ain¡¯t tell her nothing,¡± I say. ¡°I ain¡¯t!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to hear your mouth.¡± Papa slams his fist against the steering wheel. ¡°Shut up. Shut up. You can forget it. You¡¯re not going there anymore. I come back from a long day of work for this? Got people looking me at me like I¡¯m the crazy one.¡± He presses harder on the accelerator. ¡°And then I gotta deal with your attitude.¡± ¡°I ain¡¯t tell her nothing,¡± I quietly say. Papa swerves past another driver in front of us, causing them to loudly blare their horn. ¡°Where is your mother? She the one who set me up for this. Talked me into it, and now she¡¯s too lazy to pick you up? I told her to homeschool you. You know how much money I¡¯m spending from my own pocket; sending you there for a full day? When I¡¯m trying to keep up with bills?¡± He licked his lips. ¡°I ain¡¯t letting no woman disrespect me like that. Not when I¡¯m the one providing a roof over your head.¡± ¡°Wait,¡± I whisper, ¡°can we go back? I forgot my drawing. I was drawing with¡ª¡± ¡±You say one more word and you won¡¯t be able to draw anything,¡± Papa yells. He slams on the brakes; we are at a red light. ¡°Blast it all.¡± When he turns his head to face me, his eyes glow with rage. ¡°I hate you, you know? I hate you. You ruin everything. I¡¯ve sacrificed so much for you, and here you are, running around and causing more problems, when I¡¯ve told you to stay put. All you have to do is sit at that place and wait. And you can¡¯t even do that right. You ain¡¯t put no value in no one¡¯s life. You ain¡¯t doing it right now, you won¡¯t do it later.¡± I remain still, staring at him, my breathing getting heavy. My eyes are stinging again. ¡°Don¡¯t you start with me,¡± Papa spits. The silver chain of his dog tag glistens on his neck. ¡°Don¡¯t start that foolishness. You want to know what real tears are? Real tears are waking up and realizing that your friends are dead. When their heads are blown off for this joke of a nation.¡± His voice slightly wavers. ¡°When you¡¯re on a beach and the water is red with their blood. When you come home and everyone treats you like you¡¯re nothing.¡± He slams his fist against the passenger seat. ¡°You don¡¯t have the right to cry. And I don¡¯t ever want to see you cry in front of me, or your mother, or anybody again. Crying is what¡¯s got you here¡ªwhat¡¯s got me in this predicament. You need to shut up about a drawing, because there are more important things you ought to be concerned about. Like doing what you¡¯re told.¡± My hands are shaking. ¡°Look at me when I¡¯m talking to you.¡± I slowly raise my head. Papa glares at me. ¡°You don¡¯t have the right to cry.¡± The light mercifully turns green, and he mashes on the accelerator again. The rest of the ride is a blur, a tangled mass of colors. I hate you. By the time we reach the house, I am cold, so very cold. I can see Mommy standing on the front porch, wearing a pink bathrobe and slippers. Her eyes are puffy and red. But Papa doesn¡¯t even turn off the engine. He leaves the car on. The moment he pulls into the driveway, he gets out, strides over to where Mommy is, and begins striking and kicking her to the ground without a word. She tries to run to the front door, but he yanks her backward by her long hair and slams her against the door. A few of her teeth dislodge and flies into the bushes; fresh blood runs down her mouth and chin. She yells. I won¡¯t cry. I hate you. I climb over to the passenger seat and turn on the radio to the highest volume, before curling into a ball against the material and trying to not look outside the blurry windshield. Hugging my knees, I focus on the halfway empty beer bottle Papa left behind and try to count the raindrops slowly to myself, which are starting to leak down though a crack in the window, pooling on the seat. One, two, three, four¡­. I won¡¯t cry. Nineteen JUNO SEPTEMBER 1986 LEVEL ONE I blink twice. ¡°I asked,¡± the yellow creature continues, ¡°who you were.¡± There is a hesitation in its movements¡ªthe voice is very static, but undeniably male. He appears to be very shaken as he observes the smoldering tree behind me, almost like I would set him ablaze if it came any closer. And maybe I would. There is a radiant heat emitting from my pores, and the coldness that I had felt only a few moments ago is now dissipating. I turn away and blast down another tree, causing the pixelated bits of wood and leaves to fly out in the air; they are almost floating above. Why doesn¡¯t this fire spread? I wonder, watching in great irritation as the flames flare, before completely disappearing. Even though it¡¯s computer generated, it¡¯s supposed to resemblance some of its physics. I hate this forest; I want it to disappear. Gritting my teeth, I try again, but the stupid number that is hovering over my head greatly decreases until my body goes completely limp. Where I was once levitating off the ground; I now nearly pummel directly into it, into the grass. The yellow creature is now standing in front of me. He¡¯s gotten more courage now that he sees that I¡¯ve exhausted my resources. ¡°You can only use your abilities for a short period of time. It¡¯s important to save your stamina. I do not understand why you would use it all out here. That is not where they usually are. We are on enemy territory, I am afraid. So it is best to meet them where they are.¡± They? Who is they? ¡°Please,¡± I mumble. ¡°Leave me alone. I¡¯m having a really bad day.¡± Is it really daytime? Or is still nighttime? I don¡¯t know how long I¡¯ve been here; there is no sense of time. My skin is crawling, like insects are crawling all over it. ¡±But you must move,¡± he persists. ¡°If you don¡¯t, you definitely will be ambushed. I know for sure that you are a newcomer, and they do not take well to strangers. With you, they shall show no mercy. I know it for a fact.¡± I turn my head. ¡°What, if you die here, do you regenerate or something?¡± I try to stand up, but my new body is unresponsive¡ªit¡¯s like I¡¯m paralyzed. ¡°I can¡¯t move. What¡¯s¡­what¡¯s going to happen to my child? Please help me. I need to get out of here. Do you understand me? I need to leave this place. I need to go home. Can you please send for help?¡± The yellow creature places a strange tentacle or limb¡ªI don¡¯t know what it is exactly¡ªon my pink, sweaty flesh. There is a strange burst of energy. I can¡¯t explain the sensation, but I am immediately rejuvenated, even though there is grass stuck to the side of my cheek. I can almost taste it. I am lifted off the ground, and all the pressure that has been in my body is gone. Above the yellow creature¡¯s strange, bulbous deformed head, the number dwindles from 75% to a whopping 43%, now leaving it into a dark red shade, a far cry from its previous green. Why is he wasting all of his stamina on me? If I die, that means I leave. I can¡¯t stay here another minute. ¡±Um¡­¡± ¡°Would you be as so kind as to tell me your name, comrade? Or how is it have you have encountered very same land as I?¡± ¡±Look,¡± I breathlessly say. ¡°Thank you. But I am not interested in playing, alright? I just¡ª¡± ¡°Player 0001455, it is a pleasure to see a familiar face in a foreign land. I understand that you brought my attention of a mission that you are determined to complete before you can return home and bring honor to your master. I am Player 099234, your loyal guide and mentor.¡± My throat burns as I try to make sense of his words. I know almost nothing of video games, but there has to be some consistency here. ¡°No, no, no. You don¡¯t understand. My name is Juno. You¡¯d need to know of a way to get out of here, correct?¡± 099234 focuses behind me¡ªhis eyes are unblinking, unmoving. ¡°I am Player -Oliver- 099234, your loyal guide and mentor.¡± His voice gradually becomes more distorted. He blinks a couple of times, before slightly tilting his head to the side. His eyes grow wide. I am here forever. I can¡¯t leave, I am here forever. forever help fprintf A lopsided smile slowly stretches across his face, reaching both sides, I can see all of the teeth, all the teeth fprintf fprintf (disp A) A problem has been detected and has been shut down to prevent damage to your video computer system. The problem seems to be caused by the following file: 666.SYS If this is the first time you''ve seen this Stop error screen, restart your system. If this screen appears again, follow these steps. If problems continue, disable or remove any newly installed hardware or software. [Reinstalling] [Install complete] * * * * * ¡°Who are you?¡± My head starts to throb so much I get dizzy. A yellow creature is looking down at me. I am still on the ground. ¡°I am Player 099234, your loyal guide and mentor,¡± the yellow creature says in a cheerful voice. ¡°But we must not tarry, my dear comrade. Lest our enemies arrive.¡± ¡°Enemies?¡± I ask. ¡°What enemies?¡± ¡°You can only use your abilities for a short period of time.¡± ¡±My abilities?¡± ¡±Indeed. You have been bestowed the gift of fire.¡± The gift of fire? I am drenched in sweat and am shaking from head to toe, but I don¡¯t have the opportunity to ask more questions, because he has already taken off into the dense purple trees. The sky above us, which has once only been a bright blue before, is now a dark red. There¡¯s a hissing sound, and thousands of beady, black eyes are staring at me from the belly of this earth. When they start to approach me, I begin to propel myself forward as much as possible, getting slapped in the face by countless branches. I am securing my middle the best I can with these strange limbs of mine the best I can, ignoring the deep scratches forming upon my skin as one creature jumps on me. In front of me, there are flashes of yellow. ¡°I thought you were my guide,¡± I yell, shaking off the wretched being. Blood is dripping from my arm, and I can make out loose, green thread dangling from my pulsing flesh. I grimace in pain, but I refuse to let go of my stomach. They are going to have to gnaw down to the bone, and my blood is already leaving behind a trail for them to follow. ¡°No need to worry, 00014455. These minions can be overcome with your majestic gift of pyrokinesis, which you have mastered so well. I fully trust that you are capable of it. All you had to do was wait, 00014455. Now neither of us have a chance to get out of here. You wasted your energy, you worthless disp(result) ¡°No need to worry, 00014455. These minions can be overcome by your majestic gift of pyrokinesis, which you have mastered so well. The first level is always the easiest.¡± When I check my stamina box, my heart skips a beat. 20%. 099234¡®s is at a mere 5%, and they are barely struggling to move. I try to focus, but only a few of the dark shadows are lit ablaze. 099234 is being ripped to shards, and their howls are filling the air, chunks of melting, yellow flesh being thrown in the air as the creatures gnaw and eat. Their bloodshot eyes fall upon me. I am desperately attempting to increase the spread of the fire, but it is no use. They smile at my expression, my feeble attempts to get these horrid creatures off them, and the smell of burning, rotting flesh fills the air. 099234 is on fire, and it is all my fault. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. I try to bat away the flames. * * * * * * * * I am on fire. I am screaming. There is a fire between my legs. The back of the pillow is glued to my sweat soaked hair. As a matter of fact, there are multiple stacked behind me. My chest is rapidly rising up and down, and I realize that I am lying on my back on top of my mattress. I grip the sheets, trying to see clearly, but I am in a dark room. It is not the attic, nor the bedroom I was in. I sit up, gasping heavily, realizing that all of the windows are completely blacked out, so I don¡¯t know if it daylight or night outside. In the dim light, I can faintly make out the stairs. I am in the real world. For the first time, I am in the basement of the house. It smells of mold and rotting wood and soil, and while I assume that there are nothing but rusted tools piled up down here, I can¡¯t see a thing. A rattling sound echoes in my ear¡ªthe handle of a plastic bucket nearby. I look down, and, after flinging aside the sheets, realize that my left ankle is wrapped in bandages. It¡¯s puffy and swollen, making it hard to move. I don¡¯t know how it has gotten that way. Panic fills through me, and before I can try to pry it off with both of my hands, an agonizing, searing pain courses through me. I cry out, clutching my stomach, and look down at the dark spot on the blankets. I pull up my nightgown and release a heavy gasp. My water is broken, it has completely drenched the sheets. I now understand why I was pulled out of that horrific virtual stimulation. The worse is not over, because I know that I¡¯ll be going back soon. The figure in front of me has plans for that. This revelation makes the pain between my legs all of far worse, and I begin to scream. The contractions are ripping me apart. It¡¯s like being slashed from the inside. I am not ready for this. I want Tom and Georgia here with me. I need them here. ¡°Somebody help me,¡± I shriek. ¡°Help.¡± The creaking sound of the basement door makes me jump. The rest of the house is completely dark, with only the shadowy figure standing at the very top, holding a flashlight. In their other hand is a large bucket, plenty of clean towels and swaddling cloth. As they quickly descend down the steps, each tread squeaking under their bare feet, I try to move away, but grunt in pain. The pain is so intense that I whimper, clutching my blood soaked nightgown. I yank down my underwear until it is twisted about my knees. In an attempt to scramble off the mattress, I wince in pain with my every move. Another contraction takes hold of me, and I curl up against the sheets. The figure¡¯s breaths are heavy, like they have been running a marathon outside. I see another faded but clean blanket come into view, this time it is tucked underneath me. There is a loud tearing of cloth, and they bunch more of it below me. The scent of blood is filling the air¡ªiron reaches my nostrils. I¡¯m realizing that they¡¯re trying to staunch the bleeding. My bleeding. ¡°Please,¡± I beg, even though it¡¯s probably pointless to ask. ¡°Call an ambulance.¡± I can¡¯t have the baby here, in this filthy place. But both I and the figure know that it¡¯s inevitable. They ignore my request, and release a heavy grunt as they carry the bucket across the basement, before the sound of heavy water sloshing in a sink meets my ears. The squeaking sound of the faucet being turned on makes me jump, and I despise how dark it is in this room¡ªI want to see what color the water is, if it¡¯s riddled with lead or something. They stop a few feet from me, lowering the items on the ground. The plastic pail slams against the floor, causing the freezing cold water to splash on both sides. I hear them submerging the cloth in the water, wringing it out, and attempting to dab my face with it, but I weakly swing at them. They don¡¯t do anything else, and I¡¯m glad they take the hint that I don¡¯t want it. Silent tears are rolling down my face as I begin to sit up. I can already tell that the baby is crowning, a good six inches. Breathing heavily, I glare at the figure. It watches me back, as it always does. Their breathing has slowed, become lighter. After a few agonizing moments, I realize that not as much progress has been made. My fingers dig into the mattress. I scrunch my face up, before struggling to breathe. There¡¯s a shifting of clothing, and a rough hand suddenly reaches out and grabs mine. Please, let me help you. My eyes are burning at this whispered sentence. This is happening much too soon. I wasn¡¯t supposed to be due for another three months, and I blame that horrendous video game. I don¡¯t want to return. I am shaking. I am shaking to the core. There is snot traveling down my face. The figure is inching closer. Didn¡¯t I warn it to stay away? I yank my hand free and swing a fist at them again, hoping to pop them right in the nose, if they had one. Maybe they were faceless. I won¡¯t hurt you. I shut out every word, every lie. They are planning to, sooner or later. It is only a matter of time. The pain is so incredibly bad that I don¡¯t know if I nodded or mumbled for help again.There is some heavy, slow breathing very close to me, and the ever present scent of cigarettes. A bundle of thick cloths are placed beneath me, two gentle, large hands, and whispered words encouraging me to push. I¡¯m hollering at the top of my lungs; it¡¯s the last thing I want to do, but I try to. It¡¯s after several long, agonizing minutes does the sound of faint, shrill, weak crying fill the air. In the dim light, I can see that I have a son. I heavily exhale. He is a shade lighter than me, but has a full head of thick curly hair, being held in the dark hands of a stranger, wailing, kicking and swinging his little arms and legs back and forth. For a moment, I forget where I am, and a smile briefly appears on my face. The shadowy figure is carefully cleaning off all the gunk and blood the screaming infant is covered in. I can tell by how tenderly they hold and cradle him that even they are overtaken¡ªfor now. A moment of silent passes between us; outside of my son¡¯s wails. I reach out for him with both arms. To my relief, the figure gives him to me. My boy is still carrying on, but the moment I unbutton my nightgown and offer my breast to him, he immediately begins to nurse. I am so very exhausted, but my eyes never leave the pitch black figure, who is still seated at the far end of the blood stained mattress in the dark. As I swaddle my son with the rumpled clean cloths to keep him warm, shivers are running down my spine. The figure is still staring at me. I narrow my eyes. And somehow, their gaze lingers on the newborn, who is peacefully beginning to doze off. His tiny fingers are curled up around the rim of the blanket. I place a kiss on top of my son¡¯s damp head once he¡¯s fed, slightly shielding him from the looming figure. I¡¯m struck with the odd sensation that it wishes to hold him a bit longer, which is what I would never dare allow. But my eyes are droopy, and no matter how hard I try to stay awake, I find myself slipping back into a horrendous slumber. I glance at the water bucket in horror¡ªit has been most likely laced. I feel the figure¡¯s hands cleaning away the blood and sweat from me. They wrap me in clean sheets, exchange them for the bloodied ones, and raise a cup of cold water to my cracked lips. There¡¯s a careful and delicate touching¡ªlike their fingers are trying to memorize where my eyes and nose and lips and chin are. When their calloused hand tenderly caress my own, I make sure to spit directly into their darkened face. They are the reason I have gone into labor earlier, why my son is several months premature, where he¡¯s more prone to diseases and underdeveloped lungs. He could die here at any minute, all because they won¡¯t call an ambulance. I¡¯ll need to the hospital myself. I try to stand, but a hand roughly digs into my arm, pulling me back down onto the bloodied blankets. Rest. It¡¯s still gentle, yet more stern. Demanding, stubborn almost. ¡±No. I need to get to a hospital,¡± I choke out. ¡°If he gets very sick or dies in this filthy place, it¡¯s all your fault. And I¡¯ll make sure you pay.¡± This causes them to slightly flinch for a moment. ¡±I¡¯ll make you pay,¡± I say louder. I¡¯m not exactly sure how to carry out this threat, but I intend to make it happen. ¡°If anything happens to him, you¡¯ll need more than a crappy game stimulation to keep me away. I¡¯ll ruin your life, find out who you are. I¡¯ll kill you with my bare hands if I have to. I promise.¡± Silence. I glare at them, breathing heavily, expecting a slap in return. They did not, to my surprise, and just observed me, before wiping their jaw with their sleeve. We are enemies. I don¡¯t want them to ever forget it. And although they may have saved my son¡¯s life, they have trapped both of us here, and that is something that I shall never forgive them for. To my despair, the figure holds their wretched, slimy arms out, making a beckoning motion. I shake my head. Here. ¡°No,¡± I yell. ¡°No. He stays here with me.¡± They begin to reach for my son. You rest. ¡°No!¡± My chest is throbbing. They have gone mad; how could I possibly rest after all of this? I tighten my grip as their dirty, clammy fingers work to pry mine away. ¡°Get back.¡± I try to scream go away, stay away from my baby, you have no right, that¡¯s my child, my only child, how dare you, you can¡¯t send me back, he NEEDS ME¡ª In the midst of my struggle, I kick over the flashlight, causing the rim to shatter. I want them to leave, while I find a way to get my child and I out of here. But I can feel the figure inching closer. The thought of them holding my baby makes me physically ill. The last thing I feel is my son firmly but gently being taken from my arms. I¡¯m too weak to stop it. He is wrapped in additional blankets and carried upstairs as I slump into the mattress. I try to stand up, but my legs are worthless. The figure pauses to look at me for a moment, before closing the basement door and trapping me in the thick darkness. Twenty ANONYMOUS SEPTEMBER 1986 MINDEN, LA I carry the crying baby in my arms, past the kitchen, down the dim hallway, out to the porch. It has stopped raining, and a cool mist has settled in the morning air. His mother¡¯s strangled screams echo in the house from the basement, but I try to shut out her threats. The words and names that she calls me stabs like a knife, even more so than when she spat into my face. I need to let her be for a few moments. Me only being there seems to escalate her further; I don¡¯t want to do that. A bird lands on a branch and begins to sing. When she is calmer, and hopefully a lot more kinder, she will maybe not see me as such a monster. I understand that this will take time; as a city is not built within a day. Neither is trust. Maybe we will be friends, before we can truly become family. If she spits or hits at me again, she will have to return to where she was before. I cannot have her act in such a way around her own child. What if she upsets him? My face is still deeply stinging from the impact as I settle down on a lopsided chair and gaze upon the bundle of life in my arms. Nobody loves me. But one person in this world does. By default. He is in front of me. His mind is a fresh slate, unpolluted by ideologies or opinions or influences. His mother will teach him to despise me, for sure, if she does not want to be part of this family. I know that she will attempt to demonize me every way she can as when he gets older, so I must take preventative measures. He is a precious gift that I have waited and hoped for all these years. He is tiny. So very tiny. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen anyone so tiny, nor knew it was possible. I can¡¯t help but marvel at how tiny his fingers and toes are, the skin still translucent, so I can see each pulsing vein. I smile when his large eyes rest on me¡ªthey are the same lovely shade as his mama¡¯s. He¡¯s got mostly everything from her. From the tips of his fingernails to his scrunched up nose, he begins to fuss, his little mouth opening and closing. His large eyes are a deep brown, gazing up at me as I gently begin to bounce him up and down. A small smile forms across my cracked lips. I haven¡¯t smiled in years. I didn¡¯t even know I was capable of it. I can¡¯t remember the last time I had. Decades, perhaps. His big, round eyes get a little crossed before he releases an enormous sneeze, startling himself. I chuckle as a large, round snot bubble swells from his left nostril. After using a clean corner of my mostly filthy sweatshirt to wipe it away, a realization falls upon me. I haven¡¯t given this beautiful child a name yet. He suddenly begins to cry, and I wonder if he¡¯s cold. I will keep him warm. The outside world is far too overwhelming; it¡¯s the sights and smells that are crashing over him all at once. I need to give him a bath. The stuff from the afterbirth is still clinging to his skin and hair, and it¡¯s starting to dry and peel off. That cannot be comfortable for anyone. As carefully as I can, I scoop the newborn up in my arms. I carry him back inside the kitchen, this time heading upstairs. The sun is starting to seep through the house, and his mother¡¯s shrieks are louder than ever from the basement. Curse words flying, bouncing off the walls, but I hardly bat an eye. I don¡¯t even look there. I reach the baby¡¯s new room. I¡¯ve managed to clean everything out; especially all those boxes his mother had left. I have swept and dusted everywhere. She ought to know better, that it attracts dust, which brings in respiratory problems. And due to his size, his lungs are definitely underdeveloped. Once I have a shallow basin of warm water ready, I sit down on the floor. The baby is wailing on the top of his lungs now¡ªhis pink gums bared. They are both calling to each other¡ªhim and his mother cries echo in the house. I know they are, and I know I have no right to keep them apart. I bear the weight of their voices; I know I am a hindrance. It was not an easy choice. But this child is my own. And I intend to protect him the best way I can. I will protect him far better than my own mother ever did for me, so he too, one day, will love me. And no one is to get into my way. He is wailing louder now, kicking his little legs. ¡°I know, I know. It¡¯s cold. I¡¯ll have you warmed in a jiffy. It¡¯ll be quick, little guy. It¡¯s alright.¡± He sniffles. ¡°Shhh,¡± I say in a soothing tone, testing the temperature of the water with my hand to make sure that it is not too hot. Once I remove the stained swaddling cloth Juno had hastily wrapped around him and carefully lower him into the basin, he immediately stops crying. I squeeze a good bit of soap on a cloth, and, once I get a nice lather going, I see how his tiny feet are splashing up the water. He¡¯s only a couple hours old at this point, but it seems to calm him. I am gently removing all the stuff caked upon his skin¡ªno doubt the source of his irritation. It¡¯s coming off in thick chunks that plop in the browning water below. I apply more soap to the rag. ¡°This been botherin¡¯ you for a while, ain¡¯t it? It¡¯s enough to get anyone worked up.¡± I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m talking so much. I¡¯ve hardly spoken more than a couple of words in the past month. He¡¯s taken my silence from me. He crams his fingers in his mouth, before smiling at the thick suds spilling out of the sides of the basin. He¡¯s a such a sweet boy, and I place a light kiss the top of his head. I can¡¯t help it. He gurgles as the soapy water clings to his chubby legs. ¡°You are going to be nice and warm and dry, and you are going to sleep in this lovely room. I¡¯d get you all the toys you¡¯ll ever want. Board games. Crayons. I¡¯ll teach you how to draw,¡± I murmur. The faint scent of lavender fill the air as I wash his hair¡ªthick black curls. ¡°You are so well behaved. I know you gonna make your mama proud one day.¡± There¡¯s not a whole lot of blood, but a reasonable amount. He could fit between the palms of both of my hands. He is much too small, but resilient. He is the apple of my eye. ¡±Almost done, little one. Almost.¡± He fusses as I support the back of his head and finish cleaning him up. He places his tiny fingers in his mouth and looks around in the room, his room. His first night here out of many. Bubbles rise in the air, and the small suds are clinging to my wrists. He seems to like them, and they distract him from the cold for a moment. His dark eyes look at me again as I rinse him off. He loves kicking up the water, rushing and splashing it all up all over the floor, leaving a puddle, and I smile and hold him close to me. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. It¡¯s like he¡¯s in a hurry no matter what I do. A name pops in my mind. Rush. There¡¯s a thud against the basement door. ¡°Not so bad for your first bath, ain¡¯t it, buddy?¡± I whisper. I¡¯m careful to keep it short, since I know babies get cold easy. The last thing I want for him is to catch a chill. The good news is that his mother has brought plenty of brand new clothes for him¡ªI know where to find them. After rummaging around and getting him into a clean diaper and shirt, I swaddle him up in thick, warm cloths. He¡¯s starting to doze off once more. When he wakes up, I will have a bottle ready. I ought to start a fireplace out in the backyard, get some of the formula heated for him to have. Too bad the stove doesn¡¯t work anymore. But maybe I can scrape enough money to buy a new one, install it in the kitchen. Then we can have meals every night. Especially board game nights. The idea of a nice bowl of hearty chicken soup and good old fashioned checkers is enough to make me heavily sigh. Rush releases an enormous yawn, once more revealing his pink gums. I am amused by the sight of it. I am excited to see where his first tooth comes in¡ªwill it be at the top or bottom jaw? Then he will say his first word¡ª ¡±Go to hell!¡± My smile fades. At first his mother¡¯s cold words catch me off guard, snap me out of my thoughts. I suddenly remember where I am; what I have done. They float up the stairs and bite into my skin like fire ants and wasps. My hands slightly shake. Hell. Doesn¡¯t she know I¡¯ve spent all my life there? It¡¯s hard to fear what you already know. ¡°I¡¯ll kill you.¡± Juno¡¯s screams echo down the hall. ¡°I¡¯ll kill you, you hear? I¡¯ll kill you.¡± Bang, bang, bang- Holding Rush carefully in my arms, I begin my descent down the stairs, my bare feet barely making a sound against the treads. My eyes focus on the door that is taking the brunt of the impact down the hallway. She had gotten up, somehow found her way behind the door. This sort of behavior is not appropriate in our family, our home. My chest is rising and falling. I know I can¡¯t keep Rush away from his mother¡ªit would kill him, and it is a burden that I am unwilling to bear. I keep telling her that I won¡¯t hurt her or her son. Why won¡¯t she listen? If only she listened. But then again, no one in my life ever has listened to me. I ought to be used to it. I ain¡¯t. Something slammed against the door. ¡°GIVE HIM BACK.¡± ¡±I will,¡± I quietly say, but it¡¯s drowned out by a slew of curse words. There¡¯s another crashing sound against the locked door, which is rattling heavier than ever. Bang, bang, bang. She¡¯s going to try to break it down, most likely by throwing something at it. There is already a crack at the edge of the doorframe. ¡±LET ME OUTTTTTT!!!!!!!¡± I am impressed¡ªnever knew she could put a dent into it. When I was four, I remember my father slamming his fist against the surface, narrowly missing Mama¡¯s head. I remember the sound of his bones being smashed. It was music to my ears. He had to go to the hospital and get stitches for it. Couldn¡¯t work for a month. Of course, the wood had weakened a great deal over time. But it¡¯s still a three to four inch crack. I must repair that sometime. She then proceeds to calls me a female dog. I swallow hard. If she keeps this up, she won¡¯t be able to yell or scream much at all. I want to remove her tongue. She is lucky that I have not taped her mouth shut, but that is what I may have to start doing. I don¡¯t want to, but I will if she keeps making all this racket. I can¡¯t have her upsetting the baby. And I don¡¯t think she realizes how fortunate she is, to have a family who loves and cares for her. I love her as much as Mama. And I know that she is capable of loving, too. But then again, I am nothing but a stranger to her, and she doesn¡¯t really know me yet. My introducing myself to her has failed in the past. And I want her to like me. Badly. I have seen her in her tender moments too, when she is calm and carefree. When she is at peace. I want her to look at me the same way she did at her son when she saw him for the first time. I want her to see me as part of her, too. After all, she has rescued me from my loneliness. Now, I must tame the beast within her. If someone comes by and takes her away, I know that the dark, lonely days will return. I cradle Rush in my arms, where he is now sleeping peacefully, snuggled in my arms. He is such an easy baby. The banging has subsided, and as I slowly approach the basement door, I can make out sobbing in the other side. She has worn herself out. If she stays calm, I will bring him down to her. I know she misses him. I can¡¯t imagine what it¡¯s like, to have something so close to you for months until it is ripped away. I know that she senses his presence, as well as mine. She is exhausted. Her breasts are full of milk. Her baby needs her. ¡±Do not cry,¡± I whisper. ¡°I am here.¡± There is a hiccup. She is calming down. ¡°I¡¯ll bring him to you.¡± I pause. ¡°I promise.¡± And that¡¯s when I realized that she hadn¡¯t eaten much of anything since she¡¯s been back home, and that is not good. It¡¯s a shame that I haven¡¯t noticed. A good bowl of gumbo is what she needs. I can make wicked jambalaya, blackened fish, and some crawfish boil. Maybe fish fry with some red beans. I¡¯ve learned from the cookbooks I have. I¡¯d love to teach her one day, too. She¡¯d think better with a full stomach. Everyone is always cranky when they¡¯re hungry. ¡±You hungry, ain¡¯t ya? You like food, right?¡± Bang. ¡±Look, if I open this door, you can¡¯t be swingin¡¯ and hittin¡¯ me like you was earlier,¡± I gently continue. ¡°It¡¯s impolite, and in this household, we treat each other with respect. The moment you start doing that again, we go back down in the basement. You don¡¯t like the basement. I don¡¯t like the basement. That¡¯s something we can agree on. So you won¡¯t do none of that no more. We got a deal?¡± Bang, bang, bang. I exhale. ¡°Come on, you gotta work with me. And you¡¯ve got to talk to me at some point. You can¡¯t ignore me forever. We under the same roof, you and I.¡± There¡¯s another thump against the door, perhaps a foot. So I say real soft, ¡±If you don¡¯t fight me when I come back in there, I¡¯ll bring your boy to you. I swear.¡± I don¡¯t ever break my promises; I keep them to the end. There is more silence. But at least she is listening to me. I can tell. That is a milestone in it of itself. A smile crosses my face. We are closer to becoming friends already. I just know it. I haven¡¯t told her yet that I¡¯ve already named the baby, but I will. I hope she likes it. It is a good name. Silence. ¡°I bring him to you now,¡± I whisper. She sniffs. She doesn¡¯t say anything. That¡¯s it, baby girl. Relax. I wish she would talk to me, besides screaming insults at my face, as she had done for the last forty-eight hours. She is far too pretty for all of that. We¡¯ve never really had a conversation before, but I¡¯m hoping that it is possible. I look down for a moment, before placing a palm against the cracked surface and leaning my head sideways against it. I can hear her breathing heavily again. Maybe she is thinking of staying? I cannot get my hopes up. I want to let her out of that basement so badly. But I need her to be able to trust me. She is just as stubborn and headstrong as Mama, perhaps even worse. My hand tightens around the locked doorknob. I only want to dry her tears. If she runs away and takes Rush¡ª ¡ªif she abandons me like Mama did¡ª ¡ªI cannot allow it. I won¡¯t allow it. Twenty-one JUNO MINDEN, LA SEPTEMBER 1986 If I open the door, you got to be calm. I can see the shadow on the floor¡ªthe weight of their body leaning against the surface. You can¡¯t throw things, call me all these names, or hit or bite or scratch. None of that. Oh, you got another thing coming if you think that¡¯s all I¡¯m going to do. The sweat that has gathered on my forehead is rolling down my face and seeping into my eyes, causing them to sting. I wipe at them with my bloodied sleeves and sniff. As much as I do not want to give this abhorrent creature the satisfaction¡ªI absolutely refuse to address it as human¡ªnot with that stupid accent of theirs. It sounds like they have a permanent golf ball lodged deep into their throat. My mother would¡¯ve slapped the mess out of me if she¡¯d ever heard me slur over my words like the thing does. The strange thing is¡ªI can¡¯t even tell what sort of voice it¡¯s supposed to be. It sounds like it¡¯s supposed to be connected to the television that was once plugged in the corner of the living room ages ago. Well, before I destroyed it. You¡¯ve got to be calm. ¡°Where is my baby?¡± I explode. ¡°Get away from him. I¡¯ll kill you go near him again.¡± They don¡¯t reply. My voice is hoarse from screaming, and my eyes are puffy from crying. The horrendous cast on my arm makes me completely worthless. I am a fool. I know I am only making the situation worse and delaying the outcome that I yearn for. But to take away a child away from its mother mere minutes upon birth? To put my hope in faith in a complete stranger that is only here for one thing and one thing only? That itself is a crime, more so than my being here. To further piss off my captor, I kick the door with my heel, ignoring the pain shooting through my shin. At this point, nothing else matters besides my child¡¯s safety. Although the basement is dark, I can easily find something in here to break the door in. My breaths are shaky as I clumsily descend down the steps, clutching my swollen belly. The placenta lays abandoned on a pile of bloodied towels, but the sight no longer phases me. It is too quiet out there. The thought of my baby being sold or left somewhere to die in a trash bin makes my chest throb. I wrap my hands around a long, rusted, metal pipe, tugging at it, ignoring the cobwebs and dust mites landing on my filthy nightgown. As I pry it free, I turn and face the doorway, ready to smash it to bits. Strands of hair are over my face, and I grit my teeth. And I stop. The door is already open. Except it¡¯s not leading to the living room or kitchen of the dusty, broken down house. It is outside¡ªa beautiful spring day. The sun is shining so brightly that it splashes golden light upon the crooked treads of the basement stairs. I grip the railing, before rubbing my eyes several times with my hands. It doesn¡¯t disappear when I lower them. For a moment, I look around the dark basement in confusion. Maybe I am in a different part of the house that I have never been in before? But the scenery is so lovely that I can¡¯t help but slowly ascend up the steps. The rusted pipe slips from my hands and rolls into the shadows, but I hardly hear the impact. It is just an empty, distant echo in my ears. ¡°Hello?¡± I call out. A fresh, rejuvenating wind reaches my face, a relief against the stench of sweat clinging to my skin and bloodstained nightgown. I look up to see a brilliant blue sky. It is very blue, and the grass is so soft I can make a pillow out of it. I bend down and grab a handful of it, before it blows it away. I scratch my head as I look for any sense of normalcy. My front yard is nowhere to be seen, and my Camaro, usually buried beneath the over growing weeds, is gone. I freeze, before I slap at my cheeks. I am dreaming. I am dreaming. My hands go to my swollen abdomen. The pain between my legs is suddenly more apparent. The baby is asleep. The baby isn¡¯t supposed to come for another three months. I promised Tom that I would go the doctor for checkups. I would make sure that the baby was healthy, wasn¡¯t born addicted to anything. The faint sound of crying catches my attention. I immediately turn my head and start running towards it, ignoring the piercing pain gathering up into my right side. I trip and fall on a large field of daisies. How they got there, I am not sure. It seems to grow farther and farther away, and the wind grows stronger. My chest burns. I didn¡¯t even give my son a name. What kind of pathetic mother am I? Here I am, spending all this time planning and not even having come up a name for the baby. I am scrounging through all these flowers¡ªthe sight of them is actually starting to make me sick¡ªuntil I stumble upon a tree. It¡¯s a large oak, twisted and curved around the branches, bearing the weight of many seasons. And there, on a bed of moss and leaves and flowers, lies my little boy. He is wailing. A maternal instinct washes over me as I scoop him up into my arms, holding him close to me. I kiss his round face and briefly sigh. He has my mother¡¯s face, but my father¡¯s dark brown eyes. How he has gotten out here, I do not know. But I hold him close, inhaling his scent, letting my tears briefly falls on his cheeks. He is cold. It is too cold in this place. I need to get him somewhere warm. But before I can think about returning back to that basement door, I catch a figure watching us from a nearby tree, near the shadows. I stare back. * * * * * * * * * It¡¯s not so cold anymore. The walls of the kitchen come to me almost as pixels, then broad squares that grow until I can about touch them with my hand. Outside of the dirty window above the sink that I am facing, there is a full moon visible through clouds. I can see my useless car still parked out in the yard. My son lying in a crib and, instead, this time, he is sleeping peacefully. His hair peeks outside against his small head, covered by a knitted cap. His mouth is partially open, and his snores are small, but apparent. He smells like shampoo, and his own tiny heartbeat is rapid against my own. I am standing in the kitchen. There is no one in the house but me. It¡¯s been like that the entire time. I¡¯ve simply sleepwalked, went into labor throughout it, and woke up again. I ought to leave and get my son to the police station. I am able to leave. I don¡¯t hear anything, just the crickets that are chirping louder by the moment outside. I should leave. But my feet are rooted to the filthy tile floor, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My eyes twitch, but I stare forward at the glass. At the evening fog that climbs up over the peeling window pane, the white paint resembling dead skin piling up underneath a decaying wound, only bringing more filth. Please, talk to me. I continue to stare out the window. Talk to me. A hand latches around my left arm. The nails dig into my skin. I flinch in pain and try to pull away, but the creature¡¯s grip is too strong. They roughly spin me around to face them, although I can see nothing but a dark figure. Pitch black. But I can hear stifled, choked up breaths as I begin to squirm under their grasp. I shift my left leg and deliver a kick. My eyes go toward the crib. My son. I need to get to him. For a moment, there is a slight grunt¡ªa brief loosening of the giant hands that helped bring him into the world. I am close to the crib. Close. I can just about touch it. I am very close. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. But the hands come back. They lift me off the ground, and we end up crashing against a table. I try to scramble to my feet, but I am pulled down again. There is the sound of rustling jeans, heavy breathing, the abhorrent smell of cigarettes, and the arms wrap me into some sort of embrace. It is one that I am locked into, one that I cannot escape out of. I grit my teeth and try to sink my teeth into the hand, but it does little. Their breaths are still short, heavy. I try to push their hands away, squirming and kicking and spitting and scratching, hoping to get their DNA underneath my fingernails. I am shaking. Please. Just talk to me. There¡¯s a face buried into my shoulder, just as sweaty as mine. It¡¯s apparent they haven¡¯t washed in months. Years, maybe. They only to hold me silently, whispering the same cursed sentence all over again. I rack my brain, for something, anything, although the only thing I want is for them is to get off of me. But the oddest thought comes to mind. I want to call them all the names I know. I want to insult their family tree, the man and woman in the picture I saw in the attic upstairs. But I¡¯ve learned too late that my foul temper and hurling well deserved has gotten the best of me and led me and my hold nowhere. The creature¡¯s twisted, blackened fingers dig deeper into my arms. I clench my jaw in pain. They have raised their head from my shoulders, their scabbed lips brush against my left ear. Talk to me. About anything. Please don¡¯t ignore me. Talking to this creature is the last thing I want to do in this world, but I need to face that I have only made things worse for my child. He sleeps peacefully through all this, and when he wakes up, he will need his mama. He is my priority. And his future outside of these decaying walls entirely depends upon me. When you have kids, you realize how selfish you were before they are born. I am selfish. I have been selfish my whole life. This is not about me. Mom, I hope you are able to forgive me. From the corner of my eye, the ATARI 2600 game system rests on top of a chair. Next to that is a box filed with gray cartridges. There is one lying on the green peeling carpet. In boxy letters, on the surface is written the words SPRING AND PARADISE FOUND. There is no possible way that the place I left was a blasted video game. It couldn¡¯t be a game. A deep pulsing settles into my temples. Water forms in the corner of my eyes. The creature has a heartbeat. It is fierce against my back. Their grip is becoming more gentle, now they that they are realizing that I am have stopped fighting. Their hand slowly wraps around mine. It makes me wonder, if someone was never loved, how far they would go to find it? I shrug that thought away. I don¡¯t want to think about it. It is a creature. It doesn¡¯t think, it doesn¡¯t feel. It is an animal that purely acts on instinct. It¡¯s not going away anytime soon. I need to focus on getting my son out of here, even if I may never be able to. I need to focus. ¡±I¡­¡± My words come out slow, timid. Painful. ¡°¡­I need¡­need my t-telephone.¡± The creature¡¯s body language changes, but I force myself to keep going. I don¡¯t stop. ¡°I need to call my boss..b-because I have to go to work.¡± There¡¯s a long pause. It¡¯s listening, at least. ¡°I¡¯d told her that I would be able to work once I get better,¡± I say a little quicker. ¡°I got a new job, and she¡¯s expecting me. That¡¯s why I need my telephone. So I can call her and let her know that I am coming.¡± Why even mention this? There¡¯s no point in doing so. But it doesn¡¯t apparently take much to impress the creature. Maybe it¡¯s stupider than I think it is. I may be out of here sooner than I think. And the thought of it in handcuffs is enough for me to willingly endure another day in the house. I could almost hope. Almost. Alright, they whisper. Let me get it. To my great relief, they finally let go of me. There¡¯s a shuffling of jeans again as the creature stands up, moves around the room. I hear more thumping, and the sound of a receiver being gently placed on the ground. That¡¯s where the bastard has been hiding it. The urge to bash it as hard as I can against their skull is tempting, but I barely hold back as I shakily give them the number to Tito¡¯s Diner. They do it rhythmically in one go. A heavy silence passes between us as the sound of the rotary dial being spun echoes in my ears. As I slowly take the cradle from their hand, I can about make a brief outline of their body. They are sitting criss crossed in front of me, and I can just about see a small smile sitting on their darkened face as I glance at them, barely visible beneath the disheveled hair hiding it. Their fingers are picking at the soil clinging to their bare feet¡ªfrom SPRING AND PARADISE FOUND? No. I can¡¯t do this. It can¡¯t possibly be a game. I didn¡¯t see a single player in it. Just¡­..us. ¡±Hello?¡± The sound of clattering pots echo in the background. ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡±Amy?¡± I try to hide the frantic tone in my voice. ¡°Amy¡­.it¡¯s¡­it¡¯s me. Juno.¡± ¡±Juno?¡± Then she perks up. ¡°Oh, hey Juno! It¡¯s been a couple of days. Was afraid you¡¯d bail out on me like everyone else does.¡± There¡¯s another crashing sound. ¡°Will you stop that?! You¡¯re supposed to put the dishes in the dishwasher. For the love¡ª¡± ¡±I can come in t-tomorrow morning. 8 am.¡± ¡°Huh?¡± Amy¡¯s voice returns to the phone. ¡°Yeah, anytime before noon is okay. That¡¯s when we¡¯ll get busy. I¡¯ll have your uniform ready, okay. I¡¯ll see you for orientation.¡± There¡¯s another chaotic sound in the background, and she goes into a loud tirade. I open my mouth, but it¡¯s yanked from my hands and slammed hard on the receiver. There¡¯s a snipping sound, and I realized that the cord has been ripped cleanly through. My face burns. I¡¯m ready to deliver another insult, but to my surprise, I¡¯m pulled directly to my feet. Two hands wrap around my own. You are speaking to me. I freeze. There¡¯s a strange, light, crackling sound, and I realize that the creature is laughing. They¡¯re tugging at my arms back and forth in a playful way, their feet tapping against the dark, in rhythm with their shallow, haggard breaths. Before I know it, they sit me down hard on a stool and drag another chair in front of me, roughly grabbing my arms again. It hurts¡ªI wish they would stop it. They are still smiling like they won the lottery. The odd thing is that I can¡¯t tell if it is a genuine or a fake one. I¡¯m not too eager to find out. ¡°I need to take my boy with me,¡± I say, trying not to eye the crib. ¡°I have to take him to the hospital. He needs to be in one because he¡¯s premature.¡± I pause. ¡°You do know what that means, right? Premature? Born too early?¡± And it¡¯s all your fault, you sick piece of¡ª His name is Rush. The smile fades. The creature looks down, but pats my right wrist. I¡¯ll watch him while you go to work. He be right here when you return. I¡¯ll take care of him. I promise. You can tell me about your day. Tell me everything. Return. The word makes me want to hurl, much more than the abominable name they¡¯ve chosen for my son. The only thing they¡¯ll be taking care of is the steel toilet in their jail cell. I try not to flinch as a hand presses something into my hair. They grab my arm again and lead me to the window where I can just about make my reflection, but not theirs. My nightgown is stained with blood and dirt. Both of their fingertips linger on my shoulders. I realize that it¡¯s a flower¡ªa pink lily¡ªjust placed above my right ear. I only have one chance to not screw this up. * * * * * * Tom Brunswick¡¯s body lies in the basement closet. It is halfway decomposed. The nose and eyes are shriveled up, and his jaw is clenched tight, like he had been trying to trap as much oxygen as he can. His paper skin is a shade of purple, red, green and blue. His bloodshot gray eyes are wide spheres that shoot into the abyss, never to look upon his beloved wife or daughter again. I am awoken at three in the morning by the creature. I have just finished breastfeeding my son, as he had begun crying in the middle of the nights. I am in the middle of a fitful sleep on my mattress, trying to come up with a decent escape route when there is a warm hand that touches my face. Then they grab my hand, lightly shake me by my shoulders until I am slightly roused enough. Come. I do. I don¡¯t know why I didn¡¯t refuse. It is the worst decision of my life. They lead me in the basement, at the foot of the stairs. And I see Tom in the shadows. He has been down here for at least a week, if not longer. He has been in the same place where my boy came into the word. I sink to my knees and start vomiting, but the creature kneels by me. A hand is placed on my back. My stomach convulses terribly. I keep throwing up until I am gasping and spittle is falling from my lips. The creature¡¯s long hair is soft against my face, and they draw me close to them. Their chin rests on top of my head as they pull me into an embrace. They don¡¯t seem to care that I am getting everything on them, as a matter of fact, they seem to rock me back and forth in my arms, like a child. Their clothing is drenched with my vomit. I feel a thumb clear away the tears continuously running down my face. You are my family. I am quivering, unable to move. Twenty- Two ANONYMOUS MINDEN, LA SEPTEMBER 1986 I am making a dandelion wreath. There are so many out here. With my dirty finger, I braid and loop the fragile green stems. It¡¯s mostly due to the rain. I¡¯ve picked them up from my yard, where they are embedded around Juno¡¯s parked car. It took me two hours to do so, and I consider the task to be very well worth it. The stalks are extremely thick and strong, good for a strong base. I braid them together. Blood drips down my nose and stains the collar of my button down shirt, which has become faded over the years from constant wear and tear. But that¡¯s what clothes are for, right? With my sleeve, I dab at my face to stop the bleeding, which is leaking through my fingers. It is a very hot, but lovely day. And it is such a shame that we cannot sit out on the porch with a cool glass of lemonade and enjoy the weather together. Sweat drips down my chin and lands on my collarbones, mingling with the dried blood already escaping down my throbbing nose. I lick my dried lips as I carry my wreath back into the darkened house and silently shut the door behind me. It is so warm that my button down shirt and jeans are glued to my skin. Grass blades cling to my bare feet. My family is sitting at the foot of the stairs. A few feet away from her lies a shattered vase, which I plan to sweep up with a broom. Moments before, it had collided with my face¡ªa present from Juno. As a result, I shackled her left bare foot the end of a long chain, which just allows her to access the bathroom and the kitchen, if she ever needed either of them. I really didn¡¯t want to do this, but it was the only way to calm her. She wouldn¡¯t stop screaming and hitting at me again, now she has terrible hiccups from all of the carrying on today. But I understand that I must be patient with her. At the sound of the door closing, she immediately jumps to her feet, shivering. It breaks my heart to see her like this. I don¡¯t want to shackle her. With both hands, I hold out the wreath. I hope she likes this better than my childhood toy, Mr. Bear. Juno¡¯s face contorts as she begins to viciously yank at the chain. The way her fingers are digging deep into the metal band, it looks like she¡¯s planning to tear her foot off. As I rush forward and pry her hands free, this seems to infuriate her more, and as she¡¯s beating down upon me, I roughly grab her arms. A fierce look flashes across her dark eyes¡ªI think I see Mama¡¯s for a moment. They are blacker than the night sky. I squeeze her hands. Startled, she stares at me. The only silence is the rattling of the chain against the steps. Juno grits her teeth and attempts to tear it off again. The skin has loosened up, bloody and torn. I can see how it peels and folds back like paper. Now, I have to bandage and clean it. All because she wouldn¡¯t wait. Let me help you. My breaths are heavy as I secure my hands around her wrists, tight, but not too much to cause harm. I¡¯ll help you. She tries to tug away from me. Gently, I caress the side of her damp face. Juno looks away. A tear slowly escapes down the side of her face, pooling directly under her chin, before splashing on the collar of her nightgown. My chest grows tight. Oh, no, no, no¡ªplease, don¡¯t cry. With my thumb, I lightly trace her cheek. Please don¡¯t cry. You are safe here. No response. I have a surprise. A weak smile falls across my scabbed lips. Strands of hair are clinging to my bloodied nose, which she may try to break again. Yeah? See, I got you a present, love. See, look. My wandering hand picks up the wreath that I dropped upon the ground. I place it on top of her head. I would like to give you a present. That¡¯s all. That¡¯s all I want to do. I want to give you more. Juno¡¯s teeth chatter. She tries to yank her arms free from me, but I hold them tight. When she starts kicking me, I have to hold her arms tightly against as her right bare foot repeatedly slams against my ribcage. It hurts, but not as much as the expression on her face. Her brown skin is as soft as Mama¡¯s, so smooth and delicate to the touch. Please. I mean no harm. Her mouth twists and turns as a glob of her saliva sprays onto my face. She has spat at me yet again. It dribbles down my nose, but I hardly flinch. Mama did this all the time. It is evident my reaction only further infuriated her, as she begins to struggle. As I wipe it off with my sleeve, my grip tightens. ¡±Let me go,¡± she shrieks, and the anguish in her voice makes my vision go blurry. You think I got you here for all the wrong reasons. You gonna hurt yourself real bad, and I can¡¯t stand by and let you do it to yourself. I don¡¯t want you to hurt. ¡°Go away,¡± she sobs. ¡°You¡¯re a murderer. You¡¯ve taken away my best friend.¡± Her brown eyes narrow. ¡°You¡¯re a murderer, you hear?¡± Murderer. The word stings. The old man who lays down there is a threat against our family. How could she refer to me as such? I can be a better best friend than he. She shall be my very first one, and must leave him behind; forget his name. He is nothing but a dead memory, and belongs only with the cobwebs and spiders. Why must she insist she dwell on such things? A deep weight settles on my chest. I wish she hadn¡¯t formed such an attachment to him. I only wanted to protect her from him. I wouldn¡¯t have laid a finger on him otherwise. Murderer. For a moment, Juno is silent. I hold my breath. Will I finally be able to trust her so that I won¡¯t have to restrain her here? But her next words destroy what remaining hope I had. Her eyes are glistening wet, and I reach into my pocket for a crumpled napkin. She does not accept it when I offer it to her, and turns away from me. With great despair, I study it in my hands. ¡°Go away,¡± she repeats in a shaky voice, and her shoulders rise up and down. Please, I did this for your own good. The old man was going to hurt you. He was going to take you and the baby away from me. ¡°I have to go to work,¡± she says in a shaky voice for the millionth time, eyeing the door. Her stomach was quite upset last night, so she should be thinking about resting after all that vomiting she did. Not working. There are bags under her eyes. I made her some chamomile tea this morning, but all she did was dump it on the floor and throw the cup at me. I¡¯ll try to get her to eat something later. ¡°My shift starts today.¡± I know, love. A chill runs down my spine. I am still very proud of her for finding a job, even though it is now useless in the grand scheme of things. I manage to look at her again. It amuses me how she ever thought I would ever let her be exposed to such an environment. And willingly. Why should she slave away at a dirty restaurant for a few measly bucks, when I could provide her the whole world at her fingertips? ¡°My boss is expecting me to come in.¡± I gestured at the dandelion wreath sitting on her head. Don¡¯t you like flowers? Such a very pretty girl like you deserves nice flowers. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Hatred fills her dark eyes. She is mostly still upset at me for destroying her phone. But I can¡¯t have that around her. With a heavy sigh, I release her and stand up. I love the way the wreath looks in her hair, how the sunlight falls on her curls. Hasn¡¯t she realized by now I can take care of her? I have my huntin¡¯ gun. There is plenty of game nearby in these woods, so she would never be hungry. And she could give me a list of what she wants. I could go right down to the supermarket, get her ice cream, candy, soda. Anything she wanted. She just had to tell me. Devastation falls upon her tear stained face. ¡°Please, just let me and my boy out of here.¡± My smile slightly falters. How does she want to leave so soon? She is my family. I wish I could leave every wall, floorboard, and brick behind, too. But I never can. My soul is forever tied to this place, in bondage with its very foundation. I know I am attached to this house. I dig my nails into the fabric of my jeans. Rush is taking a nap at the moment, sleeping peacefully in his cradle. I can¡¯t leave. She makes this house a home, and that is the first time anyone in my family has done so. Juno turns away from me. I slowly reach over to her, before removing the shackle around her bare ankle. It clanks loudly against the rotting wooden steps. She abruptly clutches her foot, wriggling her toes around. There is a bit of blood present directly below her shin. I slowly reach out to begin to clean it up, but she roughly slaps my hand away. ¡°Go away, please,¡± she sobs. I could wash it up and bandage it real nice for for her. I want to tell her this, but I can¡¯t have her hear my voice. A lump rises in my throat. Juno struggles to her feet, gripping the railing with her brown hands as she hobbles down the steps. She winces each time she puts some weight on her foot. I notice how she keeps looking at the door. I stand up and abruptly open one of the windows, where the torn netting blows in. It¡¯s mostly dark still, so she only can see my shadow. But it leaves a thick ray of sunlight in the small hallway. I can show you my garden, I want to say. It¡¯s closer to the edge of the woods. I also hunt and fish there, too. Juno is shaking. She is still wearing her vomit stained nightgown, which stops just below her knees. I have clean clothes for her. Even as I help her stand up in the shadows, I can see how frail she is becoming¡ªshe is becoming dangerously underweight. She goes over to Rush¡¯s crib, picks up the sleeping infant, holding him for a while. When she sets him back down, I know that the wheels at the back of her head are spinning. They shall continue to endlessly spin. I drum both of my hands against the table and lean sideways against it. I wish we could do something fun together today, like play a board game or garden outside, but it¡¯s not going to happen. At least, not for the time being. Like a lost child, she wanders in the living room in a daze. Oh, love. How I wish she could hear my voice. How I wish she could understand me. She avoids my gaze. I brought a huge tin of oatmeal a while back. If you sit down, I can whip you up some. There¡¯s also some canned peaches. I know you haven¡¯t been feeling well, but you got to get a little bit down. I begin to rummage through the cabinets in the kitchen. Juno begins to bite her nails. I look down at the floor. This is not good. If she is too distraught to eat, that means that the baby won¡¯t get the nourishment he needs from her. I hold her smaller hand, which she eventually lets me take, and guide her to the other window. When I pry it open after struggling for a moment, since it was mostly jammed, fresh air leaks in. A cool breeze settles in over the living room, a relief to the sweaty layer that has settled over my skin. We remain together in front of the window; the full view of the front yard is visible in front of us. She is much shorter than me, but as I tuck a few strands of her curly hair away,I can see goosebumps rising at the back of her neck. I stand directly behind her, my fingers loosely wrapped around hers¡ªshe does not pull her hand away from mine. My scabbed lips brush against her ear. See that oak tree over there? My father had built a swing for me once, made out of an old tire and a rope, before he started drinkin¡¯. I used to spend hours there. And Mama, she had her vegetable garden right nearby. She¡¯d grow tomatoes, make a good soup with them. The best kind. I slowly inhale. Come a time when I¡¯m gonna clear all these weeds. I¡¯m gonna make sure your boy has a swing on that tree, when he gets big enough. She flinched. And a garden just for you. With both hands, she wipes her cheeks. As I pull up a chair, she eyes the basement door, which is closed. I drag the busted stool from the kitchen next to her, avoiding the rays of sunlight spilling through the smashed glass. She doesn¡¯t sit down, just continues to shiver. One of the petals from the dandelions breaks off and falls onto the floorboards. Beneath them lies many who have tried to threaten my family¡ªthreaten us. They are nothing but dust under my bare feet. She gives me a dark look, before bolting towards the cradle as fast as she could. It amazes me how ungrateful people can be. My fingers delicately wrap around the cartridge box sitting on the table. I watch her run from me, watch her rip out what remained left of my soul. I watch her behind the strands of hair hanging over my face, each one knotted and twisted and crawling over my skin like snakes. I watch her as the fire builds up inside my lungs, and I grit my teeth until my gums are bleeding and sore and ripe. I select a cartridge. There is a strangled cry; then silence. A couple of minutes pass before I cross over to the same spot she had been standing moments ago. She has departed for now. But when she returns, I will try again once more. I make my way over to where Rush is lying in his cradle, past the now empty hallway. Juno¡¯s footsteps mark the floor. Her son¡¯s arms are out, his face pink as he was startled by the noise, but I pick him up and caress him in my arms until he calms down. The house is completely still. My game console is glowing red on the table. Fortunately, Rush is now awake, and he gurgles as I bounce him up and down. This sweet boy is hungry, so I prepare a large bottle for him with three scoops of formula. While I wait for his meal to heat up, I sit down on the stool in front of the window with him in my arms. He has taken interest in a button on my shirt, and I kiss his tiny palm in my hands. My face is still stinging. The thick crust on my bloodied nose is starting to irritate me. I do not look at my game console or my joystick. The fire inside of me is blazing like a coal, but I manage to swallow it down. She is learning, I have to remind myself. And she is here. I suddenly smile. Somehow, I expected this, but it still deeply stings. I am so very disappointed in her, but I have faith that she shall learn in due time. We all must learn and grow. She will understand how much I love her. I love her more than she loves herself. Many people have a distinct learning style, with trial and error. One day, she will know for sure that she is all I have. We are a family, after all. My house has no place for such ungratefulness, such coldness. I eliminated it twenty five years ago with .38 caliber. I am lonely here without her. But she shall return. Taking a deep breath, I gaze at the dandelion wreath flattened on the floor. It has been trampled on by her feet. I should try daisies next time. Or roses. * * * * * * * * My fingers shake as I light a match and drop it on the pile of rubbish, dried grass, and twigs that I have carefully placed on the driver¡¯s seat of the Camaro parked in the weeds. I walk naked across the yard, softly singing to myself, the box of matches in my hands. It is midnight, and Juno has not yet entered my world. I miss her badly, but I know I cannot interfere. It wouldn¡¯t do her any justice. I can¡¯t sleep, even though I¡¯ve already cleaned up Rush and put him to bed. I shall know when she has proven herself enough to enter my own reality, where we can eat peanut butter sandwiches, drink tea, and count the stars. Where we can be not enemies, but friends. Family. But her broken down car remains with me, still hidden, trapped behind the thick, gnarled weeds. It is a good couple of yards in front of my house. I toss the box of matches in the grass. Every pretty girl deserves flowers. My shadow falls upon it. On the porch, my clothing lays discarded on the steps. The cold night air causes goosebumps to rise above my skin, but sweat pours down my naked body. The dandelion wreath sits on top of my head, leaves stuck in my tangled hair, which hangs past my shoulders. I turn and face my house, where the windows are dark and empty. I hold out my arms, as the wind blows my dirty hair from my face. The towering strands of grass brush against my bare hips and buttocks, the countless scars on my back and torso. It touches each bruised, protruding rib. Mud clings to my bare toes and heels, my heart pounding below my chest as I sway to its rhythm. My breaths are heavy, laborious. A smile is plastered on my face. Behind me, there is an exploding sound, the roaring sound of flames and sparks once they reach the moss covered gas tank, which is half full. The Camaro lights up like a star. I laugh. Orange, yellow flames latch onto the vehicle, before consuming the seats and melting rubber tires. The smoke is faint as first, before growing stronger until it is completely engulfed. Fierce heat presses against my back, but I keep my gaze on my house as the fire rages on and on. But I don¡¯t turn around. I dance amongst the golden grass, sweat and water pouring down my face, glistening upon my naked, warm flesh, my arms outstretched. Twenty-three RANA MINDEN, LA SEPTEMBER 1986 I don¡¯t really know my mother. It don¡¯t bother me. She ain¡¯t one to me. Me and Daddy, we are best friends. I guess cuz¡¯ we believe we can fight against our demons ourselves. Me and him, we the last kind of people to ever ask anyone for help. We simply don¡¯t want to be a bother. That¡¯s exactly how we is, and there¡¯s no shame in it. I take up his ways, like I¡¯s supposed to. I remember my Grandma Joyce describing us like two stubborn peas in a pod. She¡¯s warned my mother plenty that I¡¯ve inherited Daddy¡¯s rebellious nature, starting when I was four years old. With me bein¡¯ the oldest of eight in our family, how the hell could I afford to be molded and shaped like clay? Not when you got seven younger kids to take care of. Especially when you just a kid yourself. Everything my siblings do or say, they always fall upon me. If they forget their books or leave their coat behind on the bus, I take the fall for it. If one of them gets hurt on the playground, I be the one cleaning their wounds. If they wake up screaming in the middle in the night because of a bad dream, I¡¯m the one who is supposed to comfort them. Don¡¯t get me wrong¡ªI love my three sisters and four brothers. They all still babies to me. I love them to pieces. But how you supposed to keep loving when you never get any yourself? In order to give, you got to have something. My mother always was easy on them. I always get the whoopings, the tongue lashings. With me, she¡¯d take a sharp eye any day. Ain¡¯t nothing I do seem right for her. * * * * * * When I was ten years old, the world ended. It was a warm spring day in 1971. Just around Easter, when Mama made me wear those stupid pastel colored dresses that itched me fearsome around the waist. I sweat them out too, and it was a nightmare getting ready for picture day. I stuffed chocolates and gummy bears in the pockets of my skirts during the plastic egg hunts. They¡¯d melt through that cursed fabric, causing Mama to lose her mind. I made the world end multiple times before, actually, a remarkable gift for a child. I made the stars fall and the moon crash if I came home with a failing test grade, ripped a hole my stockings after getting in a fight with one of my classmates, or missed the bus so she¡¯d have to take me to school. My mother hated driving. She didn¡¯t even have a license, but Daddy had been teaching her some on the weekends. ¡°You suppose to set an example, Rana,¡± she snapped one time after I came home with a bloodied nose and a torn book bag. The Brady Bunch was on in the background. My sisters Lindsey and Riley were playing with paper dolls in the living room. I could hear my brothers Austin, David, and Sydney jumping and being rowdy upstairs¡ªplaying cowboys. I already knew they¡¯d snitched, since they arrived first. ¡±Stand right there,¡± Mama ordered, gesturing at the kitchen table. ¡°Ooooh,¡± Riley said, peeking from the other room. She clutched a Raggedy Anne doll. ¡°Shut up,¡± I fiercely whispered. ¡°Rana Eleanor Brunswick!¡± My sister giggled as she stuck her tongue at me and skipped away. She¡¯d have that stupid smile of hers gone by tomorrow once she found that blasted doll headless in the dumpster. I was in the fifth grade. There was this kid named Hubert who said that whenever I got on the bus I would cause the suspension to break, so we couldn¡¯t go nowhere and we would be stranded in the middle of the road for days. Hubert was in the sixth grade, but I wasn¡¯t scared of no middle schooler. So I gave him a good thrashin¡¯ that had him crying like a girl. Broke his glasses in two. His tears had me grinnin¡¯ for hours, even in the principal¡¯s office, but I dared not smile around my mother. Especially when she in this mood. Mama was gonna have to stitch the long, jagged tear in my pale pink skirt. She stirring something in the pot. Stirring, stirring, stirring. It aint like she¡¯d never stop. I patiently waited at the kitchen table. She was fuming, marching back and forth across the kitchen, banging pans and pots. I ain¡¯t never see her this mad before. It was quite amusing, actually. She too pretty to get worked up like this. Usually she told me off, and I went into the front yard and selected the branch she supposed to smack across my backside. Then she send me to bed with no dessert. Repeat cycle. I knew what to expect. My mother began to chop up carrots. Whack, whack, whack. I couldn¡¯t stand her cooking. I¡¯d opt out for a burger and fries and milkshake. The only reason why she started making this stuff was because the doctor told her that I was getting fat. She freaked out if she ever caught me drinking soda at night, or raiding a bag of potato chips. My stomach grumbled, but I wrinkled my nose at the gooey concoction bubbling on the stove. I¡¯d rather starve. ¡°You want to explain yourself?¡± she asked, setting down the knife. Her hands were wet. She wiped them against the flowered apron Daddy got her for her birthday last year. I shrugged, not in the mood to play her game. I started to turn away, but her high shrilled voice made my ears rather sore. ¡°Young lady.¡± ¡±What?¡± ¡°Get back over here.¡± She gave me a disgusted look. ¡°Don¡¯t you what me.¡± I bit down on my cheek. ¡°Yes¡¯m.¡± ¡°I just got off the phone with your teacher,¡± my mother snapped. ¡°Don¡¯t you realize that you¡¯re suspended for a week? This is the third time this month, for goodness sake.¡± Leaning against the wall, I played with a piece of lint on my sweater. The sensation of my fist plowing into that boy¡¯s face was one I would take a million suspensions for. To see him cry and cover his bleeding face. ¡±You think this is a joke?¡± I hid a growing smirk on my face. My mother placed a hand on her hip. ¡°Is that really all you have to say for yourself? The principal wishes to speak you, me, and your father tomorrow morning at the school.¡± She frantically cleared a couple of hairs from her forehead, smoothed out her pretty dress. ¡°I swear, I am about to send you up to your uncle¡¯s farm. I can¡¯t take it anymore.¡± ¡±Hubert started it,¡± I said, kicking my Mary Janes against the leg of the chair in front of me. ¡°It ain¡¯t my fault he¡¯s so dumb.¡± My mother¡¯s gray eyes flashed. They large and round, like mine. It¡¯s the only thing that I had inherited from her, yet I hated it the most. She is a natural beauty, small and slim and dainty. I was going through a bad growth-spurt, and was about as tall as her. I hated being the tallest girl in my class. Especially the biggest. Having the biggest sized clothes. I couldn¡¯t even wear pretty shoes. My feet looked like tree stumps. It sucked. ¡°I don¡¯t care who started it. I won¡¯t have you fighting at school. You know better than that.¡± ¡°They keep pickin¡¯ on me,¡± I mumbled under my breath. I would tell her more, but I see no point in it. So I grabbed a sugar cookie from the kitchen table and turn to head upstairs, but my mother¡¯s stern voice caused me to stop. My fingers dug into my palms. ¡°Don¡¯t you walk away when I¡¯m talking to you. You watch your tone, because I¡¯m out of patience with you. Tomorrow, you and I are going to pay Hubert¡¯s mother a visit. And you are going to apologize to her, that boy, and your teacher. Do you understand, young lady?¡± I glared at her, before taking a bite. ¡°Let me tell you something, Rana,¡± my mother said, taking a couple steps forward. ¡°You tend to blame others for your problems. But I will not have you deny responsibility for yourself. Oh no, I won¡¯t.¡± She pursed her lips together. ¡°You and I have been over this plenty of times. You know what the doctor said about your weight, correct? You can¡¯t be having sweets on your diet. I won¡¯t have you stuffing your face, not so close to dinner. So hand it over.¡± She gestured to the cookie. My cheeks burned. Her eyes narrowed. ¡°You need to take up a hobby and focus on other things.¡± With one swift motion, I dumped it directly in the trash can and stormed to my room, which I shared with my three younger sisters. Fortunately, neither of them had arrived home yet. My mother called my name, but I slammed the door and locked it, before throwing myself on my bed and placing the pillow over my head. It¡¯s best that no one sees you cry. So I do what I must, let it all out. It was dark outside when I woke hours later. I changed into my pink pajamas and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, before peeking out of the dirty window. Daddy¡¯s pick up truck was parked in the driveway, and he carried a cardboard box in his arms. Without thinking, I ran downstairs to the porch steps, past where everyone was having supper in the kitchen. He¡¯d already climbed out of the driver¡¯s seat when a smile fell upon his tired face. His arms were open wide, and I rushed into them. I buried my face into his broad shoulder. I was so tired. I could¡¯ve fallen asleep right there. ¡±Princess!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡± I sniffed, and Daddy¡¯s smile melted away. He clicked his teeth and scooped me sideways in his arms, before sitting on the driver¡¯s seat. The smell of whiskey and cigarettes clung onto him, and the fuzz on his beard was itchy against my cheek. We sat in silence for a moment, before he drummed his finger against the steering wheel. I already knew what was coming, and I couldn¡¯t help but squirm. ¡°Your mama told me what happened today.¡± Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. I focused on a crack on the windshield. ¡°Do we have to talk about it?¡± ¡°Not until you¡¯re ready to,¡± Daddy said. He cleared his throat. ¡°I ain¡¯t putting words in your mouth now. You tell me what you want to speak on.¡± ¡±I hate school,¡± I mumbled. ¡°Aw, Princess, you just gotta give things a chance.¡± To my surprise, he gently wiped away tears that I didn¡¯t know were still pouring down my face with his knuckles. ¡°Even when they don¡¯t turn out the way that you want them to, it don¡¯t hurt but to try. I know it¡¯s hard. But you gotta still try.¡± I sniff. ¡°I wish I could go to work like you.¡± An amused look crossed Daddy¡¯s face. He had more wrinkles than the last time I saw him. ¡°I would give an arm and a leg to switch places with you. You want to be up by sunrise, have bills to pay? A family to take care of?¡± ¡°If I could avoid having to say sorry to Hubert Gaines, then yes,¡± I muttered under my breath. ¡°I can¡¯t stand that bastard.¡± ¡±Rana,¡± he firmly said. ¡±Well, I can¡¯t! He constantly picks on me.¡± ¡±There¡¯s people on my job who I can¡¯t stand either,¡± Daddy replied, ¡°but I can¡¯t beat them up. Otherwise, how would we be able to eat? You think having to give an apology is bad enough. Just imagine losing everything you had in a flash, in a simple moment of anger. A moment that you can never take back. It ruins people¡¯s lives, Princess.¡± ¡±But he¡ª¡± ¡±I ain¡¯t excusing what that boy did. But it ain¡¯t right to fight fire with fire. It won¡¯t fix nothin¡¯. Just swallow your pride and admit your wrongdoing. The rest will take care of itself.¡± I picked at a mosquito bite on my arm. ¡°I don¡¯t have to be sorry, do I? Cuz I ain¡¯t.¡± Daddy shrugged. ¡°Well¡­you can be a little bit sorry. Sort of sorry. Not all of the way sorry.¡± It was hard to fight back a giggle. ¡°Daddy.¡± He raised an eyebrow. ¡°You gotta promise me no more fighting, okay? Do it for me. And mind your brothers and sisters.¡± He grinned. ¡°Although I shouldn¡¯t have to say that. They are absolutely crazy about you.¡± I nodded. ¡°I promise.¡± He patted his stomach. ¡°I¡¯m hungry, aren¡¯t you? Let¡¯s go and have some supper.¡± My smile faded. I hated this part¡ªnot being able to have him all to myself. But to hide my disappointment, I nodded as he set me down on the asphalt, which was warm against my bare feet. Daddy stretched his back and picked up the cardboard box. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my pajamas. I didn¡¯t want to go back into that house, to the chaos that my siblings left behind for me in the tiny dining room. ¡°Your birthday is coming up.¡± I shrugged. It would be a pair of stockings, shoes, or a dress. A doll was too expensive. Daddy exhaled. ¡°Money¡¯s been tight this year. And your mother, she¡¯s been getting on me about our budget, especially with school uniforms and books.¡± He smiled and lowered the cardboard box in my hands. ¡°I know it¡¯s kind of too early, but you¡¯ve shown to me how responsible you¡¯ve been with the family.¡± He chuckled. ¡°You¡¯ve been a big help, so why don¡¯t you take a peek inside?¡± Confused, I slowly lifted the lid, which was poked with holes. Something wet and rough brushed my hand, startling me with a yelp. A black, round nose. There was a soft bark, and I slowly lift the squealing puppy out, unable to hold back a laugh. I grinned so hard the corners of my mouth hurts as the animal continued to lick my face raw, wet nose sniffing my skin. He had spots all over him, his enormous ears were floppy. ¡°Daddy!¡± I exclaimed. ¡°You didn¡¯t!¡± He placed a finger over his lips. ¡°He was found running around in the lumberyard by my boss. I believe he¡¯s a stray. Hold back from telling your mother for a couple of days, alright? You leave that to me.¡± He paused, stunned by my silence. ¡°I know it ain¡¯t exactly what you want this year, but I figured that¡ª¡± He didn¡¯t even get to finish his sentence, because I hugged him so hard that he was nearly knocked off his feet. I never wanted to let go, not ever. And I knew he would stay. * * * * * * * * * My fingers wrap around the steering wheel as I pull up at the driveway of my parents¡¯ house. Daddy¡¯s pickup truck ain¡¯t there, so I¡¯m guessing he¡¯s either at work or the gas station. I tug at the white band around my wrist¡ªI had only been discharged from the hospital a few hours ago. Once I turn off the engine, I glance at my duffel bag, before zipping it up fully all the way. The white plastic caps of my medication bottles with their pills rattling inside make my head spin. I forgot the fancy terminology that the doctor had used, when writing on his notepad, his thick rimmed glasses barely visible over the edge. I remember running my fingers over the thick scars on my wrists, talking to a lady in an empty room with only two chairs. She kept asking me these questions. Bipolar. Manic Depressive. What is manic about me? I don¡¯t know what that word means. I don¡¯t know if I have ups and lows. The last thing I remember was being in the woman¡¯s bathroom at work, standing over the sink. The faucet was running, the water first clear, then red. I remember nearly drowning in that sink, in the thoughts that settled into my mind like smoke. You¡¯re fat, stupid, ugly. Nobody cares for you, why are you here? What is the point of being here? You¡¯re a complete waste of¡ª The screen door bangs against the porch. I glance up and sigh. My mother, wearing a bright blue dress and slippers, stands in the threshold. Her dark gray eyes scan the yard, before revealing the disappointment that I know will be there. After shoving my wallet into my pocket, I unlock the door on my car and get out, my sneakers crunching against the gravel. Despite the sweltering heat, I¡¯m in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, more so to cover up the multiple scars on my arms. I don¡¯t care if she sees them. I want her to. It¡¯s Daddy who I¡¯m hiding them from. My mother stares at me. She is still more beautiful than ever, like she hasn¡¯t aged a day since I last saw her. Her nails are manicured, hair cleanly swept behind a bun¡ªhers straight while mine is wavy and unmanageable. There lacks a single wrinkle in her homemade dress. And it pisses me off. You¡¯re fat, stupid, ugly¡ª I slam the car door. My throat hurts when I swallow. It¡¯s not like I really chose to be here. These things occur randomly, like the last couple of months. As for me, I just want to return to my college dorm in New Orleans. This drive alone wasn¡¯t worth it, and the only reason why I decided to take the psychiatrist¡¯s advice was because I knew that Daddy would be home. That was why I was discharged. Now that he¡¯s absent, I¡¯m in even a worst predicament. The neighborhood is dead quiet, even though it¡¯s only a Saturday afternoon. Not even the ice cream truck has arrived yet, although it¡¯s hotter than the desert. My tennis shoes drag against the ground. Just a month, my psychiatrist had said. And then I¡¯m supposed to return to the hospital for a routine check up. What can they see? Are they going to crack open my skull and make sure that the meds have done their work? My mother taps her foot against the ground. I can see how her flowers have been recently watered. Not a single weed rests among them. I have half the mind myself to dig them up and throw them in her face, to ruin each aligned row. She continues to watch me. Fat, stupid¡ª I should¡¯ve just gotten back into my car and left. Probably should¡¯ve called my brother Sydney and borrowed some money from him to stay at a local hotel, take my meds, sleep this off. But I¡¯m not a quitter, and I don¡¯t want to appear as one to Daddy. So as I trudge through the grass in the front yard, I can feel my mother¡¯s eyes on me. It¡¯s not until I make it to the porch steps that she finally folds her arms and speaks. Nope, even her voice is the bloody same. It makes me want to pull my ears out. ¡°They told me what you did. The university.¡± The veins around her neck are strained, bulging through her skin. ¡°Your boss found you on the floor.¡± She raises her voice. ¡°Would you please tell me what is going on?¡± I pull my hood over my head. ¡°I¡¯m talking to you, Rana.¡± And I don¡¯t have to answer. I¡¯m twenty-five, for heaven¡¯s sake, not twelve. My mother grabs my arm. ¡°If you don¡¯t get yourself together, your scholarship is going to be taken away from you. Your sisters are engaged. Meanwhile, you¡¯re struggling to finish a semester of school. This is completely unacceptable. Riley is working full time, and Lindsey graduated two years early. Austin and Sydney just got apartments of their own and are enrolled in the trades. Why not follow their lead?¡± She scoffed. ¡°It¡¯s ridiculous, you being the oldest, and can barely pass a calculus introduction class. It was a basic math course, Rana. You didn¡¯t pay attention, did you?¡± My cheeks burn. Her fingers dig into the fabric of my sweatshirt. ¡°You need to find a tutor. If you don¡¯t, you¡¯re paying your tuition on your own.¡± I roughly yank myself free and storm into the house. Once I reach the guest room, I slam the door and lock it before she can get inside. She knocks a couple of times, yelling my name in the hallway, before finally leaving me alone. I toss my bag on a chair and sit on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily. After blinking the water from my eyes, I pick up the phone and call Daddy¡¯s number. The line goes dead. * * * * * * * It is eleven thirty when I finally sneak out of the room. My stomach is rumbling, and since I don¡¯t have any change on me to run to the nearest fast food joint, I am at the mercy of the kitchen. I tiptoe quietly, hoping the fuzzy socks that I received for free at the psychiatric hospital would not make too much noise. I spy a box of mac and cheese in the cabinet. Once I get the water boiling and prepare to dump the pasta in, I grit my teeth when I hear my mother¡¯s footsteps from upstairs. I don¡¯t look up as I continue to stir my pasta. She might berate me for eating too late. Apparently, dinner is only supposed to happen at seven pm. It¡¯s why I don¡¯t come home for Christmas or Thanksgiving. My mother appears in the family room. Dark circles are under her eyes. She settles down on the couch and folds her arms in her lap, dressed in her fuzzy robe and slippers. She watches me scoop my dinner into a bowl and sit down at the dining room table. I¡¯m poking at it with a fork when she finally speaks. ¡°Your father come home yet?¡± ¡±No,¡± I mutter under my breath. ¡±You see his truck in the driveway?¡± ¡±No.¡± ¡°You called him, didn¡¯t you?¡± I nod. This seems to be enough for her, because she leans her head back against the couch cushion. I wish she would turn the television set on. ¡°I ain¡¯t seen him since Thursday,¡± my mother continues. ¡°I¡¯ve called his job multiple times.¡± My fork clatters on the table. ¡°What?¡± As I stand up, a pain shoots immediately through my stomach. ¡°Thursday?¡± She glares at me. ¡°It¡¯s¡­he usually is gone for a couple days on a business trip. He told me he would be out for a while. Probably on the same day that you were comin¡¯.¡± Her tone shifts. ¡°And watch how you address me.¡± ¡±Since when he start doin¡¯ that?¡± My mother clears her throat. ¡°He¡¯s started picking up a couple of hours at his job.¡± She paused. ¡°So he¡¯s been going out of town more often. The doctor don¡¯t like it, but he says that business has been demanding.¡± ¡°And you let him?¡± She has done this to spite me, I know it. Daddy has heart and lung problems. He can¡¯t be out in the dust too much, less an asthma attack would start. ¡°You making sure he taking his medicine, at least?¡± ¡±He had his mind made up.¡± Heat rushes to my face. ¡°Are you stupid?¡± Her mouth drops as I storm down the hallway and yank my sweatshirt over my head. She must¡¯ve followed me down, because as I approach the front door she snaps at me. ¡°What has gotten into you? First you disrespect me, don¡¯t even ask how I¡¯m doing. You don¡¯t offer to help out with the house or nothing, just barrel your way in like the elephant you are. You have an attitude problem, and you need to get it in check.¡± ¡±Daddy¡¯s been missing for two whole days and you ain¡¯t even call the cops?¡± I yell. ¡°How come you ain¡¯t call and tell me?¡± ¡°I did call you,¡± my mother shouts. Her pretty features are now distorted, and I can see that she is fighting tears back. ¡°Even at the hospital. I call you everyday and you don¡¯t even leave me a message. Nothing. Curse it all, Rana, why are you always so angry?¡± ¡±You never listen to me,¡± I snarl, yanking the door open. I tug on my shoes. A heavy wind blows in, causing the curtains nearby the couch to sway and flow. ¡°You talk so much, yet you really never have anything to say.¡± My mother¡¯s face goes extremely pale, and for a brief second, just a second, a pang of guilt washes over me. But I can¡¯t stay in this house for one moment. Not another moment. It is raining when I climb into my car and slam the door. With shaking fingers, I clear my damp hair out of my eyes. My head is spinning, my heart pounding in my chest as I fumble with my keys. I can faintly hear her break down in the kitchen, but I shut it out. She had never been there for me in similar moments, and I am glad that I will be absent for hers. I turn my car on, reverse down the driveway and begin to speed down the road. I roll down my window, ignoring the water landing on my burning, hot cheeks. My eyes are wet. When I see my face in the rearview mirror, I don¡¯t recognize who is looking back at me. Twenty-Four October 15, 1980 New Orleans, LA *WELCOME TO MR.PIZZA, WHERE TASTE IS OUR PRIORITY. MADE WITH FRESH INGREDIENTS, OUR NEW YORK STYLE PIZZAS ARE SURE PUT A BANG INTO YOUR BUCK* *THIS CALL MAY BE RECORDED FOR TRAINING PURPOSES* *RECORDING IN PROGRESS* J: Good afternoon. This is Joe from Mr. Pizza speaking, may I take your order? ¨€¨€: J: I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t quite get that. The line broke up. Could you repeat yourself, please? ¨€¨€: Come over. J: Excuse me? ¨€¨€: Can¡­ can you come over? J: We absolutely do offer delivery services, but I would like for you please place an order. If you¡¯d like help choosing from our menu, might I recommend our Barbecue Chicken Pizza? It¡¯s only $10.75. We do also have vegetarian and gluten free options¡ª ¨€¨€: Please, I want you to come over. J: Pardon? ¨€¨€: *breathes heavily* J: Hello? ¨€¨€: Can you please come over? J: Is this a joke? ¨€¨€: N-no, I¡¯m serious. You think I¡¯d waste your time? Nah, man. I¡­I don¡¯t want to do nothing like that. I don¡¯t like lying to people. Especially hardworking people like you, y¡¯know? J: Um¡­ ¨€¨€: You work hard. So you¡­you can put food on the table for your family. I admire that you work hard. J: Can you please just tell me what you want to order? This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. ¨€¨€: Come over. My house is nice. It¡¯s clean, I promise. Look. I just brought a brand new TV; and a cake from the supermarket. Chocolate with extra sprinkles. Send someone by for a big slice. I¡­I can¡¯t eat it by myself. I¡¯ve got ice cream too. Peanut brittle. And a bag of snickerdoodles. J: We don¡¯t just¡ª ¨€¨€: It¡¯s my twenty-ninth birthday today. I¡­I don¡¯t have anyone to share it with. Can you just come over? My address is 1357 Blane Avenue. It doesn¡¯t even have to be you. Just¡­ I just want someone over here¡­ J:¡­ ¨€¨€: I even cleaned my damn house! *crashing in the background* ¨€¨€: *breathes heavily* ¨€¨€: *whispers* I¡¯m sorry. J: This is a pizza shop. ¨€¨€: I understand that. But I don¡¯t have anyone to share my birthday with. It¡¯s just me and this house. Ain¡¯t nothing been the same since Mama died. I¡¯m sure you¡¯re able to return to yours, once you get off your shift. You¡¯ll return to a warm, welcomin¡¯ place. I bet you got a girl waiting for you at home too, yeah? You damned lucky bastard. J: Are you going to order or not? ¨€¨€: I got your number from the Yellow Pages. Nice business. I haven¡¯t worked at a restaurant in ages. Kind of miss those days. J: I really can¡¯t¡ª ¨€¨€: You know what it¡¯s like to have the world passing you by? It¡¯s like you¡¯re invisible to the people around you. Like a superpower, almost. Can¡¯t relate to no one. All you have are your memories and thoughts. Ain¡¯t no use having all of this if you can¡¯t share a thing with anyone. Ain¡¯t no use at all. J: Um, look, I have to¡ª ¨€¨€: I can¡¯t afford a pizza anyways. And who the hell orders a vegan pizza? J: Well, then¡ª ¨€¨€: Please, don¡¯t hang up on me. I ain¡¯t hear another person¡¯s voice in ages. I ain¡¯t talk to anyone for years. It¡¯s just me. I just want someone to come over here. Please. I can¡¯t take it. J: If you¡¯re going to hold up the line, I¡¯m going to have to end this call. We¡¯re extremely busy. I¡¯ve got a lot of hungry people waiting. Now, for the last time¡ª ¨€¨€: DON¡¯T YOU GET IT????? J:¡­ ¨€¨€: It¡¯s always been me. I think I¡¯d be married by now, perhaps have a couple of children. Teach them how to ride a bike or play video games. I know a lot about video games. I have a ton of them in my attic. You like video games? What a stupid question that is. Of course you do. Everyone likes video games. It¡¯s practically my entire life. J: Alright, it¡¯s been mighty nice talking to you, but I really can¡¯t hold up the line anymore. I¡¯m very sorry. Now you have a lovely afternoon. ¨€¨€: But I just want¡ª *RECORDING STOPPED* ¨€¨€: I just want someone to talk to. I just want someone here. Please. Please. ¨€¨€: *whispers* I need someone here. Twenty-five JUNO SEPTEMBER 1986 ***COMMODORE 64 BASIC V2*** 64K RAM SYSTEM 38911 BASIC BYTES FREE READY HELLO ?SYNTAX ERROR. HELLO. LEVEL____ *%#%?! There is nothing quite as fleeting as floating from one world to the next. One moment, you understand where you are. You feel what is around you, smell the right smells, hear the things that you are close to. To have that ripped away from you all at once leaves the mind naked and washed out. What you once trust to be true is no more. Your senses, which you have completely depended on for your survival throughout your entire life, have failed you. And then, you have nothing left. I honestly believed that with this occurring to me yet a third time, I¡¯d at least expect a few of these symptoms¡ªnausea, headache, overwhelming dizziness. I can¡¯t even say if it even was worse than the first time when I encountered it at the TV set. But I scream at the top of my lungs. It was very stupid on my part, but the front door was only a few feet away from me. It was just in front of me, the doorknob seemingly reaching out for my fingertips. I see my boy to my left, fast asleep in his cradle, much too close to that horrid creature. If only I had been quicker. My jaw clenches. The blasted thing testing me, no doubt. But my mind is clouded with the image of Tom¡¯s body crammed in that dusty cardboard box in the basement, like a piece of forgotten furniture or clothing. My skin seethes. I try to keep my breaths slow. Losing my temper will do nothing. The only benefit from this is that the experience is no longer shocking to me. How long I may remain here is another question¡ªso the best thing that I am able to do is become familiarized with this pathetic world. I despise any creation made from that abominable thing¡¯s grimy fingers; the very hands that took away the closest thing I had as a father. I grit my teeth. Tom¡¯s blood is on my shoulders. If he had never met me, never knew about the house, never tried to help¡ª Breathe. Focus. It is much too late to ponder these possibilities now. I try not to think of the Brunswicks. As I struggle to open my pixelated eyes, my stubby pink neck tilts back towards the teal colored sky, right above the white number hovering over my head. The smell of smoke and roasting flesh fills my nose. I have the sudden urge to vomit, but I move¡ªmore like float through the burned trees. For a moment, I pause and take a look. The game has not reset. And yet the shriveled trees up nearby befuddle me. I see the marks of the creature¡¯s footprints against the soil, and then a yellow, shriveled shape is smashed against the ground like a pie. One of its swollen eyes are wide open, the lid pulled back to reveal the pulsing blood vessels. Its right limb is twitching back and forth, bone and sinew shining through the light. Very slowly, its skeletal chest rises and falls. The nails are black, peeling off. The eye settles on me. It blinks once. I rack my brain. What was it that Player 099234 had done for me when I had tumbled down below from the sky and landed on my face? No, it was after that. After I had used up all of my energy. The word. What was the name of the word? Come on, come on¡ª Stamina? The unexpected word rips through what I believe resemble my ears, and I desperately want to clamp my hands over it. It¡¯s taunting, almost mocking me. And instantly, I know where it is coming from, and I do not like how it is reading and recognizing my thoughts. I grimace, trying to twist my head away from it, wanting to bash it against one of the tree trunks, but it follows me until I finally speak. ¡°Shut up!¡± I snarl, even though I do not know who I am speaking to. ¡°Shut up.¡± My shriek echoes though the trees. I close my eyes for a moment, but when I finally dare to open them, a strange colored box is made visible in front of me. I flinch and move back. Would you like to: Give 50% Stamina or Ignore? I try to move it away, but it¡¯s directly glued to my face, like one of those flimsy 3D glasses that they have at the movie theaters. After stumbling blindly around like a madman, I finally select the option on the left column. You have given 50% of your Stamina to Player 099234. A sharpening pain suddenly descends upon me, and I cry out, curling into a ball upon the ground in agony. The number drops below my head until I can see Player 099234¡®s haggard form starts to sway upon the grass. Their yellow limbs begin to reattach, and although they can¡¯t really see that well out of their eye, they struggle to their feet. As I clutch my hands to my throbbing head, Player 099234 extends their strange paw to help me up. The strange melodic tune in the background makes my ears ring. I don¡¯t know why it sounds familiar to me, yet it does. I groan in pain and attempt to stand proper, but I end up stumbling again, awkwardly landing face first into a bush. It flattens underneath my weight. ¡°Player 0001455,¡± the yellow creature says, stumbling in the grass, ¡°it is beyond my honor to extend my thanks to you for your sacrifice.¡± With a frown, I glance back at the horizon. ¡°Will the beasts come back?¡± My stomach gets queasy. I am not prepared to see those things again, not the way they were chomping on his flesh. ¡°How will I know that they will?¡± Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Player 099234 shrugs. ¡°They usually come back the following day, after the sun rises. They rejuvenate, usually.¡± He releases a heavy laugh that sends shivers down my spine. ¡°It is usually right when the sun dips over the sky that I prepare to be feasted upon. I am their breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes, if I am little bit lucky, I usually have 15% of Stamina remaining to hold them back.¡± He beams, despite wincing in pain as he steps awkwardly on his broken foot. ¡°But now I have a whole 65% due to your generous offer! That will buy me an hour.¡± ¡±An¡­an¡­hour?¡± I stammer. ¡°At most?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± The smile is stretched from both sides of his face as he dusts off a leaf on top of his yellow bulbous head. ¡°It is a wonderful gift.¡± ¡±T-then what?¡± ¡±I deserve to have fun. I deserve to have fun.¡± ¡±Pardon?¡± My eyes are twitching, watering. My headache is intensifying, worsening. ¡±I deserve to have fun. I deserve to have fun.¡± I clear my throat. ¡°What happens if you run out of stamina? Do you automatically¡ª¡± ¡°Nonsense.¡± Player 099234 smiles. ¡°You have done well. Come, let us can¡¯t [redacted] you see? I can¡¯t stand ANOTHER DAY WHY DID YOU DO THI- *Error on line 422* has caused an error in . The problem seems to be caused by the following file: OLIVER.SYS.PAGE_FAULT_IN_NONPAGED_AREA. A burning sensation courses through my skull as a thousand red, green and blue circles appear in front of me. Then, heavy static. * * * * * * * Slowly, I open my eyes. It is still dark, but by the creaking and swaying around me, I know that I am back in the house. When I raise my palm to my mouth, I see that it is covered in blood. After sitting up for a moment and coughing heavily, I run my hands over my arms and legs above my stained nightgown. But I am relieved that they are with me. For now. My head really hurts. I am lying on my back upon the wooden floor. It is in the middle of the night, and as I weakly stumble in the dark hallway, I bump against the furniture. Something rattles up top, before landing to the ground with a crash. But I don¡¯t react, just keep going, until I reach the crib and pick up my son, who is fast asleep in my arms. I don¡¯t dare glance at the door, but I feel the figure¡¯s presence sitting behind me at the table. Eyes on me, as always. Their breaths are shallow. My mind is fuzzy. Can it read my mind? It had read my thoughts. Surely, that was how I was able to offer Player 099234 stamina. But how did it know, precisely? I rub my forehead. I can¡¯t remember what happened next. I can¡¯t. I can¡¯t remember. I place a kiss on top of my child¡¯s head and bounce them in my arms, inhaling their scent. The creature had indeed just given them a bath; my son smells like baby shampoo and lemon. He¡¯s dressed in a frog printed pajamas; his chubby feet in socks. Thunder rumbles again, causing me to flinch. Bile rises to my throat, and as I finally turn to face the black shape across the room, I can see them slowly stand up. They are incredibly still¡ªbut I can make out excitement, relief, like they have been waiting for me to come back this entire time. It sickens me. But I take a slow, deep breath, although I do want aspirin. ¡°I¡¯m¡­.¡± I try to speak. ¡°I¡­.I¡­¡± The figure slowly takes a step forward. ¡°I¡­I think I¡¯m a bit hungry,¡± I murmur, although the urge to vomit is stronger than ever. I don¡¯t know why I say this; I¡¯m the exact opposite. I press a hand against the crib to steady myself, and then lightly place it over my stomach. ¡°Do¡­do you mind if I could borrow your stove? To make soup, perhaps?¡± They come closer. ¡±Hungry,¡± I repeat. The figure makes a scooping motion to their mouth, before patting their stomach. I nod. I try my very best not to flinch as they gently place both of their grimy hands on my shoulder and lead me to sit down at the lopsided table. Below it, I can see the figure had been cleaning a shotgun with a few rags. With their bare foot, they use it to scoot it towards them. A loud clicking sound echoes in my ears as they carry it away with them in the darkness. I glance at the window. My car is still parked out on the yard, but it is completely in ruins. Blood rushes to my face when I can see its former shell burnt to a crisp, the seats melted, the door practically crumpled into dust. Water springs to my eyes as I glare at the remnants of the steering wheel. My chest is so tight I cannot breathe. Tom is stuck in the basement. Never again will he feel the sun on his skin, or the wind in his hair. I alone am completely responsible for his demise. I am going to die here. I more than deserve it, although it would never be enough justice for Rana and her family. I deserve to have fun. Player 099234¡®s words echo in my mind. Suddenly, I turn my head towards the pitch black kitchen. The figure had been watching me, but upon noticing me looking back, began loudly rummaging through the cabinet, a clanging of pots and pans. The sound of water trickling fills the silent room, and I struggle to keep it together as I heavily exhale and gaze up at the ceiling. A cobweb is dangling from the upper right corner, and I hold my son closer to me as I focus on it. There goes three years¡¯ of savings, down the drain. I blink hard to keep the tears back. Crashed and burned, just like that. Exhaling heavily, I begin to rock my sleeping son back and forth in my arms. There is more slight movement in the kitchen, but I don¡¯t look up as quiet footsteps make it back to the table. A steaming bowl of oatmeal is placed in front of me, followed by a large metal spoon. The figure sits across in the dark from me. With a shaky hand, I scoop up the mixture and place it directly in my mouth, before chewing. The hot rubbery oats burn my tongue, but I keep chewing, forcing it down. It¡¯s not until after the second or third bite that I realized that they had slipped a large lump of brown sugar at the bottom of the bowl. Its unexpected sweetness startles me. I can¡¯t stand them watching me eat, watching me raise the spoon, but I keep at it until it is empty. Still chewing, I slowly raise my head. The figure stares at me. It¡¯s not a demeaning look, one more filled with hope and anxiety. I wonder what color their eyes are. I wonder if they are male or female. If they have freckles or dimples or light or dark skin. I wonder if they are old are if they are young. If they have children of their own. They must, because they have been so gentle with my own son. ¡±Thank you,¡± I whisper. They say nothing, but I know that those words mean something. They softly smile. And I despise them with every fiber of my being. But I must not show it. They long for kindness, some form of wretched gratitude, so I must keep a straight face. I must keep them happy and in their delusions while I figure out a plan. Cuz even if they are able to keep me here forever, they shall not have my child, no matter how affectionate they are. It has stopped raining. The sound of crickets outside has replaced it, followed by fresh soil. Juno, some people just bottle up so much rage that they don¡¯t know what to do with themselves anymore, my mother used to say. So they swell and bubble up until they crash. A cold sweat settles on my back. Oliver. I wonder. Who is Oliver? The game. But it doesn¡¯t seem to have any rules. What kind of game lacks that? Can one even exist without rules out boundaries? I still hardly know what to do whenever I end up there. Every time Player 099234 speaks, it crashes. It falls apart. It doesn¡¯t make any sense to me¡ªI know that my abductor has some experience level with development so that they could easily fix it. But then it hits me like a brick. I suddenly want to run from the table and hide. The figure slowly reaches out gives my hand a squeeze, one that would only tighten if I dare attempt to pull away. A lump rises in my throat. They can read my thoughts in the game. Every. Single. One.