I (26F) and my fiancé "Mark" (28M) have been together for four years. His mother, "Eleanor," has always been the pillar of the community. She’s the woman who organizes charity galas, dresses impeccably, and runs a flawless household. When we got engaged, she generously offered to pay for half of our dream wedding at a luxury estate. I was over the moon.

However, three weeks ago, Eleanor called an emergency family meeting. With tears in her eyes, she told us they hit "unexpected financial hardships" and had to withdraw the money. She even aggressively pressured us to cancel the whole thing and just host a small backyard BBQ instead. Mark was devastated, and I was deeply confused because his dad is a highly successful surgeon—a sudden financial collapse made absolutely no sense.

Yesterday, I found out the truth, and it is crazier than anything I could have ever imagined.

I work in administration at a private medical clinic in a neighboring city that handles elective surgeries and DNA diagnostics. A coworker from the front desk called me over and whispered, "Look, I know this is your future mother-in-law, but she accidentally listed your work number as an alternative contact on her file. I think you need to see this."

Eleanor’s "financial problems" weren't financial at all. It turns out that two months ago, she secretly ordered a DNA paternity test for Mark and his younger brother. The results came back exactly three weeks ago—the very day she canceled our wedding.

Mark is not the biological son of the man he has called "Dad" his entire life.

Eleanor has been hiding this secret for nearly three decades. When she realized the clinic also sends hard copies of the results via certified mail (meaning her husband could potentially open the envelope first), she panicked. She canceled our wedding funding to scramble for cash to pay a private attorney and a mail-interception service, trying to figure out a legal safety net before the truth blows up. She needed to hide the massive expenses from their joint bank account.

Right now, Mark is asleep next to me, completely oblivious to the fact that his entire life is a lie. If I tell him, I will single-handedly blow up his family. If I keep quiet, I am starting our marriage on a massive deception, while his mother continues to play the victim who "just ran out of money."

What do I do? Do I spill the tea to Mark, or do I protect the family secret?

I once worked with an orthopedic surgeon who told me about one of the strangest nights he had ever experienced in the ER.

One night, a group of people came in off the street carrying a severed arm. They said they had found a wrecked car and the arm at the scene, so they had brought it to the hospital.
The strange part? Nobody had come into the ER with a missing arm.
The staff on duty found the whole thing rather bizarre, but they kept the arm in case its owner turned up.

The rest of the night was surprisingly quiet. Hours passed, and there was still no sign of anyone looking for the missing limb.
Then, at around 6 a.m., two heavily intoxicated people with substance use problems showed up at the ER. One of them was missing an arm.
Apparently, they had been in a car accident during the night but had simply walked away from the wreck. Instead of going to the hospital, they had continued on to a party.
And somehow, nobody at the party had noticed that one of them was missing an entire arm.
The group eventually decided to head out into town. It wasn’t until they arrived at a bar that opens early in the morning that the bartender noticed something was seriously wrong and asked what had happened.

That’s when the group finally contacted the hospital.

The arm had been separated from its owner for approximately six hours before the patient arrived at the ER.

According to the surgeon, the doctors on duty believed that the patient’s extreme intoxication, combined with how clean and rapid the traumatic amputation had been, had contributed to him surviving the initial injury.
I still find the whole story absolutely unbelievable.
Imagine being the person who found a severed arm, casually dropping it off at the ER, and going on with your night — only for the owner to turn up six hours later, after a party and a stop at a morning bar.
And imagine being the hospital staff, keeping a random severed arm in the back, just waiting for someone to come claim it.

My FIL is such an asshole.

Context: Last 6 months I've been lifting and did an (accidental) bulk after 10 years of an on/off restricive ED. I'm now trying to lose fat in a healthy way.
I have had so many problems with him nitpicking everything I do and literally picking on me for 2 years. Everything I do.
I'm cooking? "You should make it like this". I'm cleaning? "You should clean it this way". I'm meal planning? "You don't need all that protein". I got bed ridden from an illness for about a month? "So you haven't worked out in almost a month, you're not trying. Have you seen yourself lately?".

What happened tonight: He KNOWS I have a restrictive ED history. But tonight he said "Have you seen yourself lately? You haven't been going to the gym; you don't even need all of that protein because you're not using it". Mind you, this week I JUST got back into the gym after my illness, so I've been back to meal planning again. I'm only aiming for 115g of protein now instead of my bodyweight in protein since I'm not bulking anymore...which, while it still above normal intake, is a good intake for weight loss while lifting to preserve muscle on a WOMAN.

What I've tried: I ALWAYS tell him that muscle gain and weight loss is different for WOMEN. We have a monthly cycle which preserves more water weight at times, or makes us bloat other times, or makes us ravenous/crave like a man could never imagine. It is SO much harder for us to both gain muscle and lose fat - of course I have to be meticulous and do things differently than he does. But he's a narcissist and thinks his way is the only way because he can't see outside of his own self or educate himself on other people.

YES I need all that protein.
YES I need to lift when losing fat.
YES I allow myself a treat here and there because I'm a human.
YES I need to weight my food out because it's different for women and we can't just eat whatever we want and lose weight, especially when we are SHORT (dramatic because I'm angry, I know)

I'm literally crying in my room because a grown as man bullies me when I'm finally trying to be healthy. It's almost weekly. I have until January for us to move out. His comments made me almost slip back into that unhealthy restrictive mindset but I am trying so hard to power through those thoughts and keeping my eye on the prize - the healthy prize.

Just a vent I guess more than anything.

My female friend invited me to do some laundry at a laundromat together, I accepted and we ride there together. Getting out of the car I hear some dude barking at this woman like 3 stores away who is ignoring him. Just yelling like “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” In an almost monotone yell.

Noticing the strange behavior I decided to keep an eye on the guy, but making sure to not seem like I wanted any conflict. Plus we had to walk near him to get to the laundromat. He notices me as we’re walking and he starts walking between cars staring me down muttering to himself.

He’s like 5’10-5’11ish black guy maybe like 170lbs wearing not like dirty clothes but they also didn’t look very clean. Also he did seemingly have some muscles. Like skinny guy muscles tho. I’m a 220lb 5’11 white guy covered in tattoos who is definitely not unfamiliar with confrontation.

I was absolutely gonna ignore him until I noticed him following us. Im with a woman that doesn’t do well with confrontation and has also been a victim to violence in the past so she’s my main concern in this moment.

So I looked back at him and just asked “you good bro?” And his response was “I fucked your mom!” Shocked and quite confused I said “what?” And he repeats “I fucked your mom, what are you gonna do about it?” I asked him “what, you just out here trying to start shit with strangers?”

He starts just cursing at me and telling me to come do something. Called me a pussy and a bitch and I gave it right back to him. Told him to “fuck around and find out if you really want. Otherwise fuck off.” This guy was a little hard to read but he also didn’t come right up to me so I was confident he was all talk.

My friend is trying to pull me in the laundromat door but this dude is still slowly approaching us, flexing his arms and talking the most random shit talk I’ve personally ever heard. It was like someone who obviously doesn’t know you talking shit over the internet to try and hurt your feelings, except in real life. Very bizarre. So I stood in the doorway to make sure he couldn’t get to her.

But I knew that if I swing on this guy I could easily go back to jail. Jail sucks, so no thanks. But I also had no idea if he was on drugs, having a mental episode, etc. because of his unpredictable behavior and wasn’t gonna give him a chance to rush me or possibly hurt my friend.

He talks some more shit but seemingly gives up. And started to walk away. I called him a bitch one last time and shut the door. We proceeded to start our laundry and wanted to go outside to smoke. My friend was pretty rattled still so she asked me to go out first. I walk out, look all around, don’t see the guy anywhere. I assumed he was high on something and off to terrorize other strangers for no good reason.

Fast forward like an hour, we’re sitting in my friends car when she goes “oh shit there he is again” I look back and one of the most shocking things happened… the SUV that I initially saw the dude hanging out in front of and yelling at the woman and the same SUV that the dude lurked around to follow us WAS ACTUALLY HIS SUV.

Couldn’t tell you what brand of car it was but it looked fairly new and nice. He starts pulling clothes out of the back seat, throws them over his shoulder and walks into planet fitness calm as a cucumber. I was dumbfounded. I could have sworn this was just some crazy homeless person having an episode. Not some guy trying to start fights as a pre workout lol.

Still trying to figure out what I did to make him so mad. And how he just snapped out of it so easily. Definitely buying some pepper spray just in case I deal with that type of drama again tho.

In the dead of night. When fog prepares for morning. Trees hang their branches low. No one is there to see the miracle of light. No one shall be the one who knows the sensation of boredom under a tree. The one person who thinks about yesterday when tomorrow already hunts them. Boredom envelops the tree, where secrets lie in the air. Forgotten, written in words that were spoken. The fog rises, mixes the secrets into one. Just to spit them out.

A tornado.

A word stings and bleeds. A wound that can't be healed. Ask time, ask if it knows. The sensation of boredom. I'm sure time knows. Where light lingers just enough for us to notice. The fog rules over the air and coldness. And when the world asks, tell them only the fog and I will know.

Silence.

A whisper is not silence. A whisper is the movement of fog, which we mistake for a promise. And when the birds die, they will no longer sing to overthrow the fog. Boredom is the sensation of light striking through fog.

Some would call it the light at the end of the tunnel.

When time and I know that it's just the hope we get so we don't think to think. So we don't decide for fog, for light. I want to hope time forgets too. I hope we can change the direction of the world now. I want to learn how to think before time and the sun blink us away.

Hear the birds sing? In the faraway trees? Enjoy the sensation of melodies coming through. Before the fog takes them. Before light turns the notes into ash. And after you hear them, yell back at them. So they know to flee before they fall.

The fog rises; be prepared for the morning to come.

The fog rises; it rules every early light.

Just to slowly fade into the air.

And let light take over.

I kiss the fog goodbye,

wish the light luck.

And then the sun loses to fog.

At the end, in the dead of night, the fog rises.

Boredom and time forget why they were under the tree.

Hear the whispers?

Run.

What am I supposed to do with all this smoke?

My girlfriend told me if I didn't quit smoking, she was going to kick me out. Our house - her home. With just my “lucky” cigarette left, how could she expect me to simply throw it away?

I tried telling her, I'll stop smoking when you stop parking in the street. She told me she doesn't want the headlights shining into the windows on the house and wake me up after I fall asleep on the couch.

I don't fall asleep on the couch all the time. I mean, sometimes when I'm waiting up for her. It's been a little more often recently, but we both been picking up more shifts before the baby comes.

Ten years we both been smoking. That's how we met in the first place. High school sweethearts. High school degenerates. We sacrificed sitting in our broken homes for sitting in for a Saturday detention. From the moment we locked eyes, we knew we were each other's person.

Of course we waited til the afternoon after detention to make it official. But when we walked out of the bathroom together at the gas station next to the school. Something about the way she was adjusting her blouse just did it for me. The way she fidget with her top…I was hers, and she was mine, and I would do anything for her she'd ask.

That's when I bought a pack of Marlboro reds 100s. Flipped my lucky for the pack. She looked at me like I had two heads, and I told her, that's the one in the pack for when you got a bad day, and you just need something good to happen. That's why they call it a “lucky.”

She was always jealous of my smoke rings. But never gave me much grief for it. But if she had to quit for the baby, then we both had to quit for the baby. I promised her I would, so here I am, standing outside my doorstep looking for a match.

It was one more smoke for christ's sake! Is she really gonna get mad at me for at least finishing the pack? She said to throw it out, and I will… Right after this last one. Besides, it ain't like I'm the one with a uterus. Well, if I'm gonna smoke, then I'm going to at least try to enjoy it.

I usually smoke down to the filter, but I mean is one drag really the worst thing in the world? That's all it comes down to anyway, that last drag deep inhale of tar and smoke filling my throat and lungs like a flame winding its way through every orifice.

At that point, I can toss the rest of that “lucky” cigarette behind me and just move on with my life. I can watch the smoke drifting out of my mouth like the essence of everything my life has been for the past ten years.

I went inside, washed up, and figured I'd lay down on the couch until she got home.

What am I supposed to do with all this smoke?

I wasn't expecting that cigarette was gonna lead to a house fire. It was that new kind, with the new more flame retardant paper for the stick or whatever. Usually I'm smoking these things down til they're beat!

But here I am, trying to figure out what I'm going to tell my girlfriend. We have fire insurance, but there are things in that house that can't be replaced. Memories were made there. Even if I did quit, how was she gonna let me stay here with her?

The firefighters were putting it out. I got out pretty quickly. I thanked god I fell asleep on the couch. But it was three o'clock in the morning, and I never heard her come home.

I looked over to the street. Our car was sitting in that spot. I spun back around and saw a firefighter carrying out a limp body. They tried to revive her.

What am I supposed to do with all this smoke?

But repercussions have their way of lining a person out, usually, and for the most part. Just not ten years back though my drinking was of the type I'd be ashamed to bring you in on, but I'm gonna admit you anyway. Namely, there for a few years, my favorite thing to do was to drink and drive. Not for any kind of necessity, not for any purpose whatsoever.

I wasn't drinking and driving to get home from the bar or to go get more liquor. I wasn't drinking and driving to get from one place to another for any reason, except for the fact that I loved it. It's a rural area. I'd navigate backroads and dirt roads and trails, just fucking trails I don't know what else to call them, like light offroading. I'd venture hours away from home. New places, new nooks and unexplored sights.

I'd have my favorite music or podcast or something playing and I'd just absorb what I could. And if I found me an interesting enough looking place -- and it was secluded enough -- I'd park the truck. I'd get out. And I would explore a little more.

Mind you, I was a single guy, I do contract work, and I had some passive income coming in back then. It was perfect conditions for me to be all so reckless. I drank and drove as a hobby more than I worked there for a few straight seasons, must've been. Whole days, in succession. Bottle riding shotgun.

I was always searching for a piece of creation to take my breath away, or stab my heart with its beauty or serenity or that kinda type of stillness that can just bring down your whole sense of self for a little bit, shatter you speechless. Hunting and desperate to find some spark I was missing, something I couldn't make happen for my own. Most of the time I found something well enough, some of the time I found something I couldn't make you understand. And once upon a time I found something that I don't expect to ever understand myself.

This one particular time I was trying to track down some earlier Eden. I didn't never remember the routes I took, that was pointless. Four, eight, or ten straight hours of aimless meandering ain't something you can recall on a drunk stomach. But I had remembered the name of a little nearby podunk town. It was a collection of some structures which shared a collective name with a little surrounding plot of land. Close enough to be called a town in my opinion.

I remember to the exact number, that little town was 98 miles from my front door, taking main roads. And within five miles from that town had to be the particular spot my heart desired to see again. I'd seen it at sunset before and that whole scene had just ridiculed my very existence. One of those places that God thought real good on, and that it's kinda nice to imagine he thinks about from time-to-time and can't help but get a little happy with himself.

Anyhow, I wasn't finding it. And I'm pretty used to this scenario. Quite a lot of places I drunkenly discovered and then tried to drunkenly rediscover. It very rarely panned out. I might have lucked out one or two times.

I'm on a gravel backroad that feels familiar. And then it gets more familiar. I become certain I am on the right path. I slow down to allow all of them boozed up neurons time to maybe recognize and recall more specific details. But that doesn't happen. Things got... unnatural. I've thought of different words and that's the best one, I think. Weird is ok. Strange is ok. Even cold is ok. Foreign and odd and queer all would be ok too. But the best that any of those do is cover a portion of it.

Unnatural.

Things became inappropriate. Yes, that's a really good one I didn't think about. When I get into this, dear reader, my tone is going to change. I cannot describe any of this in a voice that's good and representative of how I'd talk to you in real life. Let me drop that whole schtick right now, that's too cumbersome. And I just need to be whatever it is I need to be to convince you that this is real. Maybe I'll have some of my talking voice and maybe I'll have some of my illustration voice and maybe I'll have some of my, idk, texting voice. But we're crossing the point now that I can't afford to give a shit about that.

Things became unnatural. Things became inappropriate. Take the booze out of your thinking right now. I was solid. It's a tolerance thing that people that don't struggle with it won't understand. I now regret saying anything about my drinking at all but I just felt like you should know why I was a hundred miles from home and so I instinctively went with the truth instead of just being vague or coming up with a lie. Those'd both be harder anyway. And it's more important to me that you believe what I'm saying is real than what you think about me as a person, but I'd like to have the best of both of those worlds if it was possible. And, I recognize that's probably impossible by this point.

I did not lose time. Everything added up. You hear or read these stories about people losing time and they suddenly realize 6 hours passed or something. No time was lost. The time checked out good enough with the time I felt i experienced.

What didn't make sense was the light, the road, the trees -- the goddamn trees make my chest tighten even now -- and the everything, the all of it. I started feeling uneasy at first because the trees all started looking exactly the same. All of them with big swoops to the left, on top, same exact orientation with the road, on both sides. Big, old, strong crooked trees with dead leaves and dead branches. The same dead branches, the same dead leaves. If the trees were still alive their leaves should have been alive too at that time of the year. They just increased gradually. But it was a speedy gradual. At least from the point I began to notice it, which was close to the point I began to notice them becoming denser, closing in, going out and going endlessly.

There was decently wide enough space between them all that you could look off the road a good distance, but eventually you could not see through them. And I don't remember clearly, but my memory and my heart tell me that not a one was touching another. And the earth, the ground was flat, even at their trunks, perfectly flat. Lots of dead leaves and brush which I believe we're also repeating in some kind of pattern. And looking back also, I even think the gravel was repeating too. I cannot confirm that, I never looked, but I believe it to be true.

And so, I pulled over. I took a little bit to just breath and relax, and that's not some shit I do. Mind you, this is a gravel road that had curves and hills and pockets of trees here and there, and then those pockets would open up to little acres of farmland or whatever. Oh, and there had stopped being power lines. I don't know if they ran out before or after the trees started, but there were certainly none through the rest of the course of this event. Not until I made it back to the highway.

With full understanding -- and yes, I considered it -- that maybe I had gone crazy or was experiencing some sort of mental episode, I decided to turn back. I understood that my best course of action was to turn around and head cautiously back to normality and I was gonna find me a little spot off the side of the road and maybe sleep it off if I needed. Either that or book it straight the fuck home like a bat out of hell, consequences be damned. Either was a viable option. But not until I got completely and absolutely away from there.

So as I arrive at the decision to turn around I become aware that the sun has changed. It did not happen like a light switch. I do not know when it occurred. It had to have happened suddenly but I cannot tell you when. It didn't happen until I had pulled over. I truly believe it didn't happen until after I had started to turn around on that narrow little road. I just don't know precisely when.

The light from a suddenly horizoned sun was suddenly just dim and was a foul green-brown. The colors weren't blended, they were just coexisting. Through one set of tree limbs came casted a deep but gentle brown, and through another came an equally dark but dancy green. I'm just trying to express to you these were fanciful, fantastical, not normal. It was eery and dreamlike, and beautiful, but soul-wrenchingly frightening. What I experienced was not real. It really happened, but none of it was real. I cannot express this to you in any better terms.

It was all of a sudden there. Sundown had popped in an hour earlier than it should've in some twisted form of twilight, which the very center of my soul knew then and still knows today was artificial.

I am not panicked. I am confused. I am frightened. But not panicked. Not yet. I was for a bit but I am not presently. I take a very healthy swig. It helps, it reassures. And as overwhelming as the whole thing is there's also a piece of me deep down that was admiring it, like a weird piece of art. If I had been braver I would have stopped and explored like I had so many times before. But it was unnatural. It was inappropriate.

Maybe if I'd just gotten closer? Maybe I had a real chance at answers people live their whole lives in desperation for?

But, I proceeded. That path was not the one I had come down, but it was suppose to be the exact path I'd come down.

Only, the trees wouldn't end. Up at their tops they swooped to the right now. And they should've ended. The road should've started swooping and turning and twisting too. But it just kept going. It kept going for as far as that living green-brown light permitted me to see, and so it went for several miles. And they felt eternal. Until finally, a mile or half a mile ahead I could see real sunshine. And I could see that thereabouts, the trees just ended and things opened up.

But as I got closer and the better I could make things out the less it made sense to me and the more uneasy I became with the situation.

When I finally came out of the trees there was about a hundred yard clearing before the gravel road intersected with a two lane highway. But the gravel road cut through the paved highway. I don't remember if the highway had stop signs. But I assure you that that intersection was designed as if the gravel road was the highway. I know the gravel road didn't have a stop sign. The pavement ceased in respect to the gravel road which went about another hundred yards before hitting a tree line. In my mind the picture I have of that set of trees, they don't look uniform so I don't know what to make of that mess.

I turned on to that highway. I looked at the treeline that I'd just come from and it also did not look uniform. And it looked small, paltry.

I did not pass another car for had to be over five miles, might've been ten, it was just a long time. I did not reach a town until another few miles after that. I stored the name of that town in my memory

I went back there twice and I cannot find that highway. I have tried every road leading in and out of it. None of them intersect with anything resembling that gravel road. I found one that really, really gives me some kinda deja vu or something. Not quite deja vu, but some kind of strong remembrance. But it's also somehow incorrect and the only highway that could possibly be the highway from my experience, it doesn't intersect the same. And when I found it I didn't have the time to spare. And I really feel like it would have been wasted effort anyway. What I experienced really happened, but it wasn't real. I don't know how else to process it.

I don't expect it to happen again.

There doesn't seem to be any sense whatsoever to this experience. The only takeaway I can possibly conceive of is that if there was any purpose to it whatsoever -- regarding my experience here in this life -- it was to nudge me into considering similarly crazy shit stories before dismissing them.

Ok everyone listen, used to like waking up early.

I’d make coffee, sit by the window, and enjoy the twenty quiet minutes before the day started. That was my ritual. It felt like the one part of my life that still belonged only to me.

Then the changes started.

The first one was small. I woke up and the dishes were already done. I live alone. I had left a plate and a mug in the sink the night before. I remembered doing it. But in the morning the sink was empty and the dish rack was full. Everything was dry. Everything was in the exact places I would have put them.

I told myself I must have cleaned up half-asleep and forgotten. It happens.

Two days later I woke up to a made bed. I never make the bed. I hate the feeling of tight sheets. But the corners were perfect, military-neat, the way my mother used to do it when I was a kid. There was even a slight crease down the middle of the duvet, something I have never once done in my adult life.

That morning I stood in the doorway of my bedroom for a long time, staring at the bed like it had betrayed me.

Then the notes began.

Not the dramatic kind. Just short, practical ones left on the kitchen counter in my own handwriting.

Coffee’s already ground. Use the darker roast today.

Your blue shirt is cleaner than the gray one. Wear that.

You should text Sarah back. She’s been waiting.

I don’t have a friend named Sarah. I checked my phone. There was a conversation thread with someone named Sarah that went back six weeks. Friendly, warm, slightly flirtatious on her end. I had apparently replied to every message in a tone that sounded like me but a little smoother, a little more confident. The last message from her was from the night before: “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

I had never seen this woman in my life.

I called my sister. She answered on the second ring and immediately said, “Hey, did you and Sarah finally meet up? She seems really good for you.”

I told her I didn’t know any Sarah. There was a long pause.

“Okay… you’ve been talking about her for almost two months. You showed me pictures. You said she has that little scar above her left eyebrow and she makes you laugh more than anyone has in years. Are you feeling okay?”

I hung up.

That night I stayed awake as long as I could. I made a mess on purpose. Left clothes on the floor. Left the bed unmade. Left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter. I sat in the living room with every light on and watched the clock.

I must have dozed off around 3 a.m.

When I opened my eyes it was 6:12. The clothes were folded and put away. The bed was made. The sandwich was gone. There was a new note on the counter.

You need rest. I cleaned up so you wouldn’t stress. Also, Sarah is coming over at 7. Be nice. She’s nervous.

I spent the entire day in a kind of cold panic. I deleted the Sarah conversation. It reappeared an hour later with three new messages I had supposedly sent that morning while I was in the shower. The messages were charming. Thoughtful. Better than anything I would have written.

At 7 p.m. the doorbell rang.

She was real. Pretty in a quiet way. Scar above the left eyebrow, exactly as my sister had described. She hugged me like we already knew each other. She brought takeout from a place I “always order from.” She talked about things we had supposedly done together— a long walk in the park last month, a bad movie we’d both hated, the night I walked her home because she was scared of the dark.

I sat there and nodded and smiled and felt like I was watching someone else wear my face.

When she left she kissed me on the cheek and said, “I like this version of you better when you’re not so tired. Get some sleep, okay?”

I locked the door behind her and stood in the hallway for a long time.

That night I tried again. I stayed up. I drank coffee. I kept the lights on. I even set alarms every twenty minutes.

I still fell asleep.

In the morning the apartment was cleaner than I had left it. There was a new note.

You’re fighting too hard. It’s starting to show. People notice when you’re not yourself.

I looked in the mirror. Something about my face was slightly off. Not dramatically. Just… smoother. The tired lines around my eyes were softer. My posture looked better. I looked like a version of myself that had been getting more sleep and making better choices.

I looked like someone people would prefer.

Over the next week it accelerated.

My coworkers started commenting on how much more focused I’d become. My sister told me she was proud of me for “finally getting my life together.” Old friends I hadn’t spoken to in years reached out, referencing conversations I had never had. My bank account had a few hundred dollars more in it than it should have. A project at work that I had been behind on was suddenly finished and well-received. My name was on the email chain as the person who had stayed late to complete it.

I checked the timestamps. The work had been done between 2:14 a.m. and 4:47 a.m. while I was unconscious.

Last night I tried something different. I wrote a note of my own and left it on the counter before I forced myself to sleep.

Stop. This is my life. Stay out of it.

This morning the note was gone. In its place was a longer one, still in my handwriting, but neater.

You’re exhausted. You’re lonely. You’re not doing a very good job of living this life. I’m just helping. The more you fight, the more people will notice something is wrong with you. And eventually they’ll stop preferring the old version. They already almost have.

I looked around the apartment. Everything was perfect. The kind of perfect that feels like a hotel room staged for a photograph. There was a second coffee mug in the sink, still warm. The blue shirt was laid out on the bed. My phone had a calendar reminder for dinner with Sarah tonight.

I am writing this from the bathroom floor because it’s the only place that still feels like it belongs to me. I can hear the apartment settling the way it does when someone else is moving around in it, even though I am alone.

I am terrified of falling asleep again.

Because every morning I wake up a little less like the person who went to bed, and a little more like the person everyone else already likes better.

And I’m starting to forget which one of us is supposed to be writing this.

“Oh honey, you meant to get the pie. You know I made it from my grandmother's recipe. It's like a hundred years old. I mean, I know I asked you to get the cake for the kids. 

But no. I need you to try the pie. Go back and grab a slice. 

Hello Aunt Carol! It's so good to see you. Yes, thank you. I did put this all together for cousin Sarah and Grandma Cindy. I know, I can't believe she's already turning one hundred and six as well. It's wonderful. And Sarah turning six, thank god we have at least two birthdays on the same day.

Do you remember when it was mom's anniversary, too? Oh, it was wonderful when Daddy used to pay for everything.  

You know, of course, Harry paid for it this year. I know it's not as good, but what do you think? I'm gonna let Harry decide how to use all of those paychecks himself? He doesn't need to start thinking he has a choice in these matters. I don't care whose name is on them, as far as this family goes, those checks are mine…” 

I looked across the alley behind the apartment I had bought Jennifer. I had to move my car out of the way for her whole big Italian family to fit back here. They're good people, blue collar. I doubt they see me as one of them.

It's nothing personal, they just can't seem to understand how I write short fiction all day and make enough to provide for one of their own. 

I understand their skepticism as well. I don't even follow any of the local sports teams. Yes, that includes the Eagles as well. I mean, no offense, but God forbid I don't write about a sports team the mayor can't spell the name of.

Either way, though, I bought into Jennifer's life and everything that came with it when I asked her to marry me. Sure, that came with a family who may not have graduated from community college. But at the same time, I always wanted a family like hers. That tight-knit group of people who really look out for each other. Besides, it's not like I'm anywhere near a perfect guy. And ever since the last of my family passed, Jennifer has been my home.

The longer I sat there on that plastic folding chair, the clearer it became: as far as Jennifer was concerned, I could just as well have been an ATM.

I looked at the card table surrounded by a swarm of pink Barbie princess outfits. They were jumping up and down like an infestation of pink piglets, squealing in that universal sound of children cheering when they get to have sweets they don't need. 

A candle was still smoking on top of the cake I picked up at Acme. It was mostly gone at this point other than two slices left. Next to them, the pie sat there untouched.

My fiancé's mom had cut out pieces to pass around to everyone. I didn't know if she meant to give me the piece of cake when I went up there. I thought I had the choice of cake or pie. But she was a little preoccupied with her ex-husband on speakerphone. 

I guess Jennifer picked up that angry streak from her mom, because damn do they sound exactly alike whenever they yell. 

“Go back and grab the pie I made for the party…” 

I looked down at the slice of cake on my paper plate, covering the picture of some pink cartoon and a white plastic fork stuck into the cake like someone claimed it as territory. 

Jennifer's grandmother was sitting next to us in her wheelchair wearing a tiara, and a Depends which should've been changed about an hour ago, while drool was sliding out of her mouth. 

I looked up at her and said, “Grandma Cindy, would you like some cake?”

She focused those drooping eyes of hers straight at me and said,

“I want to die.”

She then reached her shaking hand over to me and gripped my arm with a strength I don't think anyone would have guessed was still in her.

“What?” I asked.

Jennifer nudged me, “She said, Go get her the pie like I've been telling you! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I don't know how many times I have to tell you. Harry, the cake was for the children. I wanted you to have the pie I made with Grandma Cindy's recipe. You are completely ruining this entire party I put on, and all you've been good for is buying a cake…” 

I looked back at Jennifer's mom, still on the phone, held between her shoulder and ear, shouting, 

“And my daughter made this pie for you. But you can't even show up to what is probably going to be my own mother's last birthday on this earth, all because you're too busy buying whores to show off down the shore in front of all of your little boyfriends, and shoving those poor girls’ asses in everybody's face because you think you bought them for the night it makes them your property or some…” 

At the same time, Jennifer was yelling at me and talking to everyone else at the party about the one hundred year old pie recipe from her grandmother sitting next to us. 

I wanted cake. I didn't know I was going to end up with pie. But to be honest, I think I'm with Grandma Cindy on this one. 

Rupert was one of the laziest people known to man. This was a fact that he was either too aware of or too ignorant of, because in the 29 years and 11 months anyone had known him, he never changed and never wanted to change. He was content to do as little with his life as he could, and he was proud of it.

Rupert, without a hint of humor or irony, decided his 30th birthday would also be his retirement party. Retirement from any work whatsoever. His plan, in his words, was to “not have to worry about the usual 9-to-5 lifestyle, seek out options, settle down.” Their father, in his late 60s and still working, scoffed.
“Your whole goddamn life has been settling down. What do you think part 2 has to offer? Honestly, Rupert, when are you going to cut the crap?” After hearing that, Dad was uninvited to the birthday party.

In reality, Rupert didn’t have a 9-to-5 lifestyle. It was more of a 10-to-4 lifestyle. None of his jobs ever lasted more than 2 years, provided he chose to go to work at all. See, Rupert suffered from the three Nesses. Laziness, tardiness, deceitfulness. He would often show up late, take an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom, and add 10 minutes to the start and end of his lunch hour, and those were just his greatest hits. His favorite ways of getting out of work made use of his cat-like reflexes and his ninja-style ability to sneak out of something he dreaded doing.
These were just jobs that he got fired from.

The truth is it wasn’t always entirely his fault. You see, his job life was incredibly unlucky. His first job was at a video rental… before it closed down; his second job, an all-you-can-eat buffet, which also closed down. Photography film store, phased out. Bathroom attendant, replaced by a robot. Professional circus freak, no longer exists.
He was so unlucky with employment that he saw it as a sign from God that 30 years old was time enough to spend golfing and enjoying his “twilight years.”

His only viable source of income was sports betting, something he did modestly well in, but not enough to stay afloat as he foolishly idealized. Even the house he lived in was bought and paid for by his parents on his 21st. They foolishly thought that if they got him a house, it would give him enough independence where he could get a career going without the stress of paying rent and causing him to move back in with them. 9 years later, it had the opposite effect. While he didn’t move back in with his parents, he never really garnered a so-called career to speak of; the job he was currently quitting had been paying him high school teenager rates since he started there. So he wanted to retire from all that and, after all those tiny wins on the bets, he finally decided to spend it on his party.

Gerald was a people-pleaser. Gerald had no problems getting up and commuting, helping his fellow man, bending over backwards to get everything he felt like he’d earned in life. He had a job, a girlfriend, a car, his own house, everything he ever wanted, thanks to good old-fashioned hard work. His only flaw was that he was Rupert’s brother, and Rupert was about to turn 30. Gerald didn’t resent Rupert for his laid-back way of life; in fact, it was almost nonexistent in the eyes of Gerald. See, Gerald spent his whole life pleasing their parents, pleasing his bosses, pleasing everyone; he couldn’t possibly object to anything Rupert asked for. Could he? Not sweet Rupert. Sweet, stupid Rupert.
So when his brother’s birthday came up, Gerald had to get him the perfect present.

“Are your eyes still closed?” Gerald beamed as he nudged his brother through the front doorway of Rupert’s house.
“Yes. Of course.” Rupert replied with his hands covering his eyes.
Gerald continued to shepherd Rupert over to the corner left side of his already gigantic porch. Next to the doorway was a huge thing covered in a sheet.
“Ok open them!” Gerald instructed. As Rupert took his hands away, Gerald pulled the sheet off it. It was an old antique rocking chair; nothing like any rocking chair that Rupert had seen before. The wood resembled bone appendages; its color was somewhere between cream and brown, and there was a cushion with little sloths patterned all over it, which added a shred of comfortability to an already tough sell.
“Oh my god! Gerald, I love this!” Rupert cried. “See, you understand what I was talking about. You get this whole thing I’m going for.”
“I got it from some antique store,” Gerald replied. “The second I saw it, I knew it was very… you.”
“Why, I can face it into the street. Watch people walking past! My own personal theater of live performance.”
“You do like to people-watch.” Gerald stated. Rupert approached it and looked underneath.
“It says Belphegor.” He examined. “I wonder what that means.”
“It’s probably one of those wacky names they give it.” Gerald surmised. “Like that Wayfair company with all those human names.”
Rupert was about to sit on it.
“Do you know anything about who owned it before me?”
“Yeah, the guy before you died in it… apparently.” Gerald laughed. Rupert immediately changed his mind and stood back up.
“Oh god. You did… clean it down before you brought it here, right?”
“…Sure.” Gerald lied.
“I don’t know, I still feel weird about it. Do you know if it was a valued… personal item in the family?”
“They said that the guy never had a joyous moment while he was in that chair.” Gerald stated rather bluntly. Rupert looked it up and down.
“Ah, screw it. It’s mine now. Hey Ron! Come outside and look what Gerald got me! In fact! Let’s bring the cake out here.”

After an hour Rupert finally sat on his present. Everyone followed him out onto the porch and sang happy birthday, including their mother, who was the most ecstatic.
As far as Rupert was concerned, this was the greatest gift he’d ever received.

The next day, Gerald got a rather strange call from his brother.
“Gerald! It’s Rupert… your brother.”
“Oh hey, Rupert. How’d you go with cleaning up last night?”
“Yeah. Yeah good. Listen, man, you’re gonna need to come over. I have a bit of an emergency.”
“Emergency? What is it? Did you lock yourself out of your house again?” Gerald laughed. Silence on the other end.
“Yeah… It’s probably best that you come over. I can’t explain over the phone. And if I could, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

When he got there, he saw Rupert sitting in the rocking chair with a very sour look on his face.
“I see you’re really utilizing that thing, huh?” He laughed. Rupert didn’t seem to share that sentiment. In fact, Rupert looked very afraid.
“It’s the strangest thing!” He stated. “I can’t seem to get out of this chair. I haven’t been able to since yesterday.”
Gerald cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when I sat in it yesterday, for the cake, I just couldn’t get back up. Of course, I thought it might’ve been because I had too many drinks, so I sent everyone home thinking I had dead legs. But now… I don’t know what it is.”
“You’ve been in this chair the whole night?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I haven’t been able to get out of it. It feels like there’s some… thing holding me down and preventing me from getting up. Luckily, I had my phone on me. It was on like 2%, so I called you as soon as I could.”
“Ok, umm… just calm down and we’ll get you out of it… somehow.”
Gerald and Rupert then spent the next 20 minutes looking at Rupert’s predicament as if they were trying to lift a couch through a very narrow doorway. Gerald then attempted to lift Rupert out of this infernal prison.
“Wait, stop. You’re bending my spine. Wait… ARRRHGGGH!!!” Rupert screamed.
“What? What do you want me to do?”
“Just… let me go for a second! Let me go,” Rupert cried. Gerald released him from his grip. “There’s got to be an easy way of doing this.”
“Should I get the saw?”
“And accidentally cut my leg? What are you, out of your mind?”
“I don’t know. I…” Gerald trailed off.
“Just get the saw. Get the saw and maybe like a drill or something. Some kind of drill.”
Gerald then sawed his way into the chair. The saw wouldn’t cut through it. He tried the drill; it short-circuited and broke down. He tried the saw again, but the tool just broke apart under its own force.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” Gerald pondered.
“I think right now we need to abandon the question of why this is happening, and focus more on how I get out of it.”

Eventually, every single emergency service was called to Rupert’s house. While the police and firefighters needed a little convincing to get over there (Gerald tried to fight through the obvious laughter coming from the other side), the ambulance people were the only ones who took it seriously. Eventually, they all showed up not because they wanted to help Rupert with his problem, but more out of curiosity. They wanted to see this thing for themselves. The firefighters brought out their very sharp axe, causing Rupert to squirm in his seat over fear that one wrong swing and he could very well lose his manhood. After the axe didn’t take, the police tried ‘shooting’ him out, which also didn’t work for obvious reasons.
“Well, it’s certainly not physical.” An onlooking doctor explained. He was looking at the chair as if it were a rare ancient artifact. “He hasn’t fused here; he certainly hasn’t been nailed. In fact, by all accounts there should be no physical reason that he should be confined to this chair.”
“So what is it?” Gerald asked.
“I’m really not sure. Was it something you ate, Rupert? What have you been eating in the last 24 hours?”
“Party food.” Rupert replied bluntly. He was already fed up with his newfound affliction and Gerald could tell.
“What kind of party food. Any drugs?”
“Just party food.”
“Huh.” The doctor stood up.
“What ‘huh’? What are you saying, Doc?”
“I might need to run a few more tests. You mind if I take a saliva and a blood sample from you?”
“Sure, but if you want a urine sample, everyone will need to turn around.” Rupert said, followed by laughter from the crowd.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday. In fact, I could go for something right now. Anyone want any pizza?”
Suddenly fifteen hands went up.
“Figures. If I’m going to be subjected to humiliation, I might as well be paying for it. Say, Gerald.”
“Yes, Rupert?” Gerald replied, leaning down by his side.
“Be a dear and order about six pizzas. One of everything.”
“Are you sure you can afford that, brother?”
“Yeah, for sure. While I was waiting for you, I bet on the Scavengers game.”
“Scavengers? They haven’t won a game all season.”
“I know. But something in me told me to bet on them. And since the last time I checked, they were up 15 points!”
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. Half a dozen people then checked their phones.
“He’s right!” One of the cops claimed. More murmurs.
“The odds on that must’ve been through the roof.” Another said.
“I stand to win two grand. So yeah, Gerald, if you can get that and some garlic bread. Garlic bread, anybody? Yeah, garlic bread, ok.”
Gerald, feeling like he should’ve been doing more, just nodded and got up.
“Sure, brother. I’ll get right onto it.”
“Love you,” Rupert replied flatly.

Later, after the show was over and everyone went home, Gerald brought a few things out for Rupert onto the porch. A side table, a six-pack of beers, a pack of smokes, and a phone charger plugged into an extension cord that led into the house.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the house?” Gerald asked, handing him a beer. “I don’t know if I like you being out here all night.”
“I was out here last night and was fine,” Rupert smirked. “Besides, it’s still warm out; I think it would be relaxing. I mean it’s not every day where you can just… not do anything, and get away with it.”
“Well, some people don’t have that luxury.” Gerald shrugged.
“Also, I need to write a grocery list of things I need you to get tomorrow.”
“You think you’ll still be here tomorrow?”
“I was this morning. Why wouldn’t I be again?”

Rupert was there the next day, and the day after that and the day after that. Eventually his parents came by. His mother said she was heartbroken that “My Rupert is in such a horrible state.” His father just laughed his ass off, saying it served him right.

Later that week, Gerald went over to Rupert’s with his groceries.
Doctor Johnson, the guy who ran his tests the other day, was there with him.
“Ahh, Gerald, right on time.” Rupert sang.
“I was just talking to the good doctor about this whole… what-have-you. He told me that ‘you might want to sit down for this ’; I was ready to smack him.”
“It’s the strangest thing.” Doctor Johnson shrugged. “His blood work came back fine. He doesn’t appear to have anything broken or dislocated. And he hasn’t been through any traumatic events recently.”
“Other than turning 30.” Rupert joked.
“You think this is all in his mind?” Gerald asked.
“That was my first guess, yes. See, there are certain types of catatonia from trauma. Some people are completely paralyzed; some people only get it from the waist down.”
“Doctor, you don’t understand. Gerald tried lifting me out of that chair, and it physically hurt me. Almost like my legs and spine were being moved in a way they shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, it was like he’s become one with the chair.” Gerald added.
“But that can’t be right. There must be some…” The doctor stroked his chin.
“Doc, I think we need to abandon the question of why this is happening and focus more on how we can get him out of it.” Gerald stated.
“My suggestion? Get a priest, or an exorcist. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Doctor Johnson then left.
“Rupert. What’s going on? I tried calling you about your groceries.”
“I must’ve slept in.”
“It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon.”
“What do you want me to tell ya? I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Was it too cold? Damn it, Rupert. I knew this would happen.”
“No, no. It wasn’t cold. It’s just… you know. My ass hurts. My back hurts. And those DAMN KIDS ARE PLAYING THEIR LOUD MUSIC UP AND DOWN THE STREET!” Rupert yelled that last part, assuming that the kids in the neighborhood could hear him. “It’s that Donovan boy, I swear.”
“I can put you inside.”
“No, no, and watch television all day? I can do that on my phone. It’s not all bad, though.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know; ever since I got stuck here, I’ve been having nothing but good luck. I’ve won $5000 in betting, I’m having all this fresh air I never thought I’d have, and the mailman hand-delivers my mail.”
“You won 5 grand this week?”
“Every single thing I bet on has won. At first I thought maybe it was just a coincidence. I mean, I’ve had big wins before, but not this consistent. And I used to do it with small stuff, like 1.5-to-1 odds. Now every risk I take pays off huge. I’m not even betting on the safe results anymore. Why do that when I can make more on the long shots?”
“Way to go, Rupert.” Gerald cheered, patting him on the shoulder. “See, if you had put this to good use in high school, you would’ve completed your grade 12.”
“I keep telling you. The school was terrified by my intelligence.”
“Ok buddy.” Gerald laughed. “Then look, I’ll make a few calls to get a priest…”
“Doctors. What do they know?” Rupert scoffed.
“Rupert, if this chair has something to do with this we-“
“The chair is fine. We don’t need some witch doctor-“
“Witch doctor? It’ll be a catholic priest-“
“And we don’t need them coming in and ruining what I have going here.”
Gerald looked at him.
“Oh I see what this is,” Gerald scoffed. “You’re worried that if a priest blesses the chair, then you’re going to lose your winning streak.”
“And so why ruin a good thing?”
“Rupert, you can’t be in a chair forever.”
“If it means winning so much money that I don’t have to work another day in my life, hell yeah I’m gonna stay in this chair.”
“At least let me bring you into the house.”
“Why are you obsessed with me going into the house? I love it out here.”
“You hate it out here.”
“I don’t… mind it out here.” Rupert compromised, trying to save face.
“Have it your way, brother.” Gerald sighed, handing Rupert his grocery bag. “But seriously, keep your phone on at all times. I was worried about you.”
“If I have any issues, I’ll let you know. Thanks for getting my sundries.”
“Anyway, I should really get back; otherwise Nicole is going to be wondering what’s happening.”
“I can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“Yeah, I’m still in awe of it myself.”
“I wonder how you’re going to get me there.” Rupert laughed. Gerald didn’t see the funny side.
“Don’t talk like that; you’ll be fine in no time.”
“No, it’s because I hate weddings. But while we’re on the subject of that. I really don’t see myself getting out of this chair anytime soon.”

Despite his apprehension, Rupert attended Gerald’s wedding, chair and all. Gerald did make one small change, however. He asked Rupert if he was happy to give up being the best man. Rupert agreed, believing that it would be a very odd thing to see, for all those involved, a man in a rocking chair making a toast.
After that, Rupert didn’t see his brother much for the next few weeks; he didn’t need to. He had the fresh air, all the food delivery that he could eat, and more money than he knew what to do with. He even made it on the news.

“We’re standing here live with Rupert Davis!” The female reporter said to her camera. “A man who, up until a few months ago, was able-bodied and penniless. But after sitting in this rocking chair. All that changed for him. Now, he’s a self-made millionaire, and he’s still not getting out of that chair. Now Rupert, tell us. How did this happen?”
“Well, Cynthia,” Rupert said smoothly. “It’s the darnedest thing. Can I say darn?”
“That’s probably the only thing you can say on Channel 6.” She smiled.
“So my brother Gerald. Hi Gerald.” He waved at Gerald in the crowd; Gerald waved back. “My brother, he bought me this rocking chair. And when I sat down, all of a sudden I just won everything. Sporting events, dog races, scratch and wins. I mean, I’d buy a lottery ticket but I feel like that wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.” He laughed; a real natural in front of the camera.
“Do you feel that winning all this money is the reason you haven’t left the chair? Are you worried you’re going to taint your luck should you get out of it?”
“See, I believe the chair is magic. I mean, I literally can’t get out of it, even if I wanted to.”
“Magic, really?” The reporter asked excitedly.
“Oh yeah, Cynthia. Most definitely.”
“So if you could get out of it, would you?”
“Well I talked to Gerald, and we figured that if the chair and the luck are related. If I get out of the chair, I might lose my winning streak. So, not a chance.”
“Fascinating.”
“Would you?” Rupert smiled.
“Probably not. Now I think the big question on everybody’s lips- certainly my lips- is… how do you go to the bathroom?”
Rupert laughed, followed by a moment of blushing.
“Yeah, we have a system for that.”
“Well, there you have it!” The reporter turned back to the camera and beamed. “This is Cynthia Allbright, Channel 6!”

After everyone had left, Gerald cracked open a beer with Rupert.
“You on TV. I never thought I’d see the day.” Gerald laughed.
“It’s exactly how I imagined it.” Rupert smiled. Gerald put the beer down.
“Listen, Rupert. I gotta talk to you. See… now that Nicole and I are married, we gotta figure out what we’re doing.”
“What are you trying to say, brother?” Rupert asked, looking slightly anxious.
“It means it… might not… be that easy to come over as much anymore.”
“What, you’re going to leave me?”
“No, no, I didn’t say that at all. I’m just saying that… perhaps you might want to consider a live-in housekeeper.”
“They’re not gonna understand my needs. They probably won’t even understand why I have the needs that I do.”
“Well, if you pay them enough, I’m sure-”
“I don’t want them; I want you. I want my brother. Tell you what. Why don’t you live here.”
“Yeah right.” Gerald scoffed.
“Why did you scoff? It’s a great idea!”
“No, I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Why not?”
“And use your bedroom? No way.”
“You can use the other bedroom if you like.”
“Ehh, I don’t know.”
“What if I buy you a house? Somewhere close by.”
“I can’t ask that of you.”
“Well, you’re not asking; I’m offering. Look, it’s either you move in here, or I get you a house. God knows I can afford it. Pick one, whatever option that will soothe your poor catholic guilt conscience, because I really don’t care.”
“… How big of a house. And Venetians, can we get Venetians?”
“Of course you pick that one. I’ve always said you were a bastard. But yes, I’m sure we can do that.”

And by late September, Rupert, who had accumulated up to 3 million dollars in bet wins, bought Gerald and Nicole a house that was one street over. He even paid Gerald $10,000 so he didn’t have to worry about making ends meet at work. After all, he had the money for it; so much so that the taxation department began questioning Rupert about how he would correctly file his new windfall. Not to mention the four betting websites accusing him of cheating; their claim was that he must have had some kind of insider information on the teams he bet on. They dropped the accusations when they found out he was a 30-year-old nobody confined to a rocking chair, but they still prohibited him from using their sites anyway. Only one website continued to do business with him and even made him a company sponsor; Rupert didn’t know whether they felt sorry for him or saw it as an excellent marketing strategy. “Luckiest Man on Earth’s official betting site!” As for the dog racing, he simply got his neighbor Harry to go down to the sports bar twice a week.
Things took a dark turn, though, as they so often do.
It was early October when Rupert was enjoying a crisp but not freezing night on his usual spot on the porch. His phone was on 1% battery, and as he reached for his charger, the extension cord snagged on one of the planks of wood on the floor. It jerked out of Rupert’s hand and fell to the ground—a couple of feet out of reach.
“Shit!” He hissed to himself. It wasn’t a great concern, though; he had his dinner and beverages all prepared ahead of time. He figured he could just wait it out until morning and ask the mailman to pass it over.

But then he heard it. A woman screaming her head off down the street. At first, Rupert was curious. Then he saw her limping, in a slow sprint, past his house.
“Come back here bitch!” A male voice, belonging to someone he couldn’t see, came from a distance. Then he saw the perpetrator's face—a dangerous-looking guy holding a hunting knife. Rupert did everything he could not to make a noise. But his stupid automatic porch light came on and shone directly onto the man.
“Who’s that?” He yelled out. Then he walked up to the garden path.
“Is it you, Rocking Chair?!” He screamed.
“No man, I don’t want any trouble. It’s… it’s an automatic light.” Rupert stammered out. The man walked up onto the porch.
“What the hell you looking at? I’ll kill you, close your eyes!” The man roared. Rupert did as he was told. The man leaned down next to Rupert, who, by this point, was shaking.
“What I do… is none of your FUCKING business. You hear me?! I oughta slice your throat right now.” With that, the man brought the blade up to Rupert’s face and lightly held it against his neck.
“Open your eyes.” Rupert didn’t have to; he already knew the blade was there, but he opened them anyway. “Did you hear what I said!”
Rupert nodded vigorously. The man looked at him.
“What are you, some kinda cripple?” He asked. Rupert nodded. The man took his knife away. “Understand something, cripple. Keep the porch light off at night. Because if I see a porch light on and I think you’re trying to incriminate me, I get scared. And if I'm scared, I don’t have to tell you how scared you’ll be.”
He turned and walked away before looking behind him.
“You didn’t see nothing.”

The next day, Gerald got a call from the police who told him about what happened.
“I want you to get me a gun. A big one. Like a shotgun. And security cameras all over the front yard.” Rupert rambled. He was still visibly shaken.
“You really want a gun?” Gerald asked.
“Yes. And we need extension cords longer than this sorry excuse. You know I could’ve died last night!”
“I know I can get a gun; I just… don’t know how I can get one for you specifically.”
“Take me down there; it should be fine. It’s this street, brother. It’s no longer safe outside.”
“So come inside!”
“No! I shouldn’t have to.”
Suddenly, one of the kids passed by the house.
“Hey, Mister Davis!” The kid called out. “You finally giving out candy this Halloween?”
“You go to hell!” Rupert roared.
“Ok so what we’re not going to do is curse at the children,” Gerald said condescendingly. “Especially after you said you wanted a gun.”
“Oh he doesn’t count. That Donovan kid is an asshole; he always says the most annoying things to me, like ‘Oh, how was your day?’ Screw him.”
Eventually, Gerald caved and got Rupert a double-barrel shotgun, right by his side.

Halloween came around. Although Rupert wasn’t prepared to blast away at kids (more so in case that crazy guy came back), he had foolishly assumed that having the shotgun by his side indicated that he was not handing out candy and that he meant it. This did little to deter the kids, since they thought it was part of whatever horror theme he was going for.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” A group of kids said in unison with their father in the background.
“No, I’m not doing Halloween, kids.” Rupert said bluntly. They all looked a little let down. A few of them walked away sadly.
“Yeah, nice going, Davis!” The father scowled.
“Get lost, Grant!” Rupert replied. “What, you think because I’m out here that I’m going to, just, give in? My condition is not your Halloween costume, pal!”
“What?” The dad asked.
“Oh just go away, alright?!”
Once most of the children cleared his porch there was another trick ‘r’ treater still standing on the steps and staring at Rupert intently. This one didn’t look like a kid. In fact, it didn’t look human at all. It was slouching and had what looked like a witch’s mask on: a long pointed nose, an ugly face, and great horns coming from its head.
“Nice costume,” Rupert said, admiring the realism. “Anyway, as I told the others, I’m not doing it.”
The figure just stared at him.
“You heard me! Get out of here! Get!” The figure walked away slowly and silently.

Later, Rupert wrote a sign that said, “No Trick ‘r’ Treaters. Please!” Naturally, a few kids wanted to defy the warning. Rupert learned this when a few 10-year-olds rolled up with no parental supervision.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” The head kid demanded, holding out his bag.
“Can’t you read?” Rupert sighed. “I’m not going to be tricking OR treating!”
“That’s not fair!” The kid stamped his foot.
“Fair? Who said life was fair?! I’ve been in this chair for months! Where’s my fairness?”
“You have to give us candy.” One of the other kids demanded, clearly unmoved by Rupert’s statement.
“I don’t have to give you shitttt. Where are your parents?” As Rupert looked out for any grown-ups that might’ve been standing from a distance behind them - as they usually do - these kids were quickly turning into an angry mob.
“That’s part of the rules!” The head honcho cried. “That’s the rules of Halloween! Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“Rules? Look, some of you aren’t even wearing costumes! There is zero effort here!”
“That’s the rules of Halloween!” The kid repeated. “Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“No trick ‘r’ treat!”
“TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“NO TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“Alright!” The head kid stepped back. “You asked for it, buddy. Men! Take position!”
“What are you doing?” Rupert asked, suddenly alarmed.
“Aim!” The kids pulled out eggs. “Fire!”
Dozens of eggs were catapulted in Rupert’s direction.
“Ah the shell cut me! Ow ow!” Rupert screamed as he was completely covered in broken shells and yolk.
“Trick ‘r’ treat, JERK!” The head kid scowled.
“Why you little…”
Rupert leaped out of his chair and tried to run after them, only for his legs to give out on him. He face-planted his garden path, while the kids laughed, threw him the finger, and ran away. Rupert turned around to look at the empty rocking chair, sitting vacantly on his porch. He was out of his chair. After months, he was no longer confined! He was free.
“How the-“ he began before stopping himself short; there was no time to ponder over the particulars at that moment. He had to go to Gerald’s house. He struggled to get up, legs stiff and back like jelly. As he straightened up, he moved his legs forward, left foot, right foot. He shuffled down the garden path and out into the street. He turned to walk down the busy suburban neighborhood, shifting past passing truck ‘r’ treaters who turned and either murmured to each other in disbelief or pointed and laughed.
“Got to get to Gerald. I’ve got to…” he muttered to himself.
“Cool Frankenstein walk, Mr. Davis.” The Donovan boy called out as he passed.
“Eat shit, Donovan!” Rupert hissed.
Rupert then turned the corner of the street. He was about to walk down it when he saw the crazy man who had attacked him weeks ago. Half a dozen police officers were holding the man down; one of them was tasing him over and over, doing little to deter him and only making him visibly angrier.

Rupert turned around and decided to go to the other corner of the street to get to Gerald’s house. Every nerve in his body gave him that fuzzy, electrical feeling inside him. Full-body pins and needles screamed out in every direction. He passed his house again before reaching the other corner. Everything in him told him to sit down and take it easy, but he had spent months sitting down and taking it easy. The time was now to move before whatever demonic thing in the world changed its mind. He moved down a couple houses, all the while thinking, “just another block, just another block.”

“Hey, look. He’s finally out of his chair. The guy who didn’t want to trick ‘r’ treat.” A voice came from one of the alleys. Out came the head trick ‘r’ treater that launched an egg attack on him. Only he didn’t have just four or five friends with him. Now there were almost a dozen kids behind him, all dressed in various Halloween costumes.
“He’s gonna tell on us.” One of them called out. Another one had a foam bat that, to a regular adult, wouldn’t pack a great wallop; but with Rupert’s condition, it could probably do more damage.
“Get him!” The ringleader ordered with a smirk. Suddenly, the kids ran after him, causing Rupert to turn back the way he came. His limping and shuffling turned into a kind of quick-paced hobble as he made his way back to his house. Angry children started gaining on him as the gap between them began closing. Then he tripped and fell, and they pounced on him; witches, vampires, ghosts and pirates all started kicking him and bringing the foam bat down onto his shaking body. He was only two houses away from his porch, so he began crawling away.
“Pick him up!” One of them cried. Four or five of them did their best to lift him like he was some unmanned island’s sacrificial animal ready to be put onto a spit roast. They brought him to his porch.
“Tie him to the chair!” The ringleader commanded with venom.
“No! No! Stop!!” Rupert cried out but was too exhausted to fight it. One of the kids dealt him a surprisingly powerful slug to the face.
“This will teach you.” Scowled the one who dealt the hit.
Suddenly, ropes surrounded him, wrapping around him and the rocking chair.
“Next time, be prepared.” The ringleader hissed. They all then ran off, leaving only the trace of a couple of distant giggles to signify they were there.
Luckily, these kids were no Boy Scouts, and their rope didn’t affect his ability to get his phone from his pocket. He found Gerald’s number and put it on speaker. It reached his voicemail.
“Gerald, they tied me up—these little shits in the neighborhood. But the most incredible thing happened. Come quick!”

Gerald had an early night, so he couldn’t get to his phone until the next day. When he heard the message, he rushed over to Rupert’s house.
“I smell like egg.” Rupert sulked.
“Jesus, what happened?” Gerald exclaimed, loosening the rope from Rupert’s chair.
“I got beat up by school children. I don’t want to talk about it. Listen, something happened last night. I got out!”
Gerald stopped untying the rope and leaned down beside Rupert.
“What are you saying, Rupert?”
“I got out!” He repeated, excitedly. “I actually got out of the chair! I… I don’t know how, I don’t know why. But I got up! I tried walking to your house, but I ran into the kids, and they brought me back and tied me up.”
“Rupert, that doesn’t make any sense. Why last night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was because it was Halloween.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about something like this.” Gerald replied. He pulled out his phone and searched for a video. He pulled up the video.
“All Hallow’s Eve, or Halloween as it’s known these days, grants any trapped spirit to freely roam the earth for just one night,” The narrator explained, followed by an animated graphic. “Not for long, though. Once the night is over, the spirit must return to its place of confinement.”
“That’s it!” Gerald exclaimed. “Obviously whatever is holding you captive just… left its post, and freed you from it.”
“I saw a funny-looking guy staring at me last night. Didn’t look human. Maybe that was it.” He tried moving out of the chair to no avail.
“Guess it came back.”
“Does that mean I’m going to have to wait a year to get out again?”
“You’re actually going to try to get out? What about all the money?”
“Gerald, what good is money when I can’t enjoy it because I’m stuck here? I miss doing things. Anything. I miss going out and seeing people. I miss sleeping in a bed. You see that soccer field there?”
Rupert pointed at the one directly across the street from his house.
“Yeah?”
“As long as I’ve been living here, I’ve never been on that field. I've seen a game or two. Since being in this chair, I’ve watched every game, just hoping one day I could walk across the street and enjoy it. Enjoy… life… I guess. I need to get out of this chair. Even if it takes a year.”
“We’re going to make this work, ok?” Gerald patted him on the shoulder.
“Take me inside. I’m going to be spending a lot more time there, I think.”
So Gerald got Harry, the neighbor, to help him lift the chair in. They put Rupert in the bath, hosed him down, dried him off, and placed him next to the window inside.

The months went by. Rupert started getting fat, lethargic, and slow. When he wasn’t watching the television from his window, he was getting Gerald to turn him around to look out the window… at the soccer field. It took Rupert a while to find a delivery driver willing to enter his house to deliver his food. Many were understandably worried for their safety, since it was a very unusual request. Gerald’s wife made him food until he finally found a regular delivery driver he could rely on. He even had a small birthday celebration with their parents, Gerald and Nicole. But he urged them to celebrate only his birthday, not the one-year anniversary of the incident.

8 months had passed since the last time Rupert had been out on the porch; he stayed in for Spring, but when it hit Summer, he knew he couldn’t spend those three months inside. It felt odd to be back in his usual spot after such a long absence.

Finally, Halloween approached, and Rupert was prepared. So much so that he would even casually point his shotgun at the punks who harassed him last year, with intent to fire, all the while he waited for Gerald, who promised he’d be there. He waited, and waited, and waited. Hours went by and still no sign of him. Eventually, Rupert decided he couldn’t wait any longer, so he held onto the arms of the chair and rocked it back so hard that it launched him out of the chair and onto the garden path. Because he’d been seated longer than the last Halloween, he couldn’t stand at all. This didn’t deter Rupert; even though he landed on the concrete pretty hard, he dead-crawled down the garden path anyway.
“Nice zombie crawl, Mister Davis!”
“Donovan, I swear to god.” He snapped.
Finally, he got out onto the curb. If he had waited for a passerby, then maybe someone could’ve called an ambulance. But he kept on crawling until he was in the middle of the road, ready to flag down an oncoming car. Suddenly, a car came out of nowhere and hit the brakes to a screech. A man got out.
“My God, what happened to you?” The man leaned down.
“Get an ambulance.” Rupert croaked as he attempted to get up
“Hold on there, let’s get you sitting down. Is this your house? It’s probably safer to get you in there, I think
The man then lifted him and brought him to the front porch.
“It’s locked.” The man said. “Do you have a key?”
“Pocket.”
“Hold on, let’s put you down on this chair.”
“Nooo!” Rupert cried out. It was too late. The ambulance arrived, and so did Gerald. But too much time had passed, and once again Rupert was trapped.

“Where were you?!” Rupert yelled.
“I’m sorry, brother. I had to finish work,” Gerald explained, shrugging. “What with the baby and all. It’s hard to juggle everything.”
“Then what good are you.” Rupert waved his hand.
“What did you just say?” Gerald demanded.
“You heard me!”
“Ok, that’s it!” Gerald yelled. “For the last year I’ve been running around, tending to your every whim, and this is the thanks I get?”
“I got you a house, Gerald.”
“You got me a house, not out of the kindness of your heart, but because you needed me. Out of your own selfishness.”
“How dare you say that to me, ‘this is the thanks I get.’ You live comfortably, don’t you? You’re not like me. Some kinda circus freak to marvel at on the news.”
“Well, why should I devote my life to taking care of my brother every second of the day? It was like this before the chair, and it’s definitely like it now.”
“BECAUSE IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M IN THIS CHAIR!”
“… No. You don’t-”
“It’s true. You got me this gift. You insisted that I sit in it. It was your idea.”
“That’s not fair,” Gerald said softly, shaking his head. “You can’t possibly blame me for this. You told me you liked it! Neither of us knew this was going to happen!“
“And yet, it did. And now I’m stuck here for another year. Thanks to you!”
“Well, if that’s the way you want to be, then fine, I’ll go.”
“Good, go!”
“Goodbye, Rupert.” Gerald walked away.
“Fine! See if I care. Matter fact! I hope I never get out of this chair! I hope I stay in this chair till the day I die! How about that!” The only response Rupert got was the sound of the cicadas.

And that’s exactly what he did. Seasons went by. Halloween had been and gone. Rupert’s spite had outgrown his muscle strength, so he got a live-in housekeeper to get him up and around every Halloween before eventually getting tired of it. Year after passing year, he remained seated. Rupert sat in his chair for Christmases, family holidays, his 35th birthday, his father’s funeral. Gerald decided that, to stop this friction, he would be the first to talk. He was flat-out ignored. The last time Rupert saw him was at his mother’s funeral. By then, Gerald had two kids going into kindergarten and a third on the way, but Rupert still ignored him. That was the last time they saw each other.

Years turned into decades, decades turned into forgotten memories. And by that point Rupert had forgotten what his life was like before the rocking chair. He watched all the kids in the neighborhood move out and start their own families. He watched houses change, and the soccer field he once revered was bulldozed, with an apartment building built on top of it. He didn’t live life; he existed in one. Now, in his early eighties, he was still sitting there… with a blanket wrapped around him. A couple of kids on bikes rode past his house and heard him shouting something.
“Gerald.” He bellowed out. “Gerald?! Where’s Gerald!”

Gerald had been dead for the last ten years.

Previously:

One secret threatens to change everything for the Shawcrosses, while Michael's attempts to right his wrongs leave someone heartbroken. As Kylie and Maureen grow closer, fresh questions emerge about the crash, Jamie fights for his life, and a drunken Nicola makes a startling discovery.

Episode 11 Preview:

As recent events cause more questions than answers, the feud between the Jenkins and Slaters publicly boil over. Elsewhere Gaz does a runner in his family's hour of need, while the drift in Eddie and Paula's marriage grows bigger. And a heartbroken Mitchell hits self destruct.

14/01/1999 | Thursday

———

06:13AM. Mitchell's Flat. Flat 34, Marlas Flats, Marlas Estate.

———

The sun is still not long rising and the sky is only starting to get light. A light and pale grey-ish blue hue breaking through the dawn sky. As Marlas Estate only starts waking up.

In his living room, Mitchell is sitting on his black leather three seater sofa in his living room, wrecked. He's slouched forward, holding onto a big bottle of Smirnoff Vodka, that's almost empty. There are empty beer cans crunched and thrown all over the place. He's drinking his sorrows away.

Drinking last night away. Drinking Michael away. Out of sight, out of mind.

Tears have dried on his cheeks and made them sticky. His eyes have gone red from so much crying. His hair is messy. And his head is all over the place.

Music quietly plays from his TV, not that he's paying much attention to it.

Mitchell: "Fucking...fuck" he mutters to himself

Mitchell: "Prick" he mutters. Referring to Michael.

———

07:19AM. Number 33. Jenkins Residence. Marlas Estate.

———

The streets are damp and cold with the January bite and morning dew. The sun is high and shining bright orange rays across cars and houses. Birdsong in the background, as well as city sounds.

Outside number 33 is parked two police cars, and Barry's white van. The front door of the house is still wide open, officers walking in and out with clipboards, taking note of the scene.

Inside the living room, it's still a bombsite. The only change from last night is that the sofa's have been turned the right way 'round. Nicola's sat on one of them with Officer Thomas Hopkins. The young officer often seen assisting DCI Catrin Channing.

No sign of her though. Barry's pacing the living room while three other officers scan and search the house. Gaz is still at the hospital, looking after Tasha and Oscar. The three of them waiting on Jamie, on edge. After his situation last night...

Nicola: "How many more times have I gotta tell ya!? The door was wide open! Practically off it's hinges when I walked in! The place was trashed. Exactly like what ya see now" she says, still slightly slurring her words. Not completely sober after last night.

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "And are you sure you didn't—"

Barry: "Oh for fuck's sake! Aren't ya listening? She said the keys weren't in 'er bag when she got 'ere!"

He says in frustration, pacing in front of the window.

Thomas nods and doesn't bother standing up for himself, and reads over what he's already jotted down in his notepad.

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "And you didn't see anyone or anything suspicious at the Victoria Arms beforehand?"

Nicola rolls her eyes

Nicola: "No! I can't rememba alright!? I was off me 'ed! Me- our son's lying in a coma and he's getting worse. I needed—"

Barry: "To get shitfaced. Innit Nic?" He digs at her.

She shoots him a look

Nicola: "A distraction. Something to...clear me 'ed"

Officer Thomas Hopkins scribbles in his notebook and nods "no", while reading what he's written.

Barry sees

Barry: "Well? What is it? What's wrong?"

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "Well...with what little information you gave me, I'm afraid there's not much to go on"

Barry and Nicola look at each other and then at Thomas

Barry: "You're having a laugh"

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "Well, you didn't hear or see anything suspicious in the last day or two. And you have no recollection of seeing or meeting anybody suspicious at the pub last night, Nicola. So, really, all I've written is the state of the house and what you both remember of last night. And frankly, it's very little to go on"

Nicola: "Oh for fuck's sake" she mutters and grits her teeth

———

07:26AM. The Victoria Arms Pub.

———

Downstairs in the pub, the curtains are still drawn and stools are still turned face down on tables. Its still dark inside. Lights are off and the fridges behind the bar are humming quietly.

Paula comes down from upstairs, and steps out of the staff only door leading to the upstairs flat and steps behind the bar. She's in her beige dressing gown and slippers. Hair is undone and face clean of makeup.

She picks up a small glass from the above head rack and presses it against a bottle of Whiskey in the optics display, and watches the clear-brown liquid fill the glass.

She sighs before lifting it to her mouth and downing it in one. It burns her throat but she does it again. She's about to lift the glass to the optics display for the third time but then the staff only door behind her opens. And Eddie steps out.

Eddie: "Watcha doing? Its first thing"

Paula: "Getting ready to open up" she says quietly without looking back at him.

Eddie: "You feeling okay?" He asks quietly, holding the door open, still.

Paula: "Absolutely perfect, Ed" she says, before downing a third shot.

Eddie sighs and let's the door shut and steps fully into the bar.

Eddie: "What is it?" He sighs

Paula slams the glass on the bar and walks out from behind the bar into the main floor

Paula: "Nothing" she says, taking stools off the tables

Eddie sighs

Eddie: "Paula..."

Paula: "Eddie"

Eddie: "Let me open up. Go on. Go grab another hour"

Paula: "No, I'm alright"

Eddie: "Come on love. You—"

Paula snaps: "Eddie im fine. Just- Just go get dressed will you?" She says, still preparing the pub.

Eddie just looks at her

Eddie: "What's gotten into you?"

Paula: "Oh nothing Eddie! I'm just trying to open up"

Eddie: "And it takes shots of Whiskey to do that does it?"

Paula: "Honestly, yes. It takes shots of anything just to face the day"

Eddie's eyes flicker around the room, like he can't believe he heard what he just did

Eddie: "Is...is life really that bad?"

Paula doesn't say anything. Just carries on preparing the pub

Eddie: "Paula?"

No reply

Eddie: "Paula? Paula fuck's sake I'm talking to you!"

She looks up and snaps

Paula: "Oh you know what Ed!? You fucking open up then! I'm gunna get some air"

She storms off upstairs to throw some clothes on before heading out. Leaving Eddie reeling about what his– their life, is.

———

07:37AM. Number 33. The Jenkins Residence.

———

Nicola and Officer Thomas Hopkins are still dat on the sofa, and Barry is just standing there, trying to contain his anger.

Two older looking officers walk through the hallway and past the open living room doorway, and out the front door. Heading to one of the police cars.

Barry: "Oh d'you know what!? You lot just can't be arsed to pull your finger out and do your jobs can ya!? No wonder so much shit goes on 'round 'ere!"

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "Barry—"

An officer comes down upstairs with a clipboard and peeks his head through the living room doorway

Officer: "Tom"

Thomas turns to the other officer

Officer: "A word" he nods his head towards the hall

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "Excuse me" he days to Barry and Nicola

He gets up and steps into the hallway privately with the other officer. A more mature, stockily built middle aged man.

Officer: "We've taken notes of all of the visible damage and vandalism. They gave you much to go on?" He asks, referring to Barry and Nicola

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "No. Barely anything. She was shitfaced and he was at the hospital" he whispers back.

Officer: "Mm. Well, i doubt they're going to press charges. They've got no clue and I think they've got bigger fish to fry by the looks of things"

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "So, what? You think we should just leave it?"

Officer: "Well, you said so yourself. They haven't given you much to go on. Until they do, there is nothing more we can do than report what we see and what they've told us. We've done our bit"

The officer says before heading out to the other police car.

Meanwhile, in the living room,

Barry: "It's them fucking Slater lot. Those slappers 'cross the road. I know it is"

Nicola nods

Thomas Hopkins stands in the door frame

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "Right, that's all we can do for now. If—"

Nicola: "What!?"

Barry: "Figured" he mutters

Officer Thomas Hopkins: "If you have any other information or if anything comes up, come down to the station and update your statements. And we'll do more with the information you give us. But for now—"

Nicola: "For now this is it yeah?"

Thomas nods yes

Nicola tuts

Barry: "Oh go on, just fuck off" he tells Thomas

Thomas nods and leaves. Gladly getting out of their sight. He gets in the passenger side of the other police car and the two cars pull out of the street, and drive off.

Barry: "Fucking useless them lot"

Nicola: "I know"

He turns to her

Barry: "Was it worth it? Was a piss-up worth this?"

Nicola stands up and snaps

Nicola: "Oh dont start Bar. I needed a drink okay? This isn't my fault, you can't blame me for this!"

Across the street, Julie, Jenna, Danielle and Gavin are seen leaving their house. Walking out the front door. Seen, by Barry.

Barry: "No, but I know who I can blame" he mutters to Nicola under his breath, looking out the window to the Slaters

———

07:43AM. Outside Number 27. The Slater Residence.

———

As Damielle, Gavin, Jenna and Julie leave their house, Julie closes the door behind them and they start making their way down the small driveway where their burgervan used to stand.

They're chatting about Julie's parents (their grandparents), and her younger sister Georgina, potentially coming down to visit.

Jenna: "Well, what did they say?"

Julie: "She weren't happy when I told her over the phone. So..."

Danielle: "Think they're gunna pop down here?"

Julie sighs: "Don't know. If they don't, I know Gina will"

Gavin: "Like i said the other day mum, maybe more pairs of hands will do us all some good. God knows we can do with some help"

Julie nods in defeat. The silence is then immediately cut by—

Barry: "OI!" He screams across the street while storming out of the front door, with Nicola in tow.

On the end of the street, Paula turns the corner from the direction of the pub and sets foot on the street, right on queue, about to witness a battle in the middle of the street

Danielle: "Oh for fuck's sake" she whispers

The Slaters reach the pavement at the bottom of their driveway with Barry and Nicola.

Barry and Nicola storm right up to them and they're all face to face, Gavin steps in front of his mum and sisters and holds his hands up

Gavin: "Woah woah woah there lard-arse, what's your problem?"

Barry: "You fucking done over our gaff 'aven't ya!?"

The Slaters look behind the Jenkins at their house and see the carnage through their living room window

Danielle: "Looks the same to me" she shrugs in sarcasm

Nicola: "Think this is funny do ya?" She steps closer to Danielle

Danielle: "I do, yeah. Hilarious"

Nicola: "I'll fucking show you 'funny'" she reaches to grab Danielle's hair but Julie steps forward and–

SLAP!

Julie's right hand leaves a red handprint on Nicola's left cheek and sends her head spinning.

Julie: "Don't you EVER! Think of touching one of my kids again. It'll be the last time you do. And as for your shit-hole of a house, we wouldn't dare step foot in it. Might catch something"

Gavin: "'Might'?" He giggles

Jenna steps in then;

Jenna: "But hypocritical of you, no? Burning down our burgervan and then—"

Barry: "We didn't touch your fucking rust bucket!"

Nicola: "Darling if we were to do that we would've made you watch. We'd have done it with a fucking smile"

Gavin: "Well then who did, ey?"

Barry: "Someone doing a community service, mate"

Gavin: "Same people who trashed your house you mean?"

—

Across the road, Paula's watching, in amusement. When a heavy hand lands on her left shoulder and she spins on her heel

Paula: "Fuck!" She gasps

She turns and sees Tony standing there in his black leather jacket and a smile on his face

Tony: "Entertaining isn't it?" He chuckles

Paula: "Jesus. You scared the shit outta me"

Tony: "Ah sorry 'bout that, Princess" he winks, and apologises. While the Jenkins and Slaters scream havoc in the background across the street.

She smirks back

———

07:52AM. Number 41. Maureen's Home.

———

Inside her living room, Kylie's lying on the sofa under a thick blanket nursing a piping hot cup of tea Maureen just made and handed her. Maureen is sitting in the opposite armchair. They're talking about last night.

Kylie: "Oh Maur, I really enjoyed those few drinks we 'ad last night. I needed them" she laughs

Maureen: "Oh of course love. Glad to see you out and about for a bit"

Kylie goes to open her mouth but then the sound of screaming from a brutal argument from down the street finds its way into Maureen's living room at the end of the street.

Kylie and Maureen's heads turn to the window

Maureen: "The fuck is going on out there?" She mutters as she puts her cup down on the coffee table, before standing up and walking over to the window.

Kylie also jumps up, quicker than Maureen, and practically runs to the window. As soon as she pulls back the net curtains, Maureen is standing right behind her, and they both peer out to the other end of the street and eavesdrop in on the public argument.

Maureen: "That fucking lot" she whispers

Kylie stares. At Nicola. At Barry. At Gaz's parents.

At the other end of the street;

—

Julie: "Well it's funny since you lot turned up there's been fuck all but grief!"

Nicola: "You ain't blaming shit on us, darling! No fucking way!"

Barry: "Oh you lot! You think you're so high and mighty don't ya! Look at you all, nothing but a bunch 'o slags!"

The Slaters laugh

Danielle: "Look who's talking! Look at your wife!"

Gavin: "Mutton dressed as lamb!"

Barry sees red and snaps

Barry: "YOU FUCKING WHAT!? YOU LITTLE—"

Barry lunges for Gavin and grabs him by the collar of his jacket

Everyone jumps in to try to pull them apart, except for Nicola. Who watches with a sly smirk, proud of her husband.

Across the street, the physical fight grabs Paula and Tony's attention and their heads turn.

Paula: "Fucking Hell" she whispers

Tony: "Like wild animals" he smirks

At Maureen's living room;

—

Maureen: "Ah shit!" She whispers under her breath, before running to her door and yanking it open.

As soon as she pulls the door she starts legging it down the street towards the chaos. As fast as she can for someone in their late 60s. She legs it past Tony and Paula who are both standing nearby, just watching.

Maureen: "Thanks for helping!" She sarcastically shouts at Paula and Tony as she runs past them.

She finally reaches the fight and joins in, in separating Gavin and Barry

Its absolute chaos, everybody's shouting over each other

Maureen finally reaches them and joins in.

Maureen: "Heyheyhey!! Stop-stop! Stop it!" She screams as she manages to worm her way in between Barry and Gavin and help pull Barry off Gavin's collar.

Maureen: "Look at yourselves! Just look, at yourselves!" She screams at everyone. But mainly to Barry and Nicola

Maureen turns to them both; "Your son is in a coma, half dead, and look at you! Scrapping like schoolkids in the playground!"

Nicola: "Who rattled your chain grandma!?"

Julie: "Oi!"

—

At the window, Kylie watches this all unfold

Back at the street;

—

Maureen: "You've got kids! The lotta ya! Kids who need ya!" She screams between them all

She turns to Barry and Nicola; "Your son is lying in a hospital bed and you're rioting like a bunch 'o nutters! What's wrong with ya!?"

Barry: "They were asking for it. They trashed our house!"

Julie: "We've got enough on our plates you stupid twat! We wouldn't bother riling you up. You think we want this!?"

Nicola: "Well we dont know! You're a bunch of psychos!"

Jenna: "We are!?"

It looks like its about to kick off again but Maureen stands her ground

Maureen: "Haven't you got a young lad that needs you both?" She asks Barry and Nicola

They both listen to her and then stare at the Slaters. And they stare back. Face to face. Force to force.

Eventually, Barry puts his hand on Nicola's arm

Barry: "Come on Nic. They ain't worth it"

He starts to pull her away gently

Nicola: "You stay well away from us" she points her finger in Julie's face

Julie: "With fucking pleasure sweetheart"

And with that, Nicola and Barry slowly walk off. Retreating, to Barry's van. As soon as the van drives off, that's when people finally start speaking again.

Danielle: "Fucking nut jobs. The lotta them" she says to everyone

Gavin and Jenna nod in agreement

Maureen turns to Gavin: "You alright sweetheart?" She asks softly putting a hand on his shoulder

Gavin: "Yeah in alright thanks Maur" he nods and smiles

Julie: "Cheers for stepping in Maur, love"

Maureen: "Yeah, yeah of course. Anytime Jule"

———

1:12PM. The Strip. Shawcross General Shop.

———

Behind the counter, Michael is serving a young father, with a baby in a baby back carrier. The dad looks to be in his mid 20s, he looks tired. But happy.

He's buying the usual of what a young father would buy, baby stuff, some food, whatever.

Michael: "Here we are mate. That's thirteen twenty eight please" he says to the young dad, handing over a white plastic bag of his shopping.

The young dad quietly thanks Michael with a small smile before heading out the door.

Over at the fridges, where she's stocking up drinks, Yvonne quietly watched the friendly exchange between the two men.

The bell jingles and the shop falls into silence again

Yvonne: "What did you think?" She asks Michael from the other end of the room

Michael: "Think of what?"

Yvonne: "That bloke, with the baby. You think he looked happy?"

Michael: "Don't know" he says, pursing his lips with a small unknowing smile

A beat of silence

Yvonne: "Would– would you like to be a dad one day?"

Michael's head snaps up and his eyes pop open

Yvonne: "No I- I dont- I dont mean like, now" she awkwardly laughs

Yvonne: "I mean one day. Would you- would you like a kid?"

Michael giggles under his breath: "Don't know Von, love. They're hard work. Not to mention expensive. And we're not exactly rolling in dosh are we?"

Yvonne nods in agreement and sighs, not one hundred percent happy with his answer though

Yvonne: "You think you would be a good dad?"

Michael: "Hmm, maybe. Probably yeah" he nods in thought

A small quick smile falls on her lips and she sighs, more pleased.

She then picks up two empty crates and a small empty box, and carries them to the back store room. As she does—

DINGALING

The door opens and bell rings

Its Mitchell. He's beyond hammered.

Michael looks up from the counter and as soon as he sees Mitchell, he looks down towards the stock room where Yvonne just entered and then back to Mitchell.

Michael: "What the fuck do you want?" He whispers

Mitchell: "Just popping into my local shop to grab a few things. That alright with you Mr family man?" He barely manages to say

Michael looks him up and down and is disgusted by what he sees

Michael: "Jesus Mitchell. Fucking Hell" he whispers

Mitchell: "What? What!? Don't like what you see eh!? Makes a change dont it?" He screams as he leans forward against the counter

Michael: "Shh keep your voice down will ya!?"

Mitchell: "Why? Don't want your wife finding out do we? Oooh someone's been naughty. 'Aven't they? Ey? Yeah. Not so smart now are you?" He mumbles. And hiccups.

The sound of heels gets louder and louder, both Michael and Mitchell’s heads turn towards the stock room, and Yvonne walks out and immediately spots the state of Mitchell

Yvonne: "Jesus. Bit early ain't it Mitchell?" She laughs

Mitchell: "Oh! Hello Yvonne!" He says before a big hiccup

Mitchell: "How're you today?" He asks in a very polite and sarcastic tone

Yvonne: "Uh- fine thank you. Better than you it seems" she says, picking up more empty crates and boxes, logging them to the stock room

Mitchell: "Yeah. You might be right about that!" He shouts to Yvonne who's in the stock room

Michael: "Stop it" he whispers to Mitchell, before Yvonne steps back out of the stock room

Yvonne: "Yeah Mitchell? Why's that?" She asks, walking back to the fridges

Mitchell: "Call it...boy trouble" he says, looking back and fourth between them both

Yvonne: "Blimey. Any boy who causes you to hit the bottle this early ain't worth it, laddy" she says, picking up the final crate before taking it to the stock room

Mitchell: "Yeah! You're probably right! What do you think i should do!? What would you do Yvonne!?"

He asks her as she walks back out and up to the two men at the counter

Yvonne: "Hmm, if I were you Mitchell. A young, attractive, good looking lad, I'd go out and get some. Bet you could get anybody anywhere with looks like yours ey? Don't you think so Mike, love?"

She asks Michael.

Michael's caught off guard and stutters

Michael: "Uh- i- uh-"

Mitchell: "Well Michael? Your wife asked you a question" he stares at him dead in the eye

Michael: "Mhm. Yeah. Yeah of course" he smiles and nods

Mitchell giggles and Yvonne awkwardly smiles before heading off to organise a shelf

Michael waits before Yvonne is across the room before he asks: "What can I get you?" He asks quietly

Mitchell: "Hmm, you know what Mikey boy? Nothing. Gunna take your loving wife's advice and go out. Go out and get some. Gunna shag my troubles away" he says with a massive cocky smirk on his drunken face

He turns around and shouts to Yvonne across the room: "Hey Yvonne!"

She looks up at him

Mitchell: "Gunna take your advice and go out and get some!"

Yvonne: "Attaboy!" She laughs

Mitchell laughs and waves his hand before heading towards the door. He opens it, and before slipping out, he looks back at Michael who's behind the counter, and athletic at him. Before leaving.

Yvonne: "God. Poor kid"

Michael: "Yeah" he mutters, still looking at the door

———

1:49PM. St Anne's Hospital. Jamie's Room.

———

Barry and Tasha quietly walk down the hallway towards Jamie's room, exhausted. Exhausted of fighting, waiting, exhausted of being exhausted. They're just done.

They slowly open Jamie's door and walk in. The room looks the same as always. No more machinery than usual, but no less either.

Apart from Jamie, Tasha and Oscar are the only ones to be seen. Both sitting on the sofa beside the window, eating junk food and whispering.

As the door opens and Barry and Nicola walk in, the kids stop.

Nicola: "Alright kids?" She asks them quietly,

They both nod yes

Barry: "Where's your brother?"

Tasha: "Don't know"

Oscar shrugs

Nicola and Barry look at each other

Barry: "What you mean you dont know?"

Tasha: "Uh, we mean we dont know" she rolls her eyes

Nicola: "Oi. Watch it"

Barry: "When did you last see him?"

Tasha: "Not long after you left early this morning dad"

Oscar: "He said something about being 'done waiting around' and told us to behave and sit tight before leaving"

Tasha: "Haven't seen him since"

Nicola: "Fuck sake Gaz" she whispers and palms her forehead

Tasha: "Why did you have to go home so early this morning anyway dad?"

Oscar: "Yeah. What was the hurry?"

Barry: "Some little twats broken in and trashed the place. Proper"

Tasha and Oscar's eyes widen and they look at each other

Tasha: "You know who it was?"

Barry nods no

Nicola: "Its alright though. We tidied some of it up before we got here"

Barry sits down in the other chair beside Nicola and Jamie's bed, holding each other's hand. Waiting. Hoping.

———

3:29PM. Marlas Police Station.

———

In DCI Catrin Channing's office, it's small, tidy and professional. Its a perfect square room, with a window directly in the middle of one wall, and on the opposite, a door with a window on each side that look out into the hallway.

In the center of the room is her dark wooden desk with a computer, desk lamp and some files, on the right wall is a huge tall bookshelf with filing cabinets, and on the left wall is a huge cork board that takes up most of the wall, and two floor lamps on either side, directly facing it. Lighting it all up.

On the corkboard, is accounts and details of the events that have recently taken place. For starters, the crash. Eyewitness accounts, coordinates, details about the car, a timeline of the night, health records and such. Then the Slaters burgervan, and eyewitness statements of that, details of the wreck and more. And then this morning, the details and accounts of the vandalism at number 33.

And though not many things are currently adding up, one thing is; Jamie Mitchell is certainly NOT innocent. All of the evidence and statements of that night are pointing towards him.

DCI Channing is holding a to-go cup of tea and pacing the corkboard. Cogwheels spinning in her head. When—

KNOCK KNOCK

Channing: "Come in!"

Officer Thomas Hopkins walks in with this morning's reports from the vandalism.

Officer Hopkins: "Got the uh, reports and details from the vandalism at number thirty three" he holds a file out to her

Channing: "Thank you" she takes it with her free hand before dropping it onto her desk

Officer Thomas Hopkins quickly scans the evidence board and whistles low.

Officer Hopkins: "How's it looking? Getting somewhere?"

Channing: "Gotta say, its not looking too good for Jamie. Kelly's, Katie's and Mitchell's statements of the crash all state that he purposefully swerved but with no seeming reason as to why. Not only that, he instigated the joyride, stole the jaguar, hotwired it, drove under the influence, and was recklessly driving with multiple lives at risk.

And the others are guilty of; joyriding and underage drinking. Or Kelly Slater is guilty of that charge at least"

It seems things aren't looking well for Jamie. Whether he survives or not.

Officer Hopkins: "Poor kids"

Channing turns to him: 'Poor Jamie"

———

5:25PM. St Anne's Hospital. Jamie's Room.

———

Nobody's moved from where they've been sat all day. Hopes and energy are low. Tasha and Oscar are quietly bickering about something in the corner of the room.

Nicola: "Kids pleeease! Me head's bangin'" she groans, rubbing her head

Barry: "Well maybe if you didn't run off to get smashed last night"

She glares at him and before she can say anything, the door opens and a senior doctor walks in holding a clipboard and a look on his face

Barry and Nicola immediately stand up and Tasha and Oscar manage to pause their bickering

Barry: "What is it Doc? Is he gunna be ok?"

Nicola: "Did you find out why he keeps fitting?"

Sr Dr: "Actually, yes. I have some results here. And I'm going to be straightforward, they're not looking as good as we'd hoped"

Barry and Nicola's stomach's both drop

Nicola: "Why?"

Barry: "What is it?"

Sr Dr: "Is your son epileptic?"

Barry shrugs

Nicola: "Whats that?"

Sr Dr: "Has he ever had seizures- or 'fits' before?"

Barry: "No"

Sr Dr: "Okay. Well, we were able to establish that Jamie's seizure yesterday and the other day, were both brought on by a lack of oxygen being emitted to his brain, and that's due to his right lung having a rupture, and his spine being fractured"

Barry and Nicola both nod, and for once, they're actually listening to someone

The Doctor continues: "Because of his left lung being ruptured and the high risk of internal bleeding, we're going to need to operate on him as soon as. With your permission"

Nicola: "Of course"

Barry: "Yeah of course. When are you thinking?"

Sr Dr: "Within the hour"

Barry: "Fuck..."

Nicola: "Shit..."

The Doctor nods in understanding.

Sr Dr: "I know. Its a shock. But believe me we are trying all we can to give your son the fighting chance he deserves. So, if you'd like to say anything to him now and give him your best wishes, because within the next half an hour at least, we're going to take him into theatre"

Nicola: "Oh God" she whispers under her hands

Barry: "The operation, how long will it take? Where is it?"

Sr Dr: "So it's a small incision, roughly up here, on the chest area" he points to his own chest

Sr Dr: "And the operation will roughly take five to six hours if all goes well"

Nicola: "If all goes well!? What you mean 'if all goes well'!?"

Sr Dr: "As I'm sure you both know, there is a very very small chance that your son...may not make it out of surgery. Considering his condition and the strain his body is under"

Barry: "You mean...he could?"

The doctor nods yes

Nicola falls into her chair and starts whimpering into her hands, Barry clasps his hands over his mouth and Tasha and Oscar both stand up and crouch beside Nicola. Comforting her.

Barry: "What are- what are the odds of his survival?"

The doctor clearly hesitates to say this;

Sr Dr: "Given his condition, it's about eighty, twenty. Eighty percent chance he makes it through, and twenty, that he doesn't"

Barry: "Ok, ok. Those are good odds Nic. Good odds" he reassures Nicola who doesn't seem to notice.

Sr Dr: "I know this is a lot to take in. But keep your hopes up. From what we've seen so far, your son is a fighter. He's not giving up too easily" a small smile escapes him. And it catches onto Barry's face.

Barry: "Cheers Doc" he nods to the doctor.

The Doctor leaves the room, off to prepare for the operation. While the Jenkins sit around Jamie, cherishing every moment with him like it might be the last

Nicola: "God, Gaz where the fuck are you?" She quietly cries into her hands

———

6:29PM. Maureen's Home. Number 41.

———

In Maureen's kitchen, Kylie and Maureen are both sat on the small kitchen table that's to the side of the room, eating dinner. Mashed potato and beans.

They're talking about the fight in the street earlier today and how Maureen played peacekeeper.

Kylie: "Seriously, didn't think you had it in you to step right in the middle like that" she giggles before putting a spoonful of beans in her mouth

Maureen: "Oi! Cheeky. I'm a good one to have in your corner during a fight, me"

Kylie: "I'll keep that in mind" she giggles

Maureen: "Living around here for long enough love, you learn how to handle yourself. Sooner or later"

Kylie nods.

Kylie: "Oh, by the way. I don't think I asked. But, when I got out the loo earlier I noticed you have another bedroom. Could I—"

Maureen: "Its junk" she cuts Kylie off

Kylie: "What?"

Maureen: "It's junk. The spare room. Absolutely full of junk it is love. Would've given it to you otherwise" she says before shovelling a spoonful of mashed potato in her mouth

Kylie's taken aback

Kylie: "Oh...oh...okay. Is that why it's locked then?"

Maureen looks up and is caught off guard

Maureen: "Mm. Yeah. Proper shit-hole it is. Don't want anyone accidentally wandering in there when they're looking for the loo or something do I?" She laughs

Kylie: "Yeah. Fair enough" she says, and plays it off with a small giggle.

She'd never seen Maureen that defensive before...

———

7:13PM. St Anne's Hospital. Katie's Room.

———

The sky outside is a dark dark blue and the hospital hallways are calm and quieter than they have been all day. They always are this time of evening.

Julie is the only one left with Katie. Everybody else has gone home or to work a while ago.

Julie is tired, Katie too.

Katie: "Mum you can go. You've been here all day. I promise. I'm fine"

Julie: "I know you are love but i—"

Katie: "Nuh–uh" she holds her hand up

Katie: "Go home. I've got doctors and BP coming in every ten minutes anyway to check on me. I'm the shit around here" she jokes

A small exhausted giggle escapes Julie, who is slouched forward on the small sofa beside Katie's bed.

Katie: "Seriously mum. I'm fine. Go on. Fuck off. I've enjoyed everybody visiting today. But you've been here all day and I'm getting sick at the sight of ya" she smiles

Julie: "Little fucker" she smirks

Katie: "And plus, there's a really hot doctor that comes in every once in a while and I dont want my mummy cramping my style and making me look more helpless than I already do" she smiles with a giggle

Julie: "Well nice to see that you're getting your old self back" she smirks as she stands up and grabs her carrier bag

Katie: "You're gunna regret saying that when im screaming in your ear over some ridiculous shit one day soon"

Julie: "Yeah you're probably right" she smiles. Before leaning down and kissing her daughter on the forehead.

Julie: "Love you"

Katie: "Love you too"

Julie: "You call me if—"

Katie: "If I need anything, I know. You said" she laughs

Julie: "Okay okay I'm just making sure!" She laughs back, heading towards the door

Julie: "Night night sweetheart"

Katie: "Night, mum" she sighs with a smile before shutting her eyes

Julie smiles and closes the door softly, before heading down the hall.

—

7:21PM. Down the hall. Outside Jamie's Room.

—

Walking towards the elevators, Julie walks past the hallway that leads to Jamie's room. And at the vending machine getting a coffee is Nicola.

Who's eyes immediately land on Julie like a hawk.

Nicola: "Slater" she says quietly yet firmly

Julie turns and faces her

Julie: "Oh God what do you want now?"

Nicola: "My Jamie has not long gone into theatre, having an operation on his lung"

Julie's hard expression softens slightly

Julie: "Oh...I'm—"

Nicola: "If ANYTHING happens to my son, you better lock your door, before I'm the one that ends up torching your gaff. With your lot still inside"

Julie's soft expression slips away and is replaced with anger again

Julie: "You sick bitch" she whispers in anger

Nicola: "You dont even know it" she says in her face

———

8:39PM. The Victoria Arms Pub.

———

The pub is quiet tonight. Its one of those calm, quiet evenings where locals whisper in corners and murmur about local gossip.

Paula and Eddie both stand behind the bar doing the same old work. Cleaning glasses, wiping the bar, refilling optics. Almost in a robotic movement.

Jim is leaning face down on the bar, almost passed out. And there's an unspoken tension between Eddie and Paula that hasn't been resolved from this morning. They've been quiet all day. Which makes a quiet day at work so much harder to deal with.

Eddie looks up from wiping glass and turns to face Paula, she catches him and their eyes catch. She sighs and gives a very small smile. He repays it. He goes to speak but then—

SQUEEEAK

The main doors open and Tony slides in, like he owns the place.

Tony: "Evening Princess Paula"

Tony says with a grin as he makes his way to the bar

Paula: "Tony"

She replies with a smirk

There's a long silence between them both before Tony snaps out of it, and turns his head to Eddie.

Tony: "Evening Eddie"

Eddie: "Tony"

He replies, deadpan.

Tony and Paula grin at each other at Eddie's tone of voice

———

02:17AM. Mitchell's Flat. Flat 34, Marlas Flats, Marlas Estate.

———

BANG!

The front door to Mitchell's flat flies open and hits the wall so hard it almost shuts behind itself as Mitchell and some older looking guy in a suit come stumbling through.

Hands and lips all over each other in a drunken state.

Mitchell kicks the door shut behind him close with his foot, without removing his lips from this older man's face.

Their hands are all over each other's bodies. Messing up each other's hair, pulling their clothes off and throwing them on the living room floor.

They're both wrecked. Groaning and moaning.

Mitchell: "Oh Al...Al...?"

Albert: "It's Albie"

Mitchell: "Oh Albie!" He groans under his booze reeking breath as he yanks Albert's blazer off.

They both undress each other without thinking about zips or buttons, just yanking the clothes off and throwing them wherever.

They grab each other tight and both fall backwards onto the sofa and start kicking each other's shoes off.

Mitchell is laying on top of "Albie", who is unzipping his bottoms.

Mitchell pulls his lips away from "Albie's" and sits up and yanks his jacket off. As he throws it on the table, his phone slides out onto the glass coffee table to reveal that there's a missed call at 11:02PM from Michael.

But of course Jamie wouldn't notice. He's stripping some older silver fox off in his living room. Distracting himself. From Michael. From heartbreak.

They both groan, hands all over each other, unaware of the world around them.

———

And that's Episode 11! Thank you for reading if you've made it this far and please let me know what you think. Episode 12 will be out shortly! ☺️

It was after The Ledge that he really began to enjoy the grind. The hike. The Plow. The geography was both scenic and demanding. Winding trail with elevation changes, switchbacks and contrasting portions of trail with cool shade and hot sun. It was the part of the day where he readily daydreamed of aspirations gone by. He let the role playing and daydreams of his prepubescent self take over on this part of the trail. When he wanted nothing more in life than to be a soldier. Specifically a soldier in combat. Against? Well anyone would do. More often than not he simply referred in his mind to "the enemy" since that was the language used so often by the actors in all the war movies he had watched over the years. "The enemy is sly, stealthy and hell bent on victory" he said to himself. "Well the enemy did not count on me. They are sly. So am I. They dont even know I am behind them. HeHeHeHeHe." He always responded this way. You know... to his own statement. Bit of a cliche but screw it. It was HIS daydream! Today, his armed defence of hearth and home against the bastard enemy did not last very long. Maybe 1 or 1.5 kilometers. He was getting a little fatigued. Both from exertion and excess ingestion of cannabis perhaps? "More than likely" he thought. Not a good move that. Whatever. He was used to a little fatigue from these outings. Nothing to worry about. But he vowed that he had eaten the last gummy of his day and probably night.

His mind was turning to matters of a more serious, adult, visceral and frankly, relevant nature. To him anyway. He was an avowed "sufferer" of what he had heard called "Oppositional Defiance Syndrome". He took it serious motherfucker. All forms of authority are to be scrutinized, doubted and when judged to be lacking, outright defied. I mean within limits of course. Lol. But it was really no laughing matter. "Fucking canapes eating, wine spritzer drinking motherfuckers who set this system up for their primary benefit knew what the fuck they were doing" he thought. The whole ODS infrastructure of his noodle nest had to be tempered for the need of a job. He was anarchical sure. But fuck man. He saw the people who lived on the street. While he had a lot of compassion and tolerance for them, and often interacted with the more familiar ones, he did not want to join their ranks. Sooooo some fucking times, he had to play nice with his "superiors". It was maddening. To be drip fed the economic means to survive in a system he despised and, in fact, advocated against. He didnt win any popularity contests amongst peers and colleagues alike that's for sure. The whole revolutionary stance he had elaborately constructed in his mind was only viable if there was a critical mass of people willing to sacrifice the material comforts offered up piecemeal by the fucktards in charge and, this is key, that mass of people acted in concert with one another and, another key, their actions coincided with a timely and critical weakness in the armor of the goddamn system itself. "But hey. Ya never know. Amirite?" he asked. Of a toad he inadvertently chased off the trail into the leaf litter just beginning to form on the forest floor.

You see folks. You might think you know of what those benign looking forest promenaders are thinking about as they stroll merrily through the green. Chances are you dont know diddly. He still had a distaste that at one time, he would have swallowed the kool aid. He would have praised country and flag incessantly. Been a "pillar" of his fucking tasteless, colorless, valueless, and ultimately, morally vacuous, capitalist worshipping, wife swapping, prescription pill taking, lets be obedient to all people in "power" of our goddamn dog and pony show fucking society. "That was hard to get out in one thought" he thought. Today all he could really say/think about it is the two words he used to shut down any argument in which he had quickly determined that arguing further was pointless. "Fucking nope!" he bellowed. "Not ganna do it. Sorry ma. Sorry pa." he said. That program has no passion. No chutzpah. No fucking edible fueled full squad baseball games played by one imaginative stoned dude in the middle of the woods using only the fruits of one of the most common trees in his region. Annnnnddddd the free flowing capitalist, product innovative, easily available and market driven force that is TH fucking C. If that program aint got that. "It aint got me" he said. And he laughed down the trail for a full five minutes. The day was getting longer. But his high did not seem to be getting any shorter. He was loving it.

He was approaching the point at which he should probably decide on a spot to hunker down. If he continued for another 5 minutes or so he would be further down this trail than he had been before. At least this season. It was twilight. That magical time they call the "Golden Hour". Where it is neither dark nor light and was the purveyor of some of the most serene and life affirming and calming moments in a hiker's day, life, career. It was sublime. And it didnt last that long. About well...an hour. "Fucking dimwit" he croaked. "Thats maybe why they call it that?" He was able to laugh still. Good sign. Since he was still jovial and fairly reenergized he decided he would find a spot on the other side of the "Highway" and park himself somewhere he had never parked before. The highway was, in fact, simply a county road but he called it the highway for reasons unknown to even himself. He had plenty of calories left in his bag. Decent allotment of H2O left. And a couple of energy drinks. Key provision those for this kind of recreation in his humble opinion. Calories? Probably 2700 to 3200 left in his bag. The only time he gave a shit about the calories to energy expended ratio was when he was doing this kind of thing. He wanted to stop soon. And kind of freshen up. He had sweat, dried, sweat again, dried again probably a full 3 or 4 cycles today. Lots of water. No pee. Pure sweat as moisture purge and temperature control. He probably smelled bad. Like a dumpster diver? No probably not. Not like garbage. "Probably smell like a line cook with a checkered past" he thought silently. That one hit home. He smiled nonetheless. For he had cooked his way through school. And continued to cook after graduation and the addition of those initials at the tail end of his illustrious name. LOL. It was fun. Cooking. The people were crazy. Characters all. He fit right in. And learning to cook. Actually cook. Well it had rewards he had not expected when he took his first job to make ends meet as a starving post secondary student. "Line cook with a checkered past" he repeated to himself. Thats a good one. For yes indeed it checked out. "Probably smell like Wile E Coyote in heat on a bender trying to find the best way to enter Mexico illegally and snag that fucking arrogant but admittedly cerebrally gifted roaddrunner once and for fucking all" he thought. And with that he laughed loud and long. He did not know how ironic and pretty much unfunny that little joke was going to be in a couple of hours. He didnt know a lot of things he thought he did that night. But he didnt know that then. At that moment. All he thought at that moment was that, sometimes, he was a pretty funny motherfucker. And yes, he currently smelled pretty bad.

I'd come from school. I was standing on the sidewalk opposite our vinyl sided house. A big car was in our driveway. It was a Cadillac, the colour of cream. I didn't know who it belonged to. Who does it belong to, I wondered.

It was a hot, still day.

I felt the warm concrete sidewalk slabs through my sneakers’ worn soles. No birds chirped. The sky was cloudless.

I thought I could hear the sun buzzing like an old appliance.

I walked slowly towards the car.

Its windows were darkened. I put my hands on the driver's window and my face against my hands. I looked inside.

A man was inside.

He was reclined on the leather driver's seat.

The seat was red.

The whole inside of the car was red.

The man’s face was pale. His hair was grey. His hands were thick with veins. His eyes were closed. He looked dead. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed and he looked dead.

He opened his eyes.

He didn't look more alive with open eyes than he had with closed eyes, and I leapt backwards away from the car and screamed.

I hadn't screamed.

I stood.

A cloud had passed between me and the sun.

My throat was dry.

I tasted blood.

I saw dark blood running down the sides of the Cadillac's windows. The car was filled with blood. I was blood. It covered the man. I covered the man. He was rising through us. I was listening to the roar of a distant lawnmower. I stood silent, looking through the car's tinted window at the man, whose eyes were closed. He was sleeping. The grass was green. The lawn was neat. I walked inside the house.

My mother was in the kitchen.

She was drinking tea.

Her hands were shaking. The bottom of her teacup was clattering against the saucer she was holding in her other hand.

“There's a man,” I said, “in a car in the driveway.”

My mother opened her mouth to speak.

My father walked in.

My mother closed her mouth.

“That man is your uncle Larkin,” my father said, and my mother looked away. My father looked down at the floor. Ants were walking single file along the grout between the tiles.

I didn’t know either of my parents had a sibling.

“Will he—” I asked.

“No,” my mother said. “He won't come in,” said my father.

My mother set her empty cup and saucer on the kitchen counter, by the sink. The faucet reflected the sunlight. Blood dripped from it. I imagined blood dripping from the faucet into the kitchen sink. My mother's empty cup was full of blood. “I asked if I could play with my friends after I finish my homework,” I said.

“Asked whom?”

I hadn't meant to say it like that.

I felt warmth and shame. I had peed myself. The ants were still walking along the floor. “It's best you do not go out today,” my father said.

I showered.

I put on dry clothes.

My mother had finished mopping the floor when I came downstairs again. We ate dinner. We drank cranberry juice. I watched my parents scrape the meat off chicken bones with their teeth.

My parents drank red wine.

I drank milk.

I wondered if we would bring anything outside for my uncle Larkin, but nobody did. Even the dogs were inside. Even though it wasn't raining.

The sun went down.

I watched the Cadillac in the driveway from my upstairs bedroom window.

I watched it instead of going to sleep.

I couldn't sleep.

I had a fear of being dreamed.

I had a fear that if I slept something might wring me in its dream as if I was a rag used to clean blood from somewhere after a crime so I sat in my bedroom with the lights off looking at the Cadillac in the driveway from my upstairs bedroom window instead of going to sleep until the driver's side door opened and from my bedroom window I saw the driver's side door open.

The driver's side door opened.

It was one in the morning.

The car door opened, and Uncle Larkin stepped out into the moonlight. He moved like tree branches. The veins on his hands were golden. His hair looked like thick grey wires. He parted his lips and ate the moonlight, then walked away down the dimmed street.

The hour felt raw.

He was gone, but I kept watching.

The car was still as a coffin.

The points of starlight in the sky stretched into shimmering lines of spiderweb…

He returned before dawn, holding a small child by the hand.

I couldn't tell if the child was a boy or girl.

The child was younger than me.

They walked up the driveway to the car. He opened the back door.

I saw the long red leather back seat. He helped the child inside. He got in too. Then he shut the door. The car, the moonlight and everything was as it had been before.

There was stillness.

It was dawn.

The stillness was fake like plastic plants.

I was in my bedroom with the curtains closed and a pain in my stomach that felt like knots of jealousy, screaming and disgust.

In the morning, the car was gone. I brushed my teeth until my gums hurt. My mother was making breakfast. It was eggs and bacon. I watched the bacon sizzle in its own melted fat.

I wasn't hungry.

I ate.

Two police officers came by that afternoon.

They were very friendly.

They were asking my parents if they had seen anything unusual last night. I wanted to leave, but my father caught my hand. “What about you?” one of the officers asked. “You're old enough to answer for yourself. Aren't you, son?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I didn't see anything.”

My mother petted my hair.

“Good boy,” he said, and I felt myself of innocent blood.

Between Love and Attachment

A friend once asked me, “What is the difference between love and attachment?”

Love is something gentle, something soft. A laugh, a smile, the feeling of a tremble inside your chest, a beautiful kind of nervousness, a gentle rise in temperature, as if you were breathing in fresh air.

Love is the sweetness of beginnings and an ending that leaves behind a beautiful taste. A feeling that is constant yet ever-renewing, flowing and light. It is calm when you are close, yet wild and intensely pleasurable when you are apart.

That is love.

As for attachment, it is storms and raging seas, crying and laughing, tears and joy, the trembling of a heart and its breaking, sadness, exhaustion, happiness, and longing.

You never know where all those bumps in the road come from, or how so many emotions can gather inside a single heart. And yet, through it all, you are content. You hold on to this choice.

Attachment.

Sara Cal 🥀✏️

31M and my wife 33F
Married for three years, very minimal physical contact(once in 3-4 months)
I started watching online porn and chat with online girls(telegram - Philippines) to satisfy myself.
We had a baby , she found out that i have been doing this online things.
I apologized and begged to her for that
She hit me multiple times and threatened me (destroying my career and image in society)
She decided to leave me
luckily i got saved from a thing which i thought of doing it considering it as an end
Few weeks later she started distancing me and my daughter and she then accused me that i am a pervert and she cant let the baby (2 month old )near me
I lost myself in that accusation , i never did something bad to my baby
We got separated and i sought therapy
Now we re seeking divorce
I scared to even look at my baby