How we met:

I am a Pentecostal Christian. At my church, there are four age groups: children (ages 5–14), youth (from age 14 until marriage), brothers (men), and sisters (women). We first met in the children’s group when we were young; back then, I didn’t have a crush on her—we didn’t even talk, and we didn’t really know each other. That’s also where I made most of the friends I still have today.

How I started to like her:

At the time, I had a crush on another girl, but I also had feelings for her—let’s call the girl I like now "Emma," and the one I used to like "Alessia." I liked Alessia, but it felt like those feelings were fading, and that’s when I noticed Emma looking at me. She looked my way a few times, and I assumed she liked me, so I started to develop feelings for her too.

How Emma found out I liked her:

Well, she did find out... It was her birthday, and she already suspected that I liked her. I sent her a "Happy Birthday" message, but she didn’t reply—and that’s how I heard she found out.

What happened next:

Some time later, I was talking to someone who helps me out with these kinds of things, and they said, "You know she likes another guy, right?" I didn't know about it at the time, but later she explained that she had been to an acquaintance's wedding, where she met a guy from another part of the country—and she told me he was hitting on her, things like that.

I got her a gift:

Despite all this, I still liked her, so I got her a gift (if you want to know how, check my profile and look for the story "I made a gift for my crush"). I want to give it to her, but I’m afraid—though lately, I’ve been thinking I should just go for it, in case she ends up leaving with that guy.

The ending:

So, Emma doesn't like me; she can't stand me and thinks I'm annoying. Still, I really like her and want to give her the gift I bought, but I don't know how. If she refuses to take it, the whole church will find out, I’ll end up looking like a fool, and she’ll hate me even more. I carry her gift with me every single day, just to remind me of her.

Marcus sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone for a few seconds before finally calling Kenji.

After a couple of rings, Kenji answered.

“Yo, Marcus. What’s up?”

“Not much,” Marcus said. “You busy?”

“Nah. What’s going on?”

Marcus hesitated.

“Okay, I got a weird question for you.”

Kenji laughed. “That already sounds concerning.”

Marcus chuckled. “What would you think if I told you I liked your mom?”

There was a long silence.

“...My mom?”

“Yeah. Yuki.”

Kenji was quiet for another moment.

“Wait. You mean like like her?”

Marcus sighed. “Yeah.”

Kenji laughed in disbelief.

“Marcus, I thought you liked Ivory.”

“I do.”

“Then what the hell?”

“I don't know,” Marcus said. “I mean, I still have feelings for Ivory, but she's married. She's got Mr. Liu, and she has Ben and Kenny. I'm not trying to get between their family or anything.”

Kenji nodded even though Marcus couldn't see him.

“So you're saying you like my mom too?”

“Basically.”

Kenji laughed again.

“Man, you really don't make things easy for yourself.”

Marcus smiled. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“I mean, I know my mom is attractive and everything,” Kenji said. “But hearing you say it is definitely weird.”

“Fair enough.”

Kenji thought for a moment.

“But honestly, I'd rather you tell me than hide it.”

Marcus became more serious.

“I'd never disrespect your mom. If she wasn't interested, I'd leave it alone. And I'm not expecting anything.”

“That's probably the important part,” Kenji replied. “My mom gets to decide how she feels.”

“Exactly.”

There was another pause.

Then Kenji said, “But I'm still trying to process the fact that you went from Ivory to my mom.”

Marcus laughed.

“It's not like I planned it.”

“You're something else, Marcus.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Kenji chuckled.

“But seriously, I know you like Ivory. And I know she's married. So if you're trying to find somebody who's actually available, I can understand why Yuki crossed your mind.”

Marcus leaned back against his pillow.

“That's kind of what I was thinking.”

“Well,” Kenji said, “just don't make it awkward.”

“I won't.”

“And if you ever tell her, don't make me the middleman.”

Marcus laughed.

“Deal.”

Kenji laughed too.

“Good. Because I don't want to be sitting at dinner while you two are flirting and thinking, ‘Damn, Marcus actually told me about this.’”

Marcus shook his head.

“Fair enough.”

The two continued talking for a while, eventually moving on to other things.

But after the call ended, Marcus stared at his phone again.

He still had feelings for Ivory.

But now, for the first time, he had admitted out loud that Yuki had caught his attention too.

Sometimes, the moments that teach us the most are the ones we never expect. We often think that life-changing experiences have to be something big, but I've come to realize that even an ordinary conversation can make us look at things differently.

Imagine having a day when everything feels overwhelming. You have responsibilities to take care of, things you're worried about, and plans that aren't going the way you expected. You try to act normal around other people, even though your mind is full of thoughts you don't know how to explain.

Then, during an ordinary moment, someone takes the time to listen to you without judging you or trying to tell you what to do. They don't have all the answers, and they can't magically solve your problems, but their willingness to listen makes a difference.

What makes moments like this special is that the other person may not even realize how much their actions mean to you. For them, it might have been just another conversation. For you, it might become something you remember for years.

I've learned that we sometimes underestimate the impact we can have on other people's lives. A little patience, an honest conversation, or a few encouraging words can mean more than we imagine.

It has also made me think about how often we judge people without knowing what they are dealing with. Someone might seem unfriendly when they're simply tired. Another person might seem distant because they have a lot on their mind. We rarely know the complete story behind someone's behavior.

I think that's one reason kindness and understanding are so important. We don't need to know everything about someone to treat them with respect.

Looking back, I believe one of the most useful lessons we can learn is to pay more attention to the small moments in life. We spend so much time waiting for something exciting to happen that we sometimes overlook the ordinary experiences that help us grow.

What's one small experience or conversation that changed the way you think about life?

Before we get going, there's something you ought to know.

Every story in this book comes from real people. My family. My

friends. The fellas at the coffee club, the neighbors over the fence,

the folks I've stood beside at weddings, funerals, ball games, and

the hardware store. I've been collecting their stories, and living a

few of my own, for a long, long time.

But I've also been telling them for a long, long time. And you

know how that goes. A story gets told at Thanksgiving, then again

at a graduation party, then again on a porch at midnight, and every

time it gets a little bigger. The fish grows. The hail gets heavier. The

dog gets smarter. By now, some of these stories are about ninety

percent true. Some are more like sixty. One or two are mostly true

in spirit, if not in fact.

So here's my advice. Some of these you should take with a grain

of salt. Maybe a whole shaker. The rest? I'll just leave those to your

imagination.

I've changed names, moved a few things around, and stitched

some stories together from more than one life, because the best

lessons tend to happen to more than one person. If you think you

recognize yourself in here, you might be right. You might also be

one of about six people who did the exact same dumb thing. Either

way, I promise I was laughing with you. Mostly.

Here's what I won't stretch: the lessons. The Fix at the end of

each story is the real deal. Those are the things that worked, the

things I wish somebody had told me sooner. And when it comes to

the serious stuff, your health, your money, your legal papers,

please talk to the real experts. I'm just the fella in the driveway.

That’s the part that keeps replaying in my head, like a scene I’d cut if I could edit my own life. There was no build‑up, no grand moment, no music swelling in the background. Just a dimly lit room, a window that wouldn’t fully close, and you.

You were leaning against the edge of the table, fingers tracing the rim of a glass you weren’t really drinking from.

It was pretty late, but not late enough to justify the things we both were thinking and not saying. The kind of hour where the city outside is still half‑awake, and tired.

You said something. I don’t even remember what it was. A joke, maybe. Something about how you always manage to ruin your own good days. You laughed, but it was that laugh you do when you’re trying to make something sound lighter than it feels.

And I looked at you.

Not the way I usually do, not the casual, practiced glance of someone who’s used to pretending they’re not constantly taking mental pictures. I really looked. At the way your shoulders slouched just a little when you thought no one was paying attention. At the faint line between your eyebrows that only shows up when you’re tired. At the way your hand tightened around the glass when you mentioned “good days”, like the phrase itself was fragile.

Hell, I’m not even the type who shares his feelings easily. But something about the way you stood there, half in the light, half in the shadow, made those words come out of my mouth before I could catch it.

Like a breath held for far too long.

And then it just slipped.

I love you.

Two words. Quiet. Almost conversational. Like I was commenting on the weather. Maybe it was just a truth that had been sitting, for far too long, deep inside my chest and finally found a crack to escape through.

You froze. Your eyes met mine, and for a second I thought I saw everything.. fear, anger, surprise, tenderness, all layered on top of each other like badly hidden secrets. But it passed so quickly, I could have imagined it.

The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. It was.. ordinary. Not with fear, or joy, or anything I could name. Yet, life went on, as if I hadn’t just thrown a grenade into the middle of the room. Just stillness. Stillness so sharp, it felt like the room inhaled, but forgot to exhale.

And then you looked at me.

That look. God. Like lightning.. bright for a second, then gone, leaving the air heavier than before. A look that didn’t trigger a “yes” or a “no,” but rather something far more complicated.

You didn’t say my name. You didn’t say “what?” or “say it again”. You just looked at me and then your eyes softened in a way that hurt more than if you’d shouted.

You didn’t say the words, but I heard them anyway. You were protecting something.. Not from me, but from what loving me might do to the fragile balance you’d carved out of your past.

“Don’t.” you said finally.

Just that. One word. Barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t “don’t love me.” It wasn’t “don’t say that.” It felt as if it was something heavier, something that carried years behind it.

There’s a particular kind of humiliation that comes with saying something true and watching it land like a mistake. I could feel the heat rising in my face, the instinctive urge to backpedal, to laugh it off, to say “Relax, I didn’t mean it like that” ..even though I did, exactly like that.

I didn’t answer. I tried to, then stopped. Lying would have been worse.

You put your glass down, carefully, like you were afraid of making any sudden movements that might shatter the moment into something unfixable.

“You can’t just say things like that”, you murmured.

“Like what?” I asked, even though I knew.

“Like that,”, you said. “Like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t.. change things.”

I wanted to tell you that it didn’t have to change anything. That we could pretend I never said it. That we could rewind, go back to the version of us that lived in the safe zone between almost and never. But the truth was, it had already changed everything.. for me, at least. The word was out. It had a shape now. A weight. It was no longer something I could deny, or hide behind sarcasm.

“I didn’t say it like it’s nothing,” I replied quietly. “I said it because it’s.. there. Whether I say it or not.”

You flinched at that, just barely. A tiny movement, but I caught it.

“Don’t do this..”, you said. “Please.”

There was a crack in your voice on that last word. Not big, not obvious, but enough. Enough to tell me that this wasn’t about me being ridiculous, or dramatic. This was about you trying to hold together something inside you that had already been broken once, maybe more than once.

“What am I doing?”, I asked, even though I could feel the answer hanging in the air between us.

You hesitated, then looked up again. Your eyes were glossy, but not with tears.. I think it was restraint.

“You’re walking into a room that isn’t yours”, you said slowly. “With your shoes on. That’s what it feels like.”

The metaphor hit harder than any direct rejection could have.

Like I’d walked into a room that wasn’t mine, tracking mud over memories you kept polished and untouched. I pictured it instantly: a room, small but carefully arranged. Sunlight coming in through sheer curtains. A bed made just so. Books stacked in neat piles. Some vinyl on the shelves. A mug on the nightstand. A space that doesn’t look like much to anyone else, but to the person who lives there, it’s everything.

It’s safety. It’s proof that they survived the chaos outside yet another day. And then here I am, barging in, uninvited, leaving my footprints on the floor. And suddenly I felt like an intruder.

“You think my love is dirt”, I said before I could stop myself.

Your eyes widened. “No. That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s what it feels like.. Like I’m contaminating you or something.”

“You’re not… dirty. It’s not that. It’s just…….”, you broke off, searching for words.

“There were times in my life that were good. Really good. And they’re gone now. They’re not coming back. All I have left of them are the memories. And those are.. clean. Untouched. They’re mine. The only thing that no one can mess with.”

You paused, whilst your fingers were tracing the condensation ring your glass had left on the table.

“When you say things like “I love you”, it feels like you’re trying to step into that space. Into those hours. Like you want to be part of them. And you can’t. You weren’t there. You don’t belong in those moments. And I’m scared that if I let you in now, you’ll start rewriting everything. Even the past.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. How do you argue with someone’s ghosts? How do you compete with a version of happiness that’s already been lived, already been lost, already been polished into something almost sacred?

“I’m not trying to replace anything” I said, softly. “I’m not asking to be part of your past.”

“Yeah,” you said, “but love doesn’t stay in the present, does it? It spreads. It wants to touch everything. It wants to claim things. That’s what scares me.”

You weren’t angry. That was the worst part. If you’d been angry, I could have defended myself. If you’d laughed, I could have pretended I was joking. If you’d cried, I could have held you.

You were calm. Too calm. Like someone who has already had this conversation in their head a hundred times and knows exactly where it leads.

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked. “Pretend I don’t feel it?”

You looked at me for a long moment. Really looked. And I could see the conflict there, the push and pull between wanting to be fair to me and wanting to protect yourself.

“I want you to be careful with what you say,” you replied. “Because I can’t unhear it. And I can’t give you what you think that word deserves.”

There it was. Not a door slammed in my face, but a hand gently held up… firm.

I nodded, even though every part of me wanted to argue. To say that I wasn’t asking for anything. That I didn’t need a promise, or a label, or a future. That I just needed you to know.

But that would have been a lie. Love always asks for something, even when it pretends it doesn’t. It asks to be seen. To be acknowledged. To be allowed to exist without being treated like a mistake.

The room suddenly felt smaller. The air thicker. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, in my fingertips, in my eyes.

“I’m not going to take it back,” I said. “I can’t. But I won’t say it again if you don’t want me to.”

You closed your eyes briefly, as if that hurt more than my original confession.

“It’s not about the words,” you said. “It’s about what they do to me. To us. To… everything.”

You gestured vaguely, as if “everything” was too big to point at.

“I’ve spent a long time trying to keep certain parts of my life separate. The good memories over here, the bad ones over there, the present somewhere in the middle. It’s the only way I know how to stay.. functional. When you say you love me, it feels like you’re trying to merge all of that. And I don’t know who I’d be, if that happened. I’m not sure I want to find out.”

I wanted to tell you that maybe you’d be happier. That maybe, just maybe, letting someone in, wouldn’t destroy you. That maybe love doesn’t always have to be a wrecking ball.. that sometimes it can be scaffolding.

But I also knew I was speaking from a place of wanting, and you were speaking from a place of surviving. Those are not equal positions.

So I just nodded again. It felt like surrender. Maybe it was.

So I stayed quiet. And you stayed distant. And the moment passed, the way moments do, when neither person is brave enough to catch them before they fall.

We didn’t talk much after that. The conversation drifted to safer topics, the way people talk about the weather after a storm has already passed through and left half the town in ruins.

You made a joke. I laughed. We pretended the air wasn’t different now.

Later, when you left, you hugged me a little tighter than usual. Or maybe I imagined that. Maybe I needed to believe that the world hadn’t just fallen into a void.

The door closed behind you and I stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where you’d been, feeling the echo of your presence like a handprint on my chest.

I replayed it all in my head, over and over. The way your eyes flashed when I said it. The way your voice trembled on “Don’t.”. The way you talked about your memories like they were a museum exhibit.. you can look, but do not touch.

And somewhere between the replay and the regret, a strange understanding settled in.

You weren’t rejecting me. Well, not exactly. You were rejecting the idea that love is always a good thing. That it always builds, never breaks. That it always adds, never takes away.

For you, love had been a wrecking crew once. Maybe more than once. It had come in with promises and left you in pieces. So you built something for yourself out of what was left. A quiet life. A set of routines. A collection of moments that only belonged to you. Then I came along, with my feelings, and my words, and my need to be known, and I threatened that balance without even realizing it.

I thought saying “I love you” was an offering. A gift. A bridge.

For you, it was a risk. A crack in the wall you’d spent years reinforcing.

So no, you didn’t say it back. You didn’t smile. You didn’t cry. You didn’t run into my arms.

You did something much harder. You told me the truth.

You told me that my love might be real, but that doesn’t mean it’s harmless.

And I’m left with this: a word I can’t unsay, a silence I can’t unhear, and a strange, aching respect for the way you chose for yourself.

People like to say that if it’s real, love finds a way. That if it’s meant to be, it will be. That timing is just an excuse.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re not.

All I know is that sometimes love isn’t an invitation. Sometimes it’s an intrusion. Sometimes love shows up like a gentle knock on the door. Sometimes it shows up like a storm. And sometimes it shows up quietly, in a room with a muted TV and a half‑finished drink, and it’s told softly.. to stay outside.

Not because it isn’t wanted..

But because the person on the other side has finally learned how to live with their own company, their own memories, their own carefully arranged, dimly lit room.

And they’re not ready to let you walk in with your shoes on.

I was cleaning out my parents’ attic last month after my dad passed. Most of it was junk—old tax returns, broken Christmas lights, a box of my childhood drawings that somehow survived three moves.

Then I found a small wooden box I didn’t recognize. Inside was a single envelope, yellowed and sealed with wax. On the front, in neat cursive:

**To Jason
To be opened on October 12, 2026**

That was yesterday.

My hands were shaking when I opened it. The paper inside was folded carefully. The handwriting was unmistakable. It was mine. Not how I write now—how I wrote when I was 17.

The letter said:

> If you’re reading this, it means you made it.
> I know things feel heavy right now. Dad’s gone. The house is too quiet. You’re wondering if any of this is worth it.
> I’m writing this the night before I leave for college. Mom and Dad think I’m packing. I’m not. I’m sitting on the roof outside my window, looking at the same stars you’ll probably ignore tonight.
> You’re going to make some stupid decisions in the next few years. You’re going to lose people. You’re going to feel like the world is moving on without you.
> But listen to me carefully:
> The night you almost quit everything—when you were 24 and sitting in that parking lot outside the hospital—don’t. Go back inside. Hold her hand one more time.
> The job you’re going to hate for three years? Stay until the project finishes. The person who replaces you will take credit, but the experience will save you later.
> And when you meet the woman with the red scarf on the train in Chicago, talk to her. Even if your stop is next. Especially if your stop is next.
> I can’t tell you everything. Some things you have to live.
> But I can tell you this:
> You’re going to be okay.
> Not perfect. Not fixed. Just… okay. And that’s enough.
> P.S. There’s a second letter. Look behind the insulation near the chimney. Don’t open it until you’re 50. Trust me.

I sat there on the dusty floor for a long time.

Because every single thing in that letter had already happened.

The hospital parking lot. The job. The woman with the red scarf—who’s currently asleep next to me.

I don’t know how 17-year-old me knew. I don’t remember writing it. I don’t remember sealing it. I don’t remember hiding a second letter.

But when I reached behind the insulation near the chimney, my fingers closed around another envelope.

Same handwriting.

Same wax seal.

Addressed to me.

To be opened on my 50th birthday.

I haven’t opened it.

Some part of me is terrified it will say something I haven’t lived yet.

And some part of me is terrified it won’t.

The autumn air on the roof was always cold, but for Aarav, it was the only place he felt alive. A shut-in swallowed by depression, his days blurred into a silent fog of dark rooms and empty hours. Every evening, he would creep up to the rooftop, light a cigarette, and watch the distant city lights, feeling utterly disconnected from the world below.

Then, one foggy night, she appeared.

Sitting on the edge of the parapet was Ananya—his childhood friend whom he hadn’t seen in years. She looked pale, quiet, and delicate, but her smile instantly cut through his numbness.

From that night on, the roof became their sanctuary. Every evening, Aarav would wait anxiously by the rusted door. They talked for hours about their childhood memories, their fears, and their broken dreams. She listened to him like no one else ever had. Every word she spoke echoed in his heart. Overwhelmed by her warmth, Aarav fell hopelessly, deeply in love. Her presence slowly pulled him out of his dark abyss; his life began to feel stable, meaningful, and bright again.

One clear, starry night, unable to contain his feelings any longer, Aarav proposed to her. Ananya looked at him with tears glistening in her eyes and softly agreed.

Over the next few weeks, a newly confident Aarav waited for the right, calm moments to share the joyous news with his family. Finally, over dinner, he confessed to his parents that he had been meeting Ananya and intended to marry her.

A heavy, agonizing silence fell over the room. His parents exchanged horrified looks.

"Aarav... that's impossible," his father said, his voice trembling. "Ananya passed away three months ago."

Aarav laughed, thinking it was a cruel joke, but his mother began to cry. His father explained the tragic truth: Ananya had been deeply depressed, consumed by severe insecurities, and crippled by shyness. Feeling unloved by the world, she had made the quiet, desperate choice to swallow a slow-acting poison one evening.

The poison took twelve hours to work. Right after drinking it, she had wandered up to the rooftop—where she ran into Aarav for the first time in years. Aarav’s gentle words and kindness that very first night had touched her so deeply that she wanted to live again. But it was already too late; the poison was already in her system.

She went back down to her room and spent her final hours writing a long, heartfelt letter to her mother. In it, she confessed her newfound love for Aarav, writing through her tears that she had finally found warmth in the world, but her time had ran out. She passed away early the next morning. To protect her memory, her family had kept the suicide completely private, sharing the painful truth only with Aarav’s parents.

Refusing to believe a single word, a hysterical Aarav rushed to her family's house. Sensing his utter denial, Ananya’s grieving father quietly led him to the security room and played the rooftop CCTV footage from the past three months.

Aarav stared at the monitor, his world shattering into a thousand pieces.

On the screen, night after night, the camera showed Aarav sitting alone on the cold concrete ledge—smoking cigarettes, laughing, leaning in close, and pouring his heart out to the empty air.

He had spent three months utterly, hopelessly in love with a ghost.

Body: This is a story about how my friends completely abandoned me over a situation I had no control over and wasn't to blame for.

Note: This story was written entirely by me. I used AI only to translate my original text into English. The story itself was not generated by AI.

Let's start from the very beginning. My first friend - I'll call him Daniel. I met him in college, and at that time, I truly believed I had found the perfect friend. Let's start from the very beginning. My first friend - I'll call him Daniel. I met him back in high school, and at that time, I truly believed I had found the perfect friend. Here is how we met. Back before our school banned phones during breaks, I brought my phone to school and decided to play a game about warplanes during recess. Suddenly, a guy walked up to me and was genuinely surprised to see I was playing the exact same game he played. We struck up a conversation, introduced ourselves, and basically became friends right then and there. Here is how we met. Back before our school banned phones during breaks, I brought my phone to school and decided to play a game about warplanes during recess. Suddenly, a guy walked up to me and pointed out with surprise that he played the exact same game. We started talking, traded names, and got to know each other. Since this was a year and a half ago, I don't remember much from that period. We were in different classes, so we didn't talk all that much. But whenever we saw each other, we would say hi and ask how the other was doing. Since this was a year and a half ago, I don't remember much from that period. We were in different classes, so we didn't talk all that much. But whenever we saw each other, we would say hi and ask how the other was doing. A year later, by a lucky coincidence, we were transferred into the same class and started studying together. Since we hadn't talked much during that time, he had managed to make another friend. I'll call him Alex. I got to know him, and he turned out to be even friendlier than Daniel. He was very polite, and I decided that we were the perfect trio. We kept hanging out, and that was probably the golden age of our friendship. We grew really close over the span of a month or two. During that time, my friends told me about War Thunder, a game I had heard a lot about and really wanted to download. My initial attempts ended up giving my computer a virus, so I had to put it on hold. Eventually, during a computer science class, my friends helped me download War Thunder, and I was so happy. We started playing together. Another month or so passed like this. During that time, I found out that Alex and Daniel were also friends with another guy - I'll call him Ryan. I met him as well, and by then, there were four of us. On one hand, that felt great: the more friends, the better. But on the other hand, I started noticing that they were spending less time with me and interacting more among themselves. It happened gradually, though. Let me explain it step by step. I think I should mention that all of this happened in Spain. I moved there with my family, and that's where I met my friends, though now it's hard for me to call them friends; acquaintances is a more fitting word. Over the course of about two months, I started noticing that with each passing week, I was talking to them less and less, while they were interacting more and more with each other. Around that time, Daniel started moving away from War Thunder, switching to World of Tanks and then Roblox, and Alex did the same. In the end, I was left as the only one who kept playing War Thunder regularly. Even so, they would occasionally invite me to play War Thunder with them, which I really appreciated.

Later, as we began to drift further apart and talked less and less, conflicts started arising between us, almost as if on cue. I remember about three or four of them. Let me break them down. The first conflict happened around December or January. It was mainly between me and Ryan. I don't remember how it started, but it was likely because Ryan began being rude to me, and as a result, I muttered something offensive about him under my breath, and of course, he heard it. A confrontation broke out between us. We stared each other down, went forehead-to-forehead, and he even started threatening that one day he was going to beat me up and that I'd regret it. Honestly, that was pretty unlikely; not only was I bigger than him, but I was also without a doubt stronger, though I don't want to brag. It was a dumb conflict that started over nothing and ended only with empty threats and insults. For about a month, we continued being friends as before. Around that time, I even started my own personal journal. Someone ended up stealing it, though, so I started a new one. Ironically, right after that, I found my old journal, but I decided to stick with the new one anyway. Before all the journal stuff, I had a notebook where, for some reason, I used to write down the names of my friends, acquaintances, and classmates, along with everything I knew about them, even where they lived. Since we lived in a pretty small town, figuring out where everyone lived wasn't hard at all. At first, I was just doing it to kill time during class, but eventually, I noticed that my friends were really puzzled when they saw their names, especially since they couldn't read my language. They grew curious and even tried to steal the notebook from me. That's when I came up with a new purpose for it. I realized that they were starting to show interest in me again and ask questions. For me, it felt like a total lifeline, even though I knew deep down it wouldn't last, given how we were drifting apart. Still, it was a great way to capture their attention. In the end, I decided to just hand the notebook over to them and let them do whatever they wanted with it. And after that, things went back to the way they were. About a week or two after I started my personal journal, right before summer break, another conflict broke out that completely ruined my reputation. But there was actually one more conflict before that one, so let me tell you about that first.

The conflict went like this: they invited me to play War Thunder in a custom match against each other. We actually had a great time that evening. But then things took a turn. During the game, I asked the guys not to kill me because I wanted to test something out in the game. Daniel completely ignored my request, went ahead, and destroyed my vehicle anyway. That hurt my feelings, and I started speaking up about it, but Daniel brushed it off, saying it was just a game and that this was totally normal. I was upset, of course, but I quickly let it go.

Shortly after, Daniel himself asked us not to kill him because he wanted to test or do something. Naturally, I did the exact same thing to him. And of course, his reaction was double standards at their finest. He raised his voice and, in an outraged tone, claimed that I shouldn't have killed him because he had asked me not to. I pointed out that he was the one who ignored my request first and destroyed my vehicle, so I just paid him back and we were even. But then Alex stepped in, took Daniel’s side, and declared that what I did wasn't fair and was actually pretty messed up. On the surface, it might look harmless. After all, it’s just a game about destroying enemy armor. But it clearly showed that my friends valued themselves above me, and soon you'll see why that turned out so bad.

So, a few weeks later, right before summer break, the final conflict happened, the one that completely destroyed my reputation. It went like this: during PE class, we were playing sports with soft foam balls. I don't know who started throwing them first, but it was most likely Daniel. Of course, it started as fun, but it eventually turned into a real conflict. The thing is, they kept throwing the balls at me with full force, aimed right at my head. Not directly at my face, thankfully, but still. I threw them back, they threw them back at me, I threw them back again. Eventually, I was close to tears. I went to the restroom to drink some water and wash my face, then came back and asked them to stop doing it. Naturally, one of them ignored it. We kept throwing balls at each other. Finally, my nerves snapped. I walked over to Alex, holding a foam ball in my hand, and hit him on the head with it twice while saying, "I asked you to stop throwing balls." He lunged at me and put me in a headlock. Fortunately, I was in control of the situation, and we both ended up on the floor. He shouted an insult at me, right around the time the class ended, and we all headed home. I felt completely hurt and depressed. However, that evening, before going to bed, I decided to text them an apology on WhatsApp. But my friends' response shocked me. I decided to apologize to both Alex and Daniel right away, since Daniel had witnessed the whole confrontation. I wrote that I was sorry about what happened and that I shouldn't have acted that way. Alex didn't comment on my words at all, but Daniel was the first to reply. He wrote that I had done something terrible, that I should be ashamed of myself, and that I needed to reflect on my behavior and change the way I interacted with my friends. I was scared by his response and utterly bewildered at the same time, because I wasn't the one at fault here. By the way, I forgot to mention: Daniel said that after the fight, Alex went to the hospital and ended up with a fracture. But I’ll get to that later. First, about why I wasn't at fault. Let's start with the absolute basics. The truth is, I asked them to stop doing it, but they kept throwing the balls at me anyway, which is what eventually pushed me over the edge. Sure, I actually had a pretty short temper back then, and I’d even get into physical scuffles with my brother sometimes. But while my brother would forgive me and we'd move on like nothing happened, my friends clearly refused to ever admit they were in the wrong. So after that, for two or three days, I couldn't even bring myself to look at them because I felt so ashamed that Alex had gotten a fracture. Even though deep down I knew I wasn't to blame. And I want to emphasize this especially: since they ignored my requests in the first place, which is what led to this whole outcome... well, according to my friends, ignoring my request was one thing, but ignoring theirs was a completely different story. It sounded entirely absurd. Honestly, it reeked of belittling and treating me as an inferior. And for something like that, I obviously shouldn't have been apologizing. Well, after a couple of days, I finally decided to talk to Alex, and surprisingly, he forgave me, even though he was still a bit hurt. As for the fracture, he said that he had actually held a bottle wrong and dislocated his thumb because of that. But if that's true, it makes no sense why Daniel told me it was a consequence of our fight, when the real cause was completely different. Personally, I think Alex just didn't want to get into all the details and was simply trying to be polite about it, and I really appreciate that. In my opinion, he hid the full truth just to avoid causing any awkwardness or regret. But then it makes absolutely no sense why, just a few days later, he stopped listening to me altogether and started ignoring me, answering every single question I had with a brush-off. Whenever I asked if we were still friends, he would reply with just one word: "Maybe." It was obvious he was holding a grudge and had zero desire to actually talk about it. At the same time, the teachers who found out about my situation advised me to just "talk to him and figure out the root of the problem." But how on earth was I supposed to figure out the root cause when every question I asked was met with a lazy, one-word "maybe"? At the same time, Daniel refused to comment on any of it. Most likely, he had really absorbed into the drama and fully taken Alex's side. But I think I forgot to mention one more conflict that actually happened even earlier than the one in the game. Let me explain. The conflict happened around January or late December, though maybe even earlier. I don't remember the exact timeline. But it boiled down to the fact that I was once again pushed down the hierarchy in their group. It all started when Ryan injured his leg and couldn't walk, so he had to use a wheelchair. One day during a break, just for fun and messing around, he let someone tilt his wheelchair backward. I honestly don't know why, but the actual conflict wasn't about that. It happened when I tried to do the exact same thing, expecting it to be just as fun, but Ryan screamed at me to stop and shouted that he never gave me permission. I argued back: "Why do you let them do it, but not me? Am I worse than them?" On the one hand, you could argue it's his right to choose who gets permission. But shortly before that, I had actually asked my friends if our rights were equal, meaning whether there were any privileges in our group. My goal was to see if they viewed me as beneath them, if they thought they were superior to me and that I didn't truly matter in the group. Of course, the answer was a reassuring "No, no, everyone's equal." But moments like this clearly showed they were lying right to my face. And that whole wheelchair situation was just another proof that I didn't actually mean anything to them anymore. Even though they would still help me out or respond fine to everyday, practical stuff, I could see right through it: they just didn't want to actually be my friends. And it all trace back to that same pattern: they’d provoke me first and then paint me as the villain. You know the drill, right? It's the classic trap: provoke someone, play the victim, and turn the other person into the accused. Honestly, I was pretty nervous while writing this, since it's my very first post. I was worried that my friends might find out about it, especially considering how hard it is for me to keep my mouth shut sometimes. After that, things just tapered off smoothly: less and less and less. By the new school year, we had grown so distant from each other that Daniel wouldn't even look at me and avoided eye contact entirely. It hurt so much to see that he didn't even want to lay eyes on me. As for Alex, while he still interacted with me occasionally, he certainly didn't do it on purpose and often tried to avoid being anywhere near me. It was painful to watch one of my once-closest friends physically step back just to keep his distance when he noticed me walking toward him.

By the way, some of my other school acquaintances, finding out about what happened, even tried to help by gently hinting to my friends that we should patch things up. But of course, that didn't lead anywhere. One day, a teacher noticed something was wrong and even decided to talk to Daniel about it. I didn't get to hear their conversation, but at one point I looked over and could clearly see Daniel casting me as the villain, making it look like I had done something terrible and was entirely at fault, implying that it was no wonder they didn't want to be friends with me anymore. The teacher later confirmed that to me. Yet, despite all of that, when Ryan saw me writing in my personal journal, he still showed some curiosity, and I have to admit, I kind of liked that bit of attention, despite everything that had happened in the past.

Still, I kept trying to get close to them, occasionally chatting with them, but I could clearly see they had no desire to interact with me. One made it blatantly obvious he disliked me, while another didn't give a damn about anything that was happening.

To sum it all up: it started so well, but ended in a total failure, exactly as I described at the very beginning. A failed friendship. Of course, there will be people who side with my ex-friends, arguing that I was actually at fault or that it was simply their right to choose whether to be my friend or not. And on some level, I agree with that. It's up to them whether they want to be friends with me, but why lie to my face? Just say it directly. Yes, it will hurt, but as the saying goes, the bitter truth is better than a sweet lie. Even if you were to overlook and justify everything that happened before, this last part, their blatant lies, is completely unjustifiable.

In any case, if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading. I've always strived to be noticed, and honestly, there have been very few moments in my life where I was acknowledged as being in the right. Even my own parents refused to admit when they were wrong. Thank you all, and goodbye.

Thank you to everyone who read all the way through. To be honest, I've always wanted to be noticed and to have my truth recognized, because in reality, even my own parents rarely acknowledged it when I was obviously right. It would mean the world to me if there are people out there who support me.

As for my now former friends, if they ever read this, I honestly don't care, because I simply wrote things as they were. Of course, our perspectives might differ if they ever decide to share their side, but the truth is the truth. And truthfully, I don't wish them any ill. I would actually love for everything to go back to the way it used to be. After being so deeply attached to them for a year and a half, I can't just go out, make new friends, and throw all of this away like changing a pair of gloves.

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon at Hong Kong Palace.

Marcus had finished helping Yuki and Kenji clean up after the lunch rush. He was standing near the front counter when Yuki walked over and grabbed her keys.

Yuki: “You two ready?”

Marcus looked confused.

Marcus: “Ready for what?”

Kenji immediately knew what she meant.

Kenji: “Mom wants to go for a drive.”

Marcus glanced outside.

Parked in front of the restaurant was Yuki's 2019 Lexus RX 350, looking freshly washed in the afternoon sunlight.

Marcus: “Oh. We're taking the Lexus?”

Yuki: “Yes. I need to go get something. You boys can come with me.”

Kenji grabbed his jacket.

Kenji: “I'm driving.”

Yuki gave him a look.

Yuki: “No.”

Kenji: “I didn't even ask yet.”

Yuki: “I know you.”

Marcus laughed.

Marcus: “She's got you figured out.”

A few minutes later, the three of them climbed into the Lexus. Yuki got behind the wheel, Kenji sat in the front passenger seat, and Marcus climbed into the back.

The RX 350 started smoothly.

Marcus immediately noticed how quiet it was.

Marcus: “This thing is ridiculously quiet.”

Kenji nodded.

Kenji: “That's a Lexus.”

Yuki pulled out of the parking lot.

Yuki: “And nobody is arguing in my car.”

Marcus looked at Kenji.

Kenji looked at Marcus.

They both nodded.

Marcus: “Understood.”

They drove down the road with the radio playing softly. Yuki seemed completely relaxed, one hand on the steering wheel while she casually talked with Kenji about the restaurant.

Marcus looked out the window, enjoying the scenery.

After a few minutes, Kenji turned around.

Kenji: “Marcus, you good back there?”

Marcus: “Yeah. I'm just enjoying the ride.”

Yuki glanced at him through the mirror.

Yuki: “You like the Lexus?”

Marcus: “Yeah. A lot. It's comfortable.”

Yuki: “Good.”

Marcus leaned back into the seat.

Marcus: “Honestly, I could fall asleep back here.”

Kenji laughed.

Kenji: “Don't fall asleep. Mom will think we're boring.”

Yuki smiled.

Yuki: “I already think you're both boring.”

Marcus: “Damn.”

Kenji started laughing.

Kenji: “She got us!”

Yuki continued driving while Marcus and Kenji joked around in the car.

Eventually, they stopped at a shopping center. Yuki parked the Lexus and turned the engine off.

She looked back at Marcus.

Yuki: “Come on. We're getting something to eat.”

Marcus smiled.

Marcus: “Now that's why I came.”

Kenji opened his door.

Kenji: “He heard food and suddenly became interested.”

Marcus stepped out.

Marcus: “I was interested the whole time.”

Yuki shook her head and laughed as she locked the Lexus.

The three of them walked toward the stores together, with the RX 350 sitting behind them in the parking lot.

For Marcus, it had turned into one of those unexpectedly nice afternoons—just riding around with Yuki and Kenji, listening to music, joking around, and getting something to eat.

And for once, nobody at Hong Kong Palace was arguing about anything.

At least not yet.

When the sun sets, and black begins to spread across the sky as if one spilled ink…the shades of blue… orange…pink…seeping over the horizon…leaving us in pleasant pitch softly illuminated By the lunar hues

I find myself more at ease, the time of subtle existence where time is mine…where its my decision to connect the constellations as i see fit…picking my stars by hand…and doing with them as i please

I find the solace of night a comfort, a simple quiet…one free of dread…without expectation…a peaceful brew of remedies as my gaze traces the cracks in my ceiling…spending my time filling the black with voices…be it my own or others…a quaint conversation in a quiet night

As the hours pass…i look to the window…seeing the sun…making its prevalent presence known once more in the distance…the pleasant black turning to dreadful blue…twilight…taking place….while pitch faintly remains looming over…the temptress makes herself known….coating me like blanket…but my eyes grow heavy under her weight….resting her arms round my shoulder as she guides me to my resting place….a sultry and tender voice as she murmurs to me….”go to bed….rest now….find comfort in the confines of my reach….let slumber take” as my vision begins to fade…i find myself in void…yet another pleasant pitch

Preface, i have people give me 3 words and use them to make a poem/story, in this case, it was "go to bed" lol, andbi took that personally

Theres….a peace and pestilence to stagnation…making it quaint to stay put, yet not without the feeling of restlessness we swallow each day as if they were pills of iron…all out of fear…for the last it occurred…however many more grains of sand fell through the hourglass, instead of the lesson…we only remember the pain it brought…refusing to acknowledge the teachings it's offered like the stubborn squire to a wise teacher as we insist…”i can do it myself, i don't need your help”

The sound of peace echoing through our room…becoming like second nature as we grow quiet….reclused and distance ourselves from the reality we yearn so desperately to escape…when we only must adapt….

I remember…i remember being shunned for my failures as a boy….perhaps thats why i tend to avoid it like the plague…i wish I'd had someone…better….someone with a bittersweet voice who'd have whispered and told me….”today's failure is tomorrow's success….you tried…you failed…and you will learn…there is virtue in that child”

But…instead…i had to learn, that sometimes….you must be that person…even when its so much easier not to be…sometimes you need it more than you know….so i say….don't ignore the teachings of father time, he has been…and always will be….such wisdom cannot be left to lie so carelessly…its time to pick whats right…not whats easy :)

So now then I had asked what are we so she said Best Friends.... Now when we are so close best friend (maybe for my side) she start ghosting me...and talking to another guy... she stops talking to me As same as what she had done with her old friend... Moral of the Story: Do not believe in any girl Every girl is a Bit8h... I have more to say but I do not know where to start or end just a summery and the girl was so sweet I like her but just a friend... And I will be happy for her if she get a bf or be in relation but it does not mean you cutoff with me

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.

an embarrassing story? drunk? funny? scary? scandalous? let me know hehe.

Erin, my eleven-year-old daughter was acting like a big goofball. We were playing dominoes at the dinner table and her giggles were so uncontrollable she could barely breathe.

 

I was trying to get my life back together and reconnect with her, so I had rented this cabin up in northern Minnesota. It was advertised to be on a lake, but it turned out to be more of a swamp, which I guess is why it was so cheap.

I gave a pronounced yawn and told Erin it was time to hit the hay.

 

“One more round, Dad. Pleeeeeeez,” she said.

 

That’s when we heard the driveway gravel crackle under an approaching car. Erin’s laughter tapered off as she noticed headlights roll across the wood paneled ceiling.

 

“Who could that be?” She tried giggling again but the mood had changed. “Dad?” Her eyes grew wider, searching for her father to reassure her.

 

“It’s fine. Probably just lost,” I said. But something felt wrong. This was the only cabin around for at least a couple of miles. I stood up and touched my jean pocket where my phone should be. A sad reflex instinctively made in moments of anxiety. But of course, it wasn’t in my pocket. Erin, already sly to my tactics, made me promise to leave it in the car, so I had slipped it inside a sock and locked it away in the trunk.

Also in the trunk: my handgun.

 

“Maybe it’s Mom,” Erin said.

 

“Stay there.” I tried to peek out the window but all I could see was my silky reflection as the ceiling color turned parking-light red.

 

I watched my image stretch across the old tube TV screen as I moved to the entry. The acrid taste of lighter fluid and hotdogs stuck in my throat. I couldn’t even get the damn charcoal burning, and we’d ended up microwaving the s’mores.

 

My senses were on full alert. I put my ear against the door. Something was telling me to keep it shut and not acknowledge whoever was outside. I heard a car door swing open. A mechanical dinging mingled with the crickets and toads. A foot crunched the gravel, then the other, and then the machine noises from the car ceased as the door shut. The steps were casual and unhurried moving toward the rental cabin.

 

I checked the door handle. It was unlocked. Why wouldn’t it be? I looked back at Erin. She was sitting perched on the chair with her knees at her chin. I reached for the bolt lock and turned it as quietly as possible. I looked back again and tried to reassure Erin with a queasy smile.

 

Knocks cut through the cabin in rapid succession. They had an arrhythmic, polite nature to them.

 

“Daniel? Daniel Melody? I know you’re in there,” a forceful woman’s voice said. Certainly not Erin’s mother. The voice was older, prim and curt, harkening an old-fashioned school teacher, the kind who slapped knuckles with a ruler. I felt like a child in trouble. And she knew my name.

 

My mouth was so dry nothing came out when I first opened it. She knocked again, more persistent this time.

 

“Daniel. It’s very important we talk. Please open up.”

 

I cleared my throat. “Who’s there?”

 

“My name is Jane Pendergrass. You know my son, Timothy.”

 

“I’m… sorry, I don’t know a Timothy.”

 

“Oh yes you do. Timmy… Timmy knows you.”

 

“Timmy? I—”

 

“Yes, you must. It’s Jane, his mother. I’ve since taken on my maiden name. But James, Timothy James. I’d pick him up from sleepovers at your parents because of his panic attacks. Remember Mrs. James? I’m his mother. May I come in now?”

 

My brain did an Indy 500 down memory lane and slammed into the white brick walls of North Star Elementary. In second grade Timmy had arrived a month after school started. At recess he approached me and told obvious lies about how rich his dad was. I liked how fast Timmy talked. That day, we made up a game called Fire Square, a combination of dodgeball and foursquare that the recess monitors did not appreciate one bit.

 

“Tim Jim? Ms. Trickey’s class?” I muttered. My vision was pulsating, making the chrome doorknob shimmer. My ears burned. It was just too much to contemplate.

 

“Yes, that’s correct.”

 

 “Mrs. James? But how…”

 

“Daniel, I’ve driven a long way and I have a dreadful fear of moths. Could you please let me in?”

 

I watched my hand unlatch the bronze bolt lock I’d latched moments ago and open swung the door. There stood a woman in her mid-sixties wearing a black-laced bonnet, impressing hints of puritanical strength. Her presence made me want to run to my car – for which item – I wasn’t sure. The floodlight above the door cast an austere shadow over the woman’s face while little bugs swam above her head. It was indeed Timmy’s mother: older, but still solidly built.

 

“Moths are attracted to fear.” She entered and embraced me like a lost-and-then-found child, slamming the door shut behind her with a flick of her foot. Her hands slid up my back and squished me into her ample bosom. I, unsure of what the hell was going on, brought my hand up and patted her on the back.

 

She didn’t let go. She kept me in her embrace and rocked side to side. Her face rested against my ear and I heard her breathe in the cedary mildew of the rental cabin. “Lovely,” she whispered. Her words tumbled down my neck, making my knotted muscle vibrate. Finally, she released me and then smiled at Erin, who was still perched on a chair with knees inside of her Dr. Who nightie. “Yours?” she asked me.

 

“How did you… er, I’m sorry, yes, I’m just a little confused. Erin this is Mrs. James. She was like my second mother in elementary school.” I watched as Jane Pendergrass rubbed her sneakers against the welcome mat like a bull. She seemed healthy enough but there was errant cord of snot under her nose that made me involuntarily pinch my own nostrils.

 

Why are you here? I kept thinking, but those words redirected to other thoughts. I remembered the news about Timmy. Years ago someone had posted from his account that he had died. I remember it elicited nothing more than a that’s sad before scrolling on. I hadn’t talked to him in like twenty years except for that awkward chat you have after an old elementary friend finds you on one of the apps. “I heard about Timmy. How are you?”

 

She closed her eyes gently and shook her head. “Thank you, dear. I’m doing okay. Time has shown me things.”

 

“Come in.” I opened my arm, obliged by decorum, directing her to the kitchen table. It was strange how good manners seemed to eclipse all the alarm bells ringing in my head. It felt like there was white noise in my brain. Was it just the bizarreness of the situation?

 

“Hello, Erin. My name is Jane Pendergrass.” She glid past me toward my daughter. Her rank potpourri wafted into my nose, like flowers at a funeral home. “And I have a very good reason for breaking up your little party. My son Timothy and your father were great friends in elementary, before we had to go away.” She looked back at me with a knowing glance. “Has he contacted you lately, Daniel?”

 

I cocked my eyebrow and tapped at my pocket. “We were just playing dominoes. Is everything okay? I’m sorry, were you trying to get a hold of me? I don’t have my phone. I left it—”

 

“Oh, Mexican Train!” Jane Pendergrass exclaimed. She put her fists on her hips, taking account of the messy table. “Name’s a tad racist, don’t you think? But that’s what people call it. Let’s play a round. We must.”

 

Jane plopped down next to Erin, right where I had been sitting.

 

“Well, it’s getting pretty late,” I said.

 

“Nonsense. One quick round. My son hasn’t supplied me with any grandchildren. Don’t you deprive me of that pleasure too.” She began to flip the dominoes face down and looked at Erin. “You don’t mind, do you?”

 

Erin shook her head. She seemed confused, but no longer afraid. Plus, whatever it was that was going on allowed her to stay up later, so she started to help flip over the tiles too. Jane Pendergrass pointed to the chair opposite her and then I was sitting there.

 

“What a blessing you must be. So beautiful.” Jane grabbed Erin’s chin with her thumb and forefinger, inspecting her. “Let’s be famous friends, you and I dear.”

 

“Okay,” Erin said. Her smile became less sure at the force of Jane’s two fingers holding her face in place.

 

“Mrs. James,” I interjected.

 

“Pendergrass.”

 

“Sorry. Is everything okay? We were just about to—”

 

Jane Pendergrass finally dropped her hand from Erin’s chin and with snake-like speed, grabbed Erin’s wrist. My mouth dropped open, half impressed, half frightened at the force of her movement.

 

“Could I trouble you, Erin?” Jane made tiny, fluttering blinks. “Do you have any diet coke?”

There was a brief pause as Erin waited for me say something, but again, my voice failed me as my mind churned for the right words.

 

“Uh, I think I saw one,” Erin said.

 

“Wonderful, that’s a good child.”

 

Erin kept her eyes on me as she made to the fridge, rubbing her wrist.

 

“So, what do we owe the pleasure, Mrs. James?” I tried again. A dark sensation tickled at the base of my heart as I spoke, a question: would I truly have the physical strength to overcome this woman, if need be? Something about her presence made me feel weak. “This is just very bizarre. No offense.”

 

“Pendergrass, not James.” Her grey eyes flashed and she lowered her tone. “And you’ve cracked the case. I’m not here to just play dominoes.”

 

I looked at Jane Pendergrass through the centerpiece bouquet of dried bulrushes and pussy willow stalks.

 

Erin moseyed back and set down the can of diet coke. Jane tut-tutted while letting out an enormous, tired sigh. “I’m so sorry, dear. I really can’t without ice. You do have some, don’t you?”

 

“We didn’t bring any,” I said.

 

“I saw a tray.” Erin then went back to the old bisque Frigidaire.

 

Jane faced me and sandwiched her hands around mine. Her touch was hot against my cold fingers.

 

“How have you been, Daniel? It’s been so long.”

 

“I’ve been—” I coughed and watched my daughter grab a glass and clink some cubes into it. Anything that kept my gaze from the woman sitting across from me. “Good. I’ve been well. But just how… how did you know where—”

 

“How did I find you?” Jane Pendergrass said as Erin set the glass of ice down. She smiled politely and shooed Erin to her seat with a friendly hand motion. She cracked open the diet coke and poured it into the cup with a sizzle. She tipped her head back and gulped and gulped… and gulped, until it was all gone. “Ahhh… much better.” She hiccupped then opened her mouth. Nothing happened. I waited and was just about to ask if she was okay, but just before I did, she let out a long, hissing burp. She excused herself and dabbed at her mouth with a ketchup-stained napkin from the table. I noticed again, that red tendril from her nose, clinging to her wet upper lip, damp and glistening. “Timothy led me to you, Daniel.”

 

Me and Timmy were pretty much inseparable after he arrived in second grade up until fourth grade when didn’t invite me to his birthday party. Then he abruptly moved away not long after.

 

“Timothy?” I whispered.

 

“Timothy.”

 

“Led you… to me?”

 

“Correct.”

 

A harsh ringing in my left ear flooded in. I could feel the change of pressure in the room. This woman was not sane and I had let her in. “Erin, I think it’s actually bedtime,” I said. But when I turned to look at my daughter she was already asleep, mouth agape, face on the table, with Jane Pendergrass petting her hand.

 

“Such a beautiful girl,” she said. “I didn’t realize the time. She shouldn’t be up at this hour.”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“She’s sleeping.” Jane Pendergrass conjured up a vaporous smile and her eyes misted over, like she was gazing at someone out beyond the marshy swamp. I found myself staring at that thing in her nostril. It looked like the start of a bloody nose, an anxious and incomplete drip. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was alive, like a mealworm trying to burrow further in.

 

Jane started to mix the dominoes around on the table, clacking them together. She had red nails and several gaudy rings, the kind aggressive vendors near Florida retirement communities would sell on the beach.

 

“Fifteen,” she said.

 

“Fifteen?”

 

“Fifteen dominoes, Daniel. Don’t let me see them.”

 

I took fifteen dominoes from the table, paused, then shook my head; the absurdity of her visit kept coming in waves, and it had just washed over me again.

 

“I don’t know how you found me but—”

 

“It was Timothy, Daniel.” She knocked the table twice with an amethyst ring. “He told me exactly where I could find you. Or guided me, rather. Oh look, I have the double twelve. I go first.” She laid the domino gently on the mottled wood. “And can you believe it? I don’t have another twelve to satisfy it. I’ll have to draw one from the boneyard. I love that term. So spooky.” She rubbed her hands together. “Do you know why they call it the boneyard?”

 

“Because they used to make dominoes from bones,” I said.

 

Jane clicked her tongue, impressed with my answer, and drew a domino from the boneyard. She squinted at it and smiled. “My lucky day.” She dragged the domino over the pine tabletop and snapped it down. “Let’s make a bet,” she said as that toothy smile spread across her face.

 

“What?”

 

“A wager, Daniel.” She leaned in and looked long into my eyes — I shifted in my seat and did what I could to hold her gaze — her voice was low. “I’m tired Daniel. I’m ready to go.” She then perked up, lifting me from her trance. “So if you win, I will give you my inheritance.”

 

I choked on my own spit. “What?”

 

“You remember Mr. James, my Husband Hank? He passed and left me with a decent amount. Run over by a Wal-Mart semi. True to my blue, even after the enhancement, there’s still over six million.” She raised her palm and put her other hand over her heart.

 

“Come on.” I nervously laughed. Six million. Timmy was never well off. Even to a seven-year-old, it didn’t take long to discover Timmy’s dad wasn’t rich at all, contrary to his bragging. Timmy would always come over to play my videogames, making up some story about how his system was getting repaired or something.

 

“Just one round of Mexican Train, if you win. If you help,” Jane Pendergrass said.

 

“Help?”

 

“Well, I’ll need help with the dying. Your help.”

 

“Wh— this is ridiculous.” I didn’t like what she was getting at.

 

Jane Pendergrass rapped her red nails against the table, waiting for me to reply.

 

“I… I don’t gamble.” I pinched the top of my nose; I’m told I do that when I lie. “No. In fact, I think it’s time you—”

 

“Live a little.” The intensity of Jane Pendergrass’s gaze lightened and added a bit a mischief. “I’m a sucker for video poker. Just the nickel ones. For a while after Hank passed, I couldn’t seem to find much to do with myself but chip away at the settlement money while searching for Timothy’s…” She lifted her head as if fondly recalling a good moment. “It’s funny how handsome boys just like you can sniff out desperate rich women at casinos. Oh don’t worry, I can handle myself, and I can still have fun.” She winked, long and pronounced. I blushed.

 

“I’m sorry to hear about Mr. James,” I said, as a reflex. But my mind was still on the offer, the six million. What was she after? I touched my pocket.

 

“Oh don’t be. Henry loved his vodka. Never crossed the line, but he rode it all the way.” She shared a tart smile with me. “Daniel, don’t you want to know what happens if you lose the wager?”

 

A part of me, a crass part, wanted to talk turkey, the logistics of how a bet like this would even work, but even acknowledging it… it was unacceptable.

 

“I don’t like this bet,” I said in a dry rasp. I started to feel a burst of rage come over me. Was I being tricked? “Is this why you came here? Why don’t you go find one of those boys at the casino to help you. I’m sorry about Timmy. I’m sorry about everything, but—”

 

“If you lose, Daniel,” Jane Pendergrass’s voice cut in, cold as steel, “let’s just say Timothy needs a friend and someone is going to join him tonight.” I thought I caught her eyes dart to my daughter.

 

My mouth fell agape. “Wha-what did you say?”

 

“And I’ll be getting that gun hiding in your trunk. That part is non-negotiable.”

 

I felt the color leave my body all the way to my feet. The sweat between my toes was slick as wet fur. I looked at the microwave. Time melted. I felt dizzy.

 

“How do you…” I croaked out in a dry rasp. My mind was hopping from one option to another. How? How? As logical answers became more and more farfetched, my anger increased. “You been following me?”

 

“You are your father’s child.” She gave me a pitying look. “So explosive, even back then. I was shocked the first time I witnessed it. You’d never expect it, you always seemed such a mellow boy. I’m not saying you were bad. Far from it, dear. But I remember one summer night Timothy came biking home crying. Said you kicked him out of your house for drinking the last of your milk. Are you still oddly possessive over silly things? I hope not.”

 

“Timmy,” I muttered to myself. I didn’t recall that specific event, but I have always been protective of my stuff. Her story was probably true. Some version of it. The more I had become aware Timmy didn’t have as much as me, the stingier I got.

 

Jane played another domino. She looked at me again. “He joined the Marines after high school, did you know? Thought it would do him good. You know how boys are.”

 

I thought back to Timmy’s pale, freckled face, always striving to fit in, failing to contain all that mischief. “Discipline,” I mumbled as an afterthought with a bad taste.

 

“He joined back in what, ’05? Sent him straight to Afghanistan. He still speaks kindly of you.”

 

I frowned and shut my eyes. Not looking at her made it easier to think. “Mrs. Ja— Pendergrass, what do you mean still?”

 

“And we missed you at the funeral, dear.”

 

“I… I didn’t know until after.” I pinched at my nose again.

 

I opened my eyes again. That vein dangling from her nostril, she was stroking it. Then as if noticing me, the tendril recoiled. Jane Pendergrass quivered; her eyes rolled up, revealing the whites lined with blood-red lightning and dark splotches.

 

“I hear your feelings, Daniel. You’re angry, but not at me.” Her eyes lifted to mine. “Dr. Chen says it’s just another muscle. How I talk to Timothy. The more I use it, the more it will grow.” She tilted her head back and massaged her nose. She let out a soft moan. “There it is.”

 

The tendon from her nose reemerged, more pronounced, dark, red, damp. It looked like a thin root pulled from the garden – tiny little capillaries branching from it, almost breathing.

 

I struggled against my chair. It felt like if I didn’t hold onto it I would float away. I just wanted her gone. “I think… I think maybe you should leave,” I croaked.

 

“Help me, Daniel.” Jane Pendergrass stroked at the tendril, straightening it. After each stroke, it curled back.

 

“Please, Mrs. Pendergrass. Please just—”

 

“You want assurances about the money, but you’re afraid to ask. Too uncouth to talk about such matters. You want to know if it would be murder. You want to know if it would be worth the risk.”

 

I brought my hand to my face. I don’t know if I was trying to hide my vision or repress a scream. “Why would you want…” I couldn’t finish the thought.

 

“I’ll show you my bank account. I assure you, I’m not in debt. I don’t owe the mob or anything like that. We’re going to get that gun back. I’ll hold it but I’ll let you do it. I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

 

I closed my eyes and thought about my own credit card debt. I thought about the child support payments crippling me from ever getting ahead. I thought about that shitty family lawyer I was still making payments to. I thought about the promise I’d made to Erin, that I’d take her to Disney World. Was she even into Disney anymore?

 

“Why? Why me?” I whispered.

 

“Timothy insisted. It’s fate, Daniel. Quite funny actually.” She waved her hands in front of her face, as if to lift a haze from the air. It was odd. I felt much more at ease after she did that. Jane Pendergrass quietly set down another Domino down and talked without looking up. “He’s not mad at you, you know.”

 

“Mad? At me? Timmy? You’re the ones who disappeared.”

 

She looked at me with such an overly sympathetic look, I felt embarrassed. “Oh my sweet, sweet dear. They never told…”

 

“What?” I sneered.

 

“Your son-of-a-bitch parents.” Jane showed her copious white teeth.

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“You don’t know why we moved. Why they took my Timothy.”

 

“Who took Timmy?”

 

“The billionaire pedophiles. The government. The leaches that prey on the poor.”

 

“You left in the middle of fourth grade…” I said. I racked my brain for a memory.

 

Jane cupped my hands. Her thumbs pressed into my palms, the tips of her chipped red nails digging into my flesh.

 

“My husband Henry. Sweet, stupid Henry. Always borrowing money. Entrepreneur ‘til the end. Believed his best ideas were written on a bar napkin. Problem was he always seemed to lose the napkin. When we lived in Gardendale it was a telescope shop of all things. Remember it? It didn’t pan out. Nothing ever did… and your father kicked us out.”

 

“What do you mean he kicked you out? What’s my father got to do with it?”

 

“I suppose you were young. Why would he tell you? We were renting from your father, Daniel. It was your parents’ property we lived on. It was the middle of the school year. Tough finding a place with an eviction on your record. I remember your mother specifically telling Hank how she thought a telescope shop was a wonderful idea. But she was silent when we begged your father for one more month. For the sake of our children’s friendship. I’m sure you know your father better than I. How he responded. You can guess. Everything kind of spiraled after that. Not long after we lost Timothy to foster care… for nine long months. Fought like hell to get him back. Once you’re in that system…” She shook her head.

 

“I…” I reached for my absent phone. This was all news to me. I knew my parents owned some townhomes but I didn’t know Timmy lived in one. 

 

“We really liked that school. What was it? Northview?”

 

“North Star.”

 

“That’s it. We had already moved twice before, but Timothy was younger then. We were finally starting to plant some roots in Gardendale. Getting forced to relocate changed my son. I know it did. He had trust issues after that. Got bullied. We ended up in Detroit. A school so poor they had no soap in the bathrooms. It was prison or the military they told him, right out. Vultures. They took him. First his mind. Then…” Jane Pendergrass squeezed her eyes shut and dug her nails deeper into my palms. It hurt but I didn’t say anything. “In a way, it was your father who sentenced my Timmy to his death. Oh goodness. Didn’t you ever wonder why you weren’t invited to his birthday?”

 

I remembered sitting in the backseat of my dad’s van, the van with the ram’s head hood-ornament with eyes that glowed red. I was nine and going to the orchestra with my parents. But I didn’t like the orchestra. I was sobbing, even though I didn’t feel like crying a few moments ago; it had just flowed out of me when I had asked why. Why couldn’t I go to the birthday sleepover at Timmy’s house?

 

“I remember.”

 

“He doesn’t blame you anymore. For any of it.”

 

“I didn’t know,” I whispered. I looked at Erin breathing peacefully.

 

“As far as I’m concerned, your father is the reason Timothy…” Jane Pendergrass’s nails went even deeper into my palms then stopped and began massaging the indents she had made. “But that’s not what Timothy would want. I can see why they wouldn’t tell you. You need to protect your children. How old is she?” She pointed to Erin with her eyes.

 

“She’s… she’s eleven.”

 

“Cherish it. It goes by.” She raised her eyebrows.

 

“I know. I will. I do.”

 

“Promise me. Even the bad.” Her face grew so solemn I felt threatened by it.

 

“I will.” I pulled my hands from hers and touched my nose. It began to itch where Jane had been pressing my palms.

 

“Look at me… in the eye.”

 

I struggled to look at Jane Pendergrass. Staring into her eyes felt like drowning in mud. The tripe from her nose swayed slowly, grasping at air.

 

“Cherish it,” she said. “Especially the difficult moments. Those stay with you longer.”

 

“I will,” I whispered, tears filling up in my eyes.

 

“No!” She pounded the table, knocking over some dominoes. Erin’s slumber barely stirred.

 

“Please… you’re going to scare my daughter… please.” I tried to be firm but I felt nothing but feeble before this woman.

 

She wagged a violent finger at me. “You don’t know how to cherish. You don’t know the meaning. Not until you lose someone. Not until someone is taken from you.”

 

“Please…” I begged.

 

Jane Pendergrass untightened her fist and straightened her stiff white collar. “Say her name, Daniel.”

 

“Erin.”

 

“What do you cherish about Erin?”

 

I let out a strained breath. I looked at the table and straightened a domino. “She’s… smart,” I said.

 

“Smart?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And you cherish that?”

 

“Yeah.” My voice quavered.

 

“Do you live for her, or for yourself?”

 

“W-what?”

 

“It’s not a trick question, Daniel.”

 

“I-I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Well, I suppose that’s enough of an answer.”

 

“No, no… I do.” I said, afraid of giving the wrong answer. Jane Pendergrass seemed to grow larger in her seat.

 

“Wrong. You must live for yourself.” Jane started to fan herself with her hand, lifting her chin, revealing deep creases in her neck. “Muggy. Is there any more of that soda-pop in the fridge? Oh never mind. Look at me, Daniel. On the airplanes, they say put the oxygen mask on yourself before you put them on your children. It’s because if you can’t breathe you can’t help them.”

 

She lifted her cup and slid the ice-slurry into the chasm between her caked lips and crunched on a soft piece of ice. “I lived my life for my Timothy. When he left us… when…” She tilted her head back and put the seeping glass on her neck. “I lived my life for my two men. My boys. Better and worse. What was left for me? What to live for…”

 

I felt my adam’s apple drop into my chest as I swallowed. Jane nodded. I gained a fleeting moment of resoluteness about wrapping up this surreal session. But as soon as I looked at Jane’s face I felt my resolve deflate like air out of a balloon. She had her own gravity and I couldn’t help but get pulled back into it.

 

“I’m glad you spend time with your daughter. Timothy used to share so much with me when he was little. It’s important, especially for daughters, to have that trust, to share,” she said. “You aren’t with the mother?” I shook my head and Jane Pendergrass sighed. “It’s an all-too-common tragedy. I used to blame the feminists, really. I felt all this pressure on me, as if I was the bad guy just for wanting to stay home and take care of my family, like I wasn’t a real woman if I didn’t go and get a job. Now, I see what they were getting at. It wasn’t my life I was living. Modern men. You’re so empty inside. Purposeless. That’s the problem. I was feeding two hollow men. Still am, I suppose.” She chuckled at some kind of sick joke. “How often do you see her?”

 

“Every w—” my nose tickled, “every other weekend.” The drawn-out court proceedings. The accusations Erin’s mother had made against me… I don’t know if I will ever forgive. Drug dealer. Addict. I beat all the piss tests and social workers the court threw at me, out of love for my daughter or spite for her mother, I’m still not sure. I’ve kept this damn job at the Post Office. “I wish it was more,” I whispered.

 

“Do you? You don’t miss your carefree good ol’ days?” Jane Pendergrass stared at me, scanning my face for any betrayal. Eventually, finally, she eased her gaze, seemingly satisfied. I let out a breath of relief, believing I somehow passed an unknown test.

 

“Timothy and I used to sit around the table before Henry came home and talk and snack. Blue chips and salsa. That was his favorite. Of course, he never ate his dinner and that always upset Henry. I remember when Timothy told me about that time at recess with the frog.”

 

“Frog?”

 

“Or toad, doesn’t matter.”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

“Oh, of course you do. It was you and Timothy, and Clayton Hull and that Albert boy.”

 

“Oh…”

 

“It was when they were redoing the playground, so there was that big mound of dirt that no one was supposed to play on. Of course, try telling that to a group of third grade boys. He said you found a really large toad. I’m sure Timothy was exaggerating, but he said it was bigger than a bagel. Isn’t that funny? He said bagel. And that Albert boy. He told me Albert kept running to the top of the dirt hill and tossing that toad as high into the sky as he could. And you boys would go find it. And no matter how high he tossed it, and how hard it splatted, that frog didn’t die. Timothy said it was you who put a stop to it. And I told him, that Daniel Melody sounds like a nice boy. And here I am talking to you, all these years later. And you still seem like a nice boy.”

 

I had no recollection of that story. I looked at Jane Pendergrass. Her mascara was smudged into damp chunks under her eyes.

 

“What are you doing here, Mrs. Pendergrass?”

 

She diminished in size before my eyes, pinching at her forehead before regaining composure.

 

“I came here… I’ve been so angry. I just wanted to see. Timothy said he wasn’t mad at you. He told me not to be mad. They said the Marines would do him good. Straighten him out. What they don’t like to admit is that these kids already want to die before they enlist. You have to be, right? That’s why it’s such a problem.” She flicked at a domino, spinning it. “Most men, when they’re committed to it, they take their lives with a bullet to the head.” She pressed her forefinger to her temple. “But with military men, it’s different…” She made a fist and tapped at her chest. “Right here. Do you know why that is? Why the heart?” She looked at me.

 

I shook my head. I mouthed no but no sound escaped.

 

“It’s where they want it to stop hurting.”

 

All this information sloshed around between my ears. I wasn’t sure if I should pity or fear the woman sitting before me.

 

“That’s how he…” I said.

 

She nodded quietly. “I’m afraid so, dear.” Jane Pendergrass lifted her head and looked around the cabin as if waking from a dream and let out a laugh. Her chuckle was a tomb. “Oh me oh my. Me oh my. I suppose you’re wondering what’s this all got to do with you.”

 

“Well…” I said.

 

“I already told you. I want his gun back.”

 

“His gun?” I coughed over my words.

 

“Sig 9mm. The one you got from your old associate Nick Glover, who bought it at a police auction about six years ago. The very one that’s in your car right now.”

 

“How do you—”

 

“You know, when Timothy told me that you had it, I couldn’t believe it. I thought, what a world this is, that you, his old friend should come upon it. I’ve been on a bit of goose hunt. First they said it was evidence. I don’t want to bore you, but imagine the bureaucracy I had to go through just to retrieve my son’s own gun. And once I finally was granted – granted – permission to receive my son’s sidearm, they told me there was a mix-up, that it was sold off in an auction.”

 

We sat there. After a long, long silence, Jane Pendergrass determined that since she had knocked over some of her dominoes, I could have cheated, so she declared the game a draw.

 

We walked to my Civic without making a sound. The gravel underfoot, the pasty stars, the full force crickets, the warm boggy smell, I absorbed it all. I opened the trunk. Buried underneath the sock with my cell phone was my gun. But I guess it wasn’t my gun. I picked it up, feeling oddly betrayed by it.

 

After a moment, I handed it over to Jane Pendergrass.

 

“It’s not loaded. Not ever,” I said.

 

That’s the truth. Never once had I put a bullet in it. Even when Erin’s mother found our little girl playing with it after I had forgotten to put it away properly. Not like that mattered. She took Erin and divorced me right after.

 

Jane Pendergrass cupped the semi-auto in both hands like was an injured bird and gauged its weight. She said something so softly a nearby croak of a toad overshadowed her voice. Her face was heavy and lit only from the inside lights of the rental cabin, where my daughter slept.

 

I stared straight up into the sky. I had never felt so alone.

 

“You weren’t serious… you shouldn’t,” I said.

 

“I’ve been planning on it… for a long time. I just wanted his gun to do it. Needed it. I wanted to teach my Timothy a lesson I was so upset. Spite this awful world and the people in it who made it this way. Spite people like your father. Perhaps you.”

 

I noticed she was struggling with the clip of the gun.

 

“I became obsessed with getting it back. It turned out my quest to recover this awful thing ended up giving my life meaning. After Hank, I felt a new spark, the kind of freedom only an avalanche of insurance money could offer. And then I started to hear him. Timothy. A whisper tickling at my heart. Dr. Chen helped me amplify his voice. But it was a cruel joke, Daniel. All I wanted was to hear him again. Comfort him. But now that I can hear him clearly, all he tells me is how alone he is. And there’s nothing I can do to comfort him.”

 

It was a bullet. She had put a bullet into the clip.

 

“So I told him I’d find his gun, and that I’d come for him. Because I’m a woman who continues to live for empty men, fills the holes in their hearts.” She sighed and spoke to the gun. “But I’m afraid to do it, Timothy. Afraid.”

 

Her eyes were black.

 

“Are you ready, Daniel?”

I’m going to kill you, my Double shouts.

I’m running along the centrifuge. He’s only a few meters behind me. An axe is gripped firmly in his hands. It would be something to see him swinging it around like a madman, smashing it into ventilation and cooling systems. But I guess I’m not that lucky.

You can’t run forever, idiot, he says.

Everything out here is about the job. It’s always the job. Job. Job. Job. No significant portion of downtime. No nothing. At least that’s what is it to my Double.

Get back here, he screams.

To me this, place is now nothing but a one hundred meter in diameter circle spinning at 4.2295 rpm careening off course into the void. No more Scroll for me, no more job for him. If you could call it a job and not a life.

You did this, he yells.

Said job is simple. Surprisingly simple. At least on paper.

You pathetic addict, he says.

Planet B is having mass infertility rates. Lots of lead in air. Lead screws up human reproduction. They thought humans could adapt to it over time, but you can’t adapt if you die can you?

You’re life is one giant pleasure cruise and you ruined mine because of it, he calls.

So we come from Planet A with a giant bank of frozen embryos to deliver to Planet B. Simple, right?

I can’t believe you did this, he shouts.

The reality is the universe is not space travel friendly. Cosmic radiation to shield against, energy management, millions of things that go wrong every day. Instead of working on more advanced ships, they clone someone and raise to two kids to have their entire life’s purpose to be a glorified courier in a centrifuge that’s constantly breaking.

You ruined everything. Everything, he says.

Those two kids don’t get any life. They get engineering and physics lessons. Then when old enough, off to the stars they go. No friends, family, wives, lives, hobbies or interests.

I swear we didn’t come from the same guy because I’m not this stupid and arrogant, he shrieks.

So to compensate, they give us the Scroll.

I hate you, he yells.

The Scroll is simply a screen that creates whatever you like. It makes you real happy to get those dopamine levels up. Makes you feel like your life is not inside of a giant dimly lit circle in the middle of space. Or at least makes it worth it.

Do you ever think about anything at all? he screams.

So because every day is me fixing the millionth thing that has broken on this centrifuge, it’s nice to indulge in the Scroll.

You broke it on purpose, he shouts.

Indulging everyday. More and more. I can’t live life without it. My Double doesn’t care. Everything is the job for him.

You set us off course, all for this? Because you want your stupid precious entertainment system? he growls.

I spend all my free time on the Scroll. Even beyond my free time. Until a large part of the tungsten radiation shield around the embryo bank near the center of the spacecraft withered away. Warnings flashed to me and I ignored them. The Scroll was making me happy.

You could have just done your job or had even a shred of self awareness to know that the Scroll is dangerous, he says.

My Double gets mad because I’m not doing my job. It’s always the job. Job. Job. Job.

Idiot, he screams.

So he destroyed the Scroll. Took the fire axe and went to town on it. Now all that’s left to my life is the job. Always the job. Job. Job. Job.

Useless, lazy, pathetic- he yells.

Then while he was asleep, I changed the spacecraft’s trajectory because I couldn’t sleep. There was no going back when I hit the emergency override to release a good chunk of our nitrogen supply into the thrusters. Nitrogen and the coldness of space don’t mix. Inertia take the wheel.

You couldn’t live without it. You just couldn't live without it, my Double shouts.

No, I couldn’t I say.

So you ruined my life too. You ruined it too, he says.

I guess I did.

We’ll be legends. The lost embryo delivery. Mysteriously vanished out in space. Maybe the planet will die out because of us too. And one day, they could find this centrifuge. A vastly different and incomprehensibly advanced humanity finds our chilled corpses and reserves of embryo’s. They thaw and birth them and these kids, only for them to find themselves in a world they were never meant for. All because of me.

I hate the Scroll.

So, when I was 14 or 15—pretty sure it was 15—my parents were constantly scolding and yelling at me and things like that; by the time I turned 15, I was bottling up emotions that I needed to release somehow. I remember one evening I was out with a friend, and that’s when I started swearing more. I began swearing to let out emotions I’d kept inside for a long time; I know it’s a problem, but I don’t know how to get rid of it. My parents were always picking on me about various things, yelling at me, and calling me all sorts of names. I kept it all bottled up, though I suppose it’s partly my fault, too, since I’m a scatterbrain who can’t seem to do anything right.

Hey everyone. It is kind of too personal story. I am 17 year old and am going to give a college entrance exam, It is more like skill based exam. I was preparing for 1-2 months and in last 10 days i seriouslly locked in like giving too much time for the exam which is normal and one should do. no matter how much i do i always feel like its not enough. 5 days earlier i was evaluating my progress and i kind off break because the marks i got were very less and i feel disappointed from myself. i cried like 4-5 hrs not straight but always sobbing in between. I though to take break from my prep and it was already night so i slept. from the next day i didnt want to study but i did cause i cant stop. but there is this felling inside that i am not going to get offer from any uni. i know that though i didnt sat for exam yet. i kind of prepared my self that i am not going to get in but i am too scared as the college i have applied are in foreign country. like in diff continent everyone told me not to but i did. I am also giving exam for the college entrance for my country colleges too but i really wanted to get in those of the foreign country. i dont even know why i am doing this now. i am not even felling scared or nervous for tomorrow. i dont know what i will do .

Most people think exploring abandoned places is about being brave.

It’s not.

My friends and I started doing it because we were bored out of our minds. Small town boredom has a way of turning dumb ideas into traditions, and before long sneaking into places we weren’t supposed to be became our thing.

That’s how we ended up driving thirty minutes out of town to explore an abandoned slaughterhouse.

The place sat alone in the middle of a dead stretch of farmland. No houses nearby. No streetlights. Just a long dirt road cutting through yellow fields that hadn’t been harvested in years.

Someone had spray-painted NO TRESPASSING across the rusted front gate.

Naturally, that’s exactly where we parked.

There were four of us: me, Tyler, Jess, and Connor. Tyler was the one who found the place online. Apparently it used to process livestock in the 70's before it shut down after “health violations,” which could mean anything from mold to bodies.

Tyler thought that made it cooler. Jess thought it meant we’d get tetanus. Connor didn’t care as long as he could film it for his TikTok. I mostly came because everyone else did.

The slaughterhouse itself was barely standing. Corrugated metal siding peeled away from the wooden frame, and half the roof had collapsed inward like something had stepped on it.

The smell hit us before we even reached the door.

"That smell!" whispered Jess as she civered her nose.

We were used to the smell of the dead. But this wasn't rot. I could only describe it as flesh that was soaked into wood and concrete decades ago and never really left.

“Really was a pig farm,” Connor muttered.

Tyler grinned.

“Authentic.”

The door was already half open. It groaned when we pushed it the rest of the way.

Inside, the place looked exactly how you'd imagine an abandoned slaughterhouse.

Hooks hanging from rails in the ceiling.

Rusting chains.

Long metal tables covered in thick dust.

The beam from Connor’s flashlight moved slowly across the room.

“Dude,” he whispered.

“What?” Tyler asked.

Connor pointed up. Rows of hooks swayed slightly from the ceiling. There was no wind.

“Probably rats,” Tyler said quickly.

We all pretended to agree.

We wandered through the building for a while, filming and poking around like idiots. Tyler kept trying to open random doors like he expected to find something cool behind one of them.

Eventually we found a narrow staircase leading down.

“Basement,” Tyler said immediately.

Jess groaned.

“Why is it always a basement?”

“Because that’s where the good stuff is.”

The stairs creaked with every step.

The air got colder as we went down. Not dramatically colder, just enough that the back of my neck prickled.

The basement was smaller than I expected. Mostly empty except for old wooden crates and a few rusted tools scattered across the floor.

Connor’s flashlight beam landed on something sitting on top of a crate.

“Yo,” he said.

We all walked over.

It was a mask.

A pig mask.

Not a cheap plastic Halloween thing. This one looked older. Thicker material, cracked and worn with age. The snout was stained darker near the nostrils, and one of the ears had been torn halfway off.

Jess made a face.

“Okay, that’s disgusting.”

Tyler picked it up immediately.

“Dude this thing is awesome.”

“Put it down,” I said.

Tyler turned it over in his hands.

The inside was worse than the outside.

The lining looked stiff and discolored, like it had been soaked in something a long time ago and never properly cleaned.

Connor was already filming.

“Bro,” he said. “You gotta try it on.”

Tyler laughed.

“No chance.”

Connor nudged me.

“Your turn.”

“Nope.”

“Come on. It’s just a mask.”

Jess shook her head.

“If someone gets possessed I’m leaving you here.”

Connor held the camera closer.

“Ten bucks.”

I don’t know why I did it.

Maybe because everyone was watching.

Maybe because teenagers are idiots.

I took the mask.

It felt heavier than it looked.

The inside smelled awful. Not just dusty, something thicker. Metallic.

Like old pennies.

“Dude that thing’s cursed,” Jess said.

“Relax,” I said.

Then I pulled it over my head.

The world went dark for a second as the mask settled into place.

It was tighter than I expected. The inside lining scraped against my cheeks.

And the smell...

Rust.

Rot.

For a moment, all I could hear was my own breathing echoing inside the snout.

Then something else.

Another breath.

Not mine.

I froze.

“Okay,” Connor said. “That’s actually terrifying.”

His voice sounded distant, muffled.

Inside the mask, the air felt warmer. Thicker.

And for just a second, just one second, I had the strangest feeling that I wasn’t alone inside it.

Like someone else had worn it so many times that a piece of them was still there.

Watching.

Connor shoved the camera toward me.

“Hold still.”

He snapped a picture.

Me wearing the pig mask.

“Take it off,” Jess said.

I ripped it off immediately.

Fresh air hit my face and I realized I’d started sweating.

Tyler laughed nervously.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

We left it sitting on the crate.

Nobody wanted to touch it again.

By the time we climbed back upstairs, the sky outside had turned orange.

“Crap,” Jess said. “It’s getting dark.”

That was enough motivation for all of us.

We headed back to the car quickly. The fields stretched forever around the slaughterhouse. Empty land in every direction.

No fences.

No houses.

No lights.

Just tall grass moving slowly in the evening wind.

I glanced back at the building as we reached the dirt road.

Something felt wrong.

Like the place wasn’t as empty as we thought.

That’s when I saw it.

A shape in one of the upstairs windows.

Standing perfectly still.

Watching us.

I stopped walking.

“What?” Tyler asked.

I pointed.

The others turned.

The window was empty. Just broken glass and darkness inside.

“Dude,” Connor said. “Quit messing with us.”

I didn’t respond. Because I knew what I saw.

And when we got back to the car, Connor checked the photo he took in the basement. The one of me wearing the mask.

I wasn't the only one in the photo.

There was someone peering from the corner behind me.

Wearing a pig mask.

Posting this from my car down the street because my hands are still shaking and I honestly don't know what else to do right now.

It started about three weeks ago. I kept hearing light, rhythmic tapping directly above my bedroom ceiling late at night. At first, I assumed it was just roof rats or possums crawling around in the insulation. I set a few humane traps near the attic access hatch inside my bedroom, dropped some peanut butter inside, and figured that would be the end of it.

Three days later, I went to check the traps. They were completely untouched, but something else was wrong: the small wooden ladder that folds out from the ceiling hatch was hanging down about an inch, resting unlatched.

I’m positive I had latched it shut.

I pushed the ladder back up, hooked the latch, and tried to convince myself I had just been careless. But that night, around 2:00 AM, the sound changed. It wasn't scratching anymore. It was slow, measured, and deliberate—like someone lightly knocking on the floorboards directly above my bed.

*Knock. Knock. Knock.* Then silence for five minutes. Then three more knocks, slightly closer to the ceiling hatch.

Last night, I finally built up the courage to investigate. I grabbed a heavy flashlight, unlatched the hatch, and climbed up three rungs of the ladder. The air in the attic was thick, dusty, and ice-cold. I swept the beam of the flashlight across the rafters, expecting to see insulation or maybe old storage boxes.

Instead, about ten feet away from the opening, I saw a neat circle cleared out in the dust. Inside the circle sat a single wooden kitchen chair positioned right near the edge of the opening. On the seat was a small pocket mirror angled upwards so that whoever sat there could look straight down through the open gap in the hatch and directly onto my bed.

As the realization hit me, I heard a wet, raspy breath coming from the dark corner behind the water heater.

I didn't wait to see what it was. I scrambled down the ladder, slammed the hatch shut, and bolted it from the bottom. As soon as the latch clicked, three heavy, frantic thuds hit the top of the trapdoor right above my head—as if something had just lunged onto it.

I stayed locked in my room for an hour listening to the quiet sound of something gently trying to turn the metal latch from the upper side.

I eventually grabbed my keys, packed a quick bag, and bolted out the front door. I’m sitting in my car a few blocks away right now waiting for a friend to meet me.

Has anyone experienced anything like this?

Edit: Firstly for those who think this is AI, it is def not AI. Secondly I am quite shaken up with this, but I am doing ok. So here’s an update; I called the cops right after meeting with my friend. We (my friend and I) didn’t go back into my place till the cops arrived. It turned out to be a squatter, who was watching me & he was also armed with a we*pon. So yeah, I am currently staying at my friend’s place. Till the cops say I can head back.
PS: I live in a one-bedroom apartment. It’s a very odd setup but that is what I was able to afford when I rented it. It was supposed to be short-term. Now I have to find another place no way I’m staying there till my lease ends in two months, I have notified my landlord regarding this and he is very understanding and we are negotiating, and getting my full deposit back. As this squatter has done extensive damage to the attic, it’s too disgusting and disturbing to describe here to mention what i saw in there. As it was so much worse. Honestly I preferred having not seen what it looked like in the day or better not knowing it.

Chapter 53: Why Should I Deny Myself Pleasure?

​The return to the estate dragged on endlessly, turning into sheer torment for her.

​She tore through the night air in her semi-demonic form, paying no heed to any potential, accidental witnesses on the ground. A wild, chaotic storm of thoughts raged within her ancient consciousness. She seethed with rage at herself over this sudden, utterly irrational weakness. She could feel, almost tangibly, the hot, damned ichor boiling and pulsing heavily in her veins.

​"Can I even bear this, for fuck's sake?" she growled inwardly as she dropped silently onto the terrace in her wing of the villa. "He's just a human, after all! A mere, fragile mortal, a charming, perishable figurine molded from flesh and bone, whom I could crush with a single clench of my fingers without the slightest effort! If of his own free will or through typical human stupidity he ends up in the Abyss after death, I will find him easily. I'll haul him out of a boiling cauldron, take him to my chambers, and mount him in my bedchamber like the most precious trophy. But I won't drag him down there myself... I won't break him by force just to satisfy a fleeting whim—a mere whim. That, after all, is what I resolved when saying goodbye to him."

​She stopped at the balustrade, fixing a somber gaze upon the black, motionless wall of pine trees encircling the estate.

​"Wait a minute... hold on. I'm in no way inferior to Lilith, and she pulled it off!" flashed through her mind with a sudden, predatory temptation. "Lilith is with Stanisław now. The decree of the heavens cast him all the way down, the two of us tempered him in torments, and now they are together! Why then should I deny myself anything? Deny myself pleasure? Possessing someone exclusively, entirely for myself? No, I won't do it... His soul is too pure for that; he'll break in Hell beneath my talons before I can shape him in my own image. Or maybe... he won't break at all? Maybe I should take the risk? After all, I can be methodical and surprisingly gentle during the butchery. I can do it! No one in this shitty world, nor in the haughty Heavens, nor in Hell will stop me! I am Naamah, the Mother of Nightmares! Who would dare forbid me anything—Lucifer himself wouldn't dare refuse me."

​She gripped the railing with such immense, inhuman strength that the thick steel pipes groaned terrifyingly and bent in her grasp like soft wax.

​"Except I fed him all that cheap, earthly nonsense about flying off to the States..." she snorted under her breath in irritation, after which a mocking, superior smirk bloomed on her full lips. "How pathetically simple. Why am I even bothering my head with this? Tomorrow I'll simply show up at the bar and announce that plans have changed. That the American employers suddenly dropped me, the contract fell through overnight, I'm staying in Warsaw, and I apologize for all the fuss. Or no... why should I keep wading through these ridiculous human lies?! Why should I pretend to be a plain little mouse forever and give up my own nature, renounce who I truly am?! I won't kill him on Earth, after all... I have a whim to stay by his side, a whim to make him my property."

​For a split second, an alien, deeply unsettling thought flashed through her consciousness—a vision of Michał not as a passing whim, but as something akin to a true companion, an equal partner with whom she could share quiet, earthly evenings. She shuddered inwardly, immediately dousing that dangerous impulse with a wave of predatory cynicism.

​"He has a bright soul, which means that normally, as a matter of course, he'd go straight to Heaven. But what if... what if he finds out who I am and accepts me anyway, of his own free, unforced will? What if he knowingly binds himself to a demon? Then those winged hypocrites up above, after everything that happened at Castle Square, will immediately overturn his sentence out of sheer spite and rage. For covenanting with me, for touching my demonic body, they will deem him damned and shove him straight to the bottom without hesitation... They'll punish him to my purest, endless delight, and I will triumphantly claim him for my chambers for my own eternal amusement; he will worship me, adore me, and beg for more."

​Naamah's eyes flared with a vivid, hypnotic emerald.

​The decision was made. All or nothing.

​She could not play at a double life forever and pretend to be someone she wasn't. Her primary, paramount task—an assignment wrung out of Lucifer himself to replace Lucjanhir in this earthly vale—remained the direct protection of six-year-old Tas, Wiktor, and Elizabeth Báthory. If Michał, this mortal, was to enter her world, he had to meet this entire peculiar menagerie with no concessions given. He had to see the villa in Pułtusk with his own eyes, stand face-to-face with the Blasphemer and the Blood Countess, so he would finally grasp what he was being dragged into. Time to kill the fiction. Time to bid a final farewell to boring, mediocre Walentyna and lay bare the naked truth before him—to show him her true self.

​The only question was: how to play it?

​Naamah smiled slowly, and at the corners of her mouth gleamed a sensual, purely infernal smile.

​The plan suggested itself.

​First, I will lure him into bed without any trouble. I'll take him to an upscale hotel or straight to his modest apartment, still concealed beneath the guise of a quiet, innocent brunette. I'll let him do whatever he wants—grant him full, absolute earthly ecstasy, bring his senses to a boil, and once the boy reaches the very peak of bliss, I will abruptly cast off the mask.

​In a fraction of a second, beneath the touch of his hands and lips, the illusion of brunette Walentyna will dissolve into nothingness, and from the darkness my true human form will emerge: an insanely gorgeous, marble-white goddess with a cascade of fiery red hair flowing down to her very hips and deep eyes glowing with emerald fire. After all, in my natural form I am leagues more beautiful and tenfold more alluring than that bland mask of Walentyna.

​He will be shocked. Perhaps even completely paralyzed with fear when it dawns on him whom he was just kissing and with whom he reached climax in a passionate embrace.

​"Oh well..." she thought with a predatory chuckle, lazily brushing a red strand from her forehead. "High time to see what my angelic bartender is really made of."

​Twenty-six hours later...

​At first, everything unfolded to the rhythm Michał knew from his own deepest fantasies of sultry, sensual nights. In the dim, warm glow of the bedside lamp, Walentyna seemed the embodiment of feminine charm—dark-haired, petite, with silky-soft skin scented with fresh citrus. Yet when she stripped off her clothes without a trace of hesitation and pulled him onto the bed in one fluid motion, a strange, unnerving wildness surfaced in her movements that did not fit the shy girl from the café at all.

​"Walentyna, stop, please, we were only supposed to watch a movie, don't..." Michał choked out suddenly, much to Naamah's great surprise. He pulled back abruptly, his voice trembling with stifled humiliation. "I'm... I'm burned down there. When you see it, you'll run away in horror... Stop, don't unbutton my pants, I'm begging you... I had a terrible accident as a child. I have extensive scars down there that make normal intercourse impossible for me. The healed, disfigured skin has damaged nerve endings... Besides, if you saw it with your own eyes..."

​In an instant, all the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place in Naamah's mind. She suddenly understood the reason for his previous distance—she realized why, throughout all their dates, this charming mortal had limited himself solely to stolen, innocent kisses, never daring to reach for more even though she had wanted it many times. A shiver of pure, predatory delight ran through her body. Her gaze darkened, taking on a thick, hypnotic depth, and her movements became even lazier, more fluid, and overpoweringly sensual. She had no intention of stopping; she looked at him with a soft, almost maternal, yet sinful gravity, whispering in a low, vibrating voice that he shouldn't worry and should trust her completely. Her intricate plan had already ceased to follow the pre-established order, giving way to Naamah's primal instinct.

​Despite his weakening protests, with feline grace and provocative slowness she unzipped his fly. Her hot fingertips deliberately brushed against his trembling lower abdomen through the fabric before sliding down his pants, while genuine tears welled in the eyes of the boy paralyzed by shame.

​"I told you... stop, just run away..." he whispered, despair in his voice.

​"What nonsense are you babbling, I'm not running anywhere," she cut him off in a velvety whisper as thick as liquid honey. She leaned over him, her body undulating with hypnotic grace, as she locked her lips onto his with deep, possessive tenderness, while slowly peeling off his shirt and discarding the rest of his clothes so that he would feel every inch of her heated skin.

​There was not a trace of bashfulness in her gaze, no disgust or fear—only the bottomless, burning desire of a being who for millennia had inflicted and witnessed wounds far worse than this. With the sinful sensuality innate to demons, she slid down his body, tracing a path with hot kisses, before taking him between her full lips; her tongue coiled with inhuman skill while her slender fingers gently toyed with his testicles, knowing that the stimulation had to be stronger, flawlessly awakening the nerves lying dormant beneath the scar tissue.

​"See? Everything works just fine, you only need the right approach, Michał..." she purred low, her vibrating voice pressed directly against his burning skin, sending an electric jolt down the boy's spine. She rose and straddled him firmly, taking him inside herself with a slow, delicious sigh, her hips swaying with a demonic precision that instantly stripped him of any remaining sober thought.

​The sensations, defying the scarred tissue and past traumas, surged with dizzying, overwhelming speed, shoving common sense completely aside. When the massive wave of climax began relentlessly bearing down toward the edge, a sudden burst of panic pierced the boy's hazy, throbbing mind. He realized what was happening to him—for the first time in his entire life, he was on the brink of sexual fulfillment.

​"Wait... stop!" Michał rasped hoarsely, desperately trying to brace his feet against the mattress and slide her off him. "A condom... I don't have any protection, I didn't think this was even possible! I'm about to cum, let me go!"

​He tried to push her away by her hips with both hands, but met resistance as hard as solid granite. Instead of pulling back, the woman leaned low over him, and in her gaze the last remnant of the human gentleness he had experienced moments earlier died away completely. In a fraction of a second, she seized him by both wrists and pinned his hands to the pillow on either side of his head with unbelievable, effortless ease.

​"Don't move, Michał..." she purred softly, her voice dropping several octaves, vibrating with a deep, inhuman bass right against his chest. "You're coming today, that's certain. You're coming three times over... Go ahead, shoot inside me, I want it..."

​Michał yanked with all his might, straining his shoulder muscles to the point of pain, but he couldn't budge an inch in her iron grip. Overpowering dread froze his entrails—he lay completely helpless beneath a seemingly petite woman who held him down without the slightest exertion, rhythmically and relentlessly riding him, increasing her speed and intensity with each subsequent thrust. Waves of wild ecstasy mingled with pure terror. The boy clenched his teeth, and a choked, helpless groan tore from his constricted throat as his body erupted into the first violent orgasm of his life.

​And then, the world around him cracked in two.

​The moment his strength gave out limply and his eyelids fluttered for a fraction of a second, the figure looming over him wavered in the air. Before the terrified bartender's eyes, Walentyna's dark strands unfurled into a cascade of vibrant, fiery red locks spilling in waves down to her bare hips. Her complexion flared into a cool, marble white, and an emerald abyss ignited in her gaze. On top of him was no longer the charming girl from behind the bar. It was a demonic being in all her magnificence—dazzlingly beautiful, predatory, and inhuman to the bone.

​Michał froze, every drop of blood draining from his face in the blink of an eye. In his memory, the recollection from five years ago instantly resurfaced—that sensational, shocking televised interview broadcast live across the globe, when this exact same red-haired beauty had stepped out of the infernal portal, replacing the mighty Lucjanhir in this earthly vale. He opened his mouth to scream and call for help, but all that lodged in his throat was a choked, dry hiss of air.

​"Oh God... no..." he finally choked out, trembling in paralyzing, helpless shock.

​"Easy now, my Michał..." Naamah whispered velvet-smooth, not breaking the sway of her hips for even a fraction of a second.

​She looked down at his overpowered body with cool satisfaction. Instead of letting go of his hands, she gathered both of his wrists into a single iron grip of her left hand. Long, gleaming, dark talons extended from her fingers. They were blunt-tipped and perfectly smooth, positioned with supreme precision so as not to slice into his delicate skin, yet the mere sensation of demonic claws encasing his forearms sent the boy's heart pounding in an insane, panic-stricken rhythm.

​Her free right hand traveled down. With predatory caresses, her slender, pale fingers began to brush against and tease his nipples, sending a series of electrifying pulses throughout his tense body.

​"I'm not going to kill you, after all... I would have done that long ago if I felt like it. I'm only going to give you pleasure," she purred with a hypnotic smile, leaning in so low that her hot breath brushed his lips. "Lie still, relax, and savor every moment."

​Michał trembled all over in terror, staring with dilated pupils into the emerald gaze of the entity known from those unforgettable television broadcasts. He wanted to flee, to break free, to forget everything, yet her supple body moved upon him with inhuman skill honed over millennia. Despite the suffocating helplessness, the intense stimulation—even defying the extensive scar tissue—would not allow his senses to subside. Before he could muster a single lucid thought, she relentlessly drove him to a second, profound climax. A torn groan tore from his throat, a blend of pure primal bliss and sheer terror.

​When the wave of ecstasy passed and his exhausted body went completely limp, Naamah still had no intention of stopping. She released the iron grip on his wrists, but before he could even twitch and pull away, her cool hand traveled down his abdomen. With remarkable precision, balancing the pressure on the razor's edge of pain for healthy genitalia, she dragged a smooth talon along the glans and then caught the urethral opening, teasing it lightly; she knew that inside the penis the nerves had survived, and her touch and depth of penetration were calibrated to perfection. The biological reaction was instantaneous and entirely independent of the paralyzed bartender's will—beneath her demonic touch, he returned to full readiness for the third time in his life. She treated his mutilated physiology like an instrument, playing it as she pleased, taking pride in her skill.

​Naamah raised her hips and dropped back down onto him with her full weight, resuming her predatory dance. Michał lay helplessly on his back, feeling thick beads of sweat trickling down his temples, every strained muscle trembling in a continuous, paralyzing spasm.

​Only after another dozen or so minutes did the demoness succeed in bringing him off; she slowly eased her pace and, with a soft, drawn-out sigh, slid off him onto the rumpled bedsheet. She had not reached climax herself, yet a look of satisfaction was painted across her face.

​"That was truly delightful. Although I must honestly admit, on a daily basis I'm accustomed to rather different, infernal thrills. The kind straight out of Hellraiser, literally. Michał, don't worry about those scars at all..." she said with faint amusement, brushing the red locks from her forehead. "It actually worked out rather well, because they make you far more durable... And I can afford far harder and more intense movements with you."

​Hearing those words, the boy curled up on the mattress at once, trembling so violently with nervous shock that his teeth chattered. Seeing his shaken, defenseless form, Naamah sighed softly and shifted closer. Much to her own surprise, she felt a sudden surge of pure protectiveness—as though this mortally terrified human had abruptly ceased being merely a whimsical plaything in bed, and had become someone she genuinely wanted to hold and protect. She scolded herself inwardly for this weakness unbecoming of a demon, yet wrapped her arm around him nonetheless, drawing his head to her breast while her slender fingers traveled back to his chest, lazily and soothingly playing with his nipple.

​"There now, easy... Maybe I really did overdo it a bit with holding your hands down," she purred gently right into his ear. "Everything is perfectly fine. You're alive and breathing, aren't you? And I easily managed to bring you all the way to the finish... So as you can see for yourself, you're not defective at all, Michał, get that into your pale head at last... In fact, you're more durable than ninety-nine percent of the men walking this earth."

​A long, thick silence settled over the bedroom, disturbed only by the quiet hum of an old refrigerator and the muffled clamor of the waking street drifting through the cracked window.

​The boy sat on the very edge of the bed with his face buried in his trembling hands, staring blankly at the cracked laminate flooring. In his eyes smoldered an absolute, paralyzing shock mingled with complete disbelief.

​"I'm so fucking screwed..." he finally rasped, rubbing cheeks that still hadn't regained their natural color. "I'm just completely, undeniably fucked..."

​From the other side of the mattress came a quiet, velvety chuckle.

​Naamah lay casually on her back, completely naked, hands clasped behind her head. The sheet barely concealed the line of her hips, and a cascade of thick, vibrant, flame-red hair spilled across the pillow like scarlet lava. Her smooth skin gleamed in the morning light, and her bottomless emerald eyes stared up at the ceiling with predatory amusement.

​"Come now, don't panic so much, dear Michał," she purred lazily, turning her head toward him. "Scarcely any mortal has managed to pick up, let alone take a demoness in bed... I was gentle, wasn't I? Exceedingly gentle. You won't have a single bruise on your body; I personally monitored every single beat of your heart. If only you could have seen the look on your face when you opened your eyes right after that first orgasm. What a shame I didn't film it—I'll remember that expression until the end of the world."

​Slowly, as if overcoming the resistance of his own rigid muscles, Michał turned toward her. He swallowed with difficulty, fixing his eyes on the red strands and emerald irises he had previously seen only on a television screen.

​"Answer me one question..." he began with dead seriousness, raising a trembling hand.

​"I'm listening carefully..." she smiled with the corner of her full lips.

​"You mentioned those infernal thrills, about being accustomed to them. Does the movie *Hellraiser*... match what really happens in Hell?"

​Naamah burst into a pearly, melodic laugh, propping herself sensually on an elbow.

​"I don't intend to lie to you, Michał, even though I know Hell's earthly PR might suffer for it," she laughed easily. "So don't go blabbing about this to anyone. Certain things in that film are definitely exaggerated, while others are massively understated. There's certainly far more acrid sulfur down there with us, that much I can guarantee with my hand over your heart. As for the pain itself... well, it roughly checks out; torments tend to be rather painful by definition. But on the other hand, they temper the infernal vessel splendidly, strengthening both body and spirit. Besides, ever since hard, unyielding law began to reign in the Abyss—imposed by Lucifer, who instituted sweeping reforms after Wiktor's model and with substantial help from Cezary... I know, you don't know them yet, but you soon will—life down there has become far more bearable for those damned souls who have already served their time and finished their decreed torments. Everything is much more orderly now... But for now, you don't need to torment yourself about that at all, because your soul has remained perfectly bright throughout all this. Not a shred of it was lost, even though you found fulfillment in my arms."

​"That's good, I'm very glad, but I'm still fucked..." he repeated with deep dread bordering on resignation, shaking his head helplessly. "Just wonderful. And... what's the official age difference between us, exactly?"

​The demoness narrowed her eyes slightly, calculating something in her head with a comical grimace:

​"Looking at it objectively? Roughly three thousand years. I am a being born long before Christianity, in ancient myths, but I was adopted into that faith at the very dawn of its shaping, even though hardly anyone remembers me nowadays. So that Christian domain of Hell became, how should I put it simply so you'd understand... native to me, yes, that's the perfect word. And subjectively, Michał? Well, time in the Abyss drags on in an unimaginable way. In my own internal perception, I've spent a good two hundred thousand years down there."

​Michał froze, then looked at her askance with a mixture of absurdity and resignation:

​"So I'm twenty-seven... and you're two hundred thousand years old." He paused for a second, then limply waved his hand. "I can only say one thing: you hold up pretty damn well for your age, that's a fact."

​Naamah burst into loud, genuine laughter, letting her head fall back onto the pillow.

​"Well, splendid! An unintended, charming compliment first thing in the morning, bravo, bravo, Michał..." She curled up with feline grace and rose from the mattress, unbothered by her own nakedness. She stretched lazily until something in her spine gave a soft, dry pop. "All right, enough of this lying around and wallowing in self-pity. I'll make us something to eat. Unlike Lilith, who can only manage to burn a skillet to cinders, I happen to be an excellent cook. I learned everything by watching Elizabeth, and she had to master the craft for the sake of her little son, Tas. Do you even have any eggs in that fridge of yours?"

​"Can I get dressed?" Michał asked.

​"No... for now I forbid it. You have to get used to the sight of your naked body around me; don't be ashamed of it. Your scars don't bother me—I've seen far worse things, believe me..."

I was exhausted from weeks of going to college, and after college, hanging out with friends. Yeah, it was fun, but it drained me. That’s why I decided not to go to coaching today.

The thing is, my sir was going to start a new chapter. Missing the basics would mean struggling to follow the rest. My exams were near, and I still had so much to complete.

In my head, it was like an angel on one shoulder telling me to go, and a devil on the other saying, “It’s just one day, nothing will happen.” I won’t lie but the devil’s side felt more convincing.

It wasn’t like I’d collapse if I went… I was just lazy.

While taking a shower, I kept wondering, Will sir explain today’s lesson to me tomorrow? Probably yes, but I knew I’d need a “good” reason for missing it.

By the time I finished, the class had already started.

While I was having breakfast, my coaching friend called, probably because sir had asked him to check when I was coming. I didn’t pick up. He called again.

My mom overheard and asked who it was.

“My friend,” I said.

“Why is he calling?” she asked.

“Today was coaching, but I wasn’t feeling well, so I didn’t go,” I lied.

She started scolding me, saying how my father is paying fees and I’m still skipping. She told me to go now. I hung my head; she was right. I promised her I wouldn’t skip from tomorrow.

Then she said, “At least answer your friend. He’s calling again and again.”

As I reached for my phone, I didn’t even know what excuse I’d give. Fever? Stomach ache?

And then, my father came back halfway from his route to work.

“There are barricades on the street today,” he said. “Some minister is coming to give a speech. You can’t pass that way.”

And just like that, my laziness excuse turned into a perfect reason. Now sir will probably explain the lesson in the next class anyway.

Day 21

Jasmine looked at her work and smiled. She was on the team and had begun revolutionizing reality. Her work was making the mind of a synthetic person. She had done this with her smiles and her sweat, but she was out to prove that 'I think therefore I am' was a complete lie. Jasmine wanted to prove to the world that there was no such thing as reality. She had grown tired of the world, even when it worked hard to make her days positive. Too many people were happy when she felt they shouldn't be. So she would disprove it all. Jasmine had been playing games on a holodeck for twenty years now and it was always easy to prove the holodeck was a fiction. It felt real, but even as the game's graphics engines grew you always knew it was a game. So she would prove everything was just bolony introducing the most complex AI ever created.

Jasmine looked at her blueprints for the hundred thousandth time. Everything was going quite well.

Day 33

The trick to what she had been doing was leaking her own work. Jasimine wanted the whole world to know her secret, but she needed them all to think she had something to hide. The first trick was in the hard drives. Jasmine had designed a small 'master' hard drive that had access to a dozen other drives. Nothing was bigger than a coin but there was a great deal of information to store and hide. One of the hard drives used a sort of AI program and created vague dreams that it would flush after 24 to 48 hours. She needed this thing to be real, she needed it to have nothing but proof in its own mind on how it was real. Dreams played a role, and obviously so did memories. Jasmine realized how boring some of this work was rather quickly, memories were by definition at times, repetitive. She used one of her hard drives just for memories and over the past few weeks she started just printing out vague memories into her andriod's brain. The tricky part came next...

Day 43

Touch. She cornered it! If her android touched anything it would send a signal to its brain that it happened. She was copying some of the 'dream' software she finished but the brain needed only to believe it could feel. Making it more complex then that would be next to impossible. Pain and pleasure started tomorrow but she would basically rely on her 3.0 Holding Software to help her there. Her little android would touch a screw and it would 'think' it hurt because it was programmed to feel pain. It was designed to feel pain, but was it real pain? This made Jasmine laugh.

Day 53

Fear had set in for Jasmine. She was disproving reality. That was obviously the entire point right? A kind of revenge at her own race for thinking they are gods of their own world? So much had died over the centuries of time humans ruled their world, but what if she could disprove it all? There was a problem. Most people didn't know about her work at this point, but Jasmine did. Jasmine could see her final creation in her own head. She started to worry she herself was-.

Day 56

Jasmine loved it! She was making breakthoughs day after day! At first she was getting good rest, but now her project(Project Eve, as she had labeled it) was showing amazing growth. Jasmine had even started on 'sight'! This thing was seeing the world(her dining room) and those images were going into its hard drive! It could feel and see now! However the body was still far too simple. She needed to create flesh. Jasmine knew exactly how, to do this as well. She would use the ideas that modern sex dolls were using, some sort of plastic toy companies came out with thirtiy years ago. With a really nice 3D paint job Eve would look at her hands and then Jasmine's hand and see only humanity.

Day 61

The religious cooks had caught word of Jasmine's work! These people had no idea who Jasmine was or where she lived but they were blowing up the online world. It was free advertising for Jasmine. She was on the brink of creating a new reality and these guys were vital in helping her do this. They knew Jasmine was trying to create an android that would walk among the people as a human because she had been leaking her own intel. Of course, advertising was expensive, so opinionated douche bags would have to do the job.

A lawyer could hang a billboard sing and no one would ever notice, but if someone complained about that very same lawyer? BOOM!! Free business! Jasmine loved how simple people were by believing how complex they were.

Day 67

The dreams were returning. Jasmine needed her sleep again but these dark dreams of her watching a show or something kept coming back. She would be watching a show on the recorder and then notice something was off... She was watching a show of herself... Watching a show of herself...

Day 72

She did it! The endoskeleton was covered in flesh! This was good stuff too! She had to fork out more then two pretty pennies from her parents(may they rest in peace) to make them work! She even used some theoretical work to make the flesh active! She could cut it and it would bleed! In the blood was a fluid made of a kind of phytoplancton. If it was cut it took about the same amount of time to heal as a normal person did to heal! Jasmine laughed at how far she had come on this. She even thought of herself as a God of this one person.

Ridiculous. She was a creator, but she knew she was no god. Jasmine was having a difficult time remembering when she was awake. Her mind was playing games with her now, even when she was hard at work.

Day 81

Jasmine had thrown up her hands. She had lost. It was the sense of smell. There was no way to duplicate smelling anything. She finally offered herself a free moment and taken to a local bar. She never needed to leave her house in the modern world but she figured a change in scenery would help her out.

Sadly it did not. She made it back to her house and threw up all over the master bathroom. What a waste.

Day 82

It wasn't a waste! She figured it out! Her Eve didn't need to smell anything at all! She only needed to think she smelled things! She had connected the hard drive to several others, including memory, and it would only think it could smell!

Here is a flower. Does it smell good? Yes! Eve will think she knows what it is supposed to smell like and boom! She smelled something even though Eve never smelled a damn thing! It was a cheap trick and maybe Jasmine would figure it out later in a more elegant way, but for now...

Day 89

Jasmine needed to get her head out of the gutter. She had been staring at her own work for months now and had begun to think it was...

Jasmine needed to get laid. She had been working far to hard up to this point. The good news was her neighbor was in town and she was... Interesting.

Day 96

Her neighbor, Sam, was thinking they were dating now. Maybe they were, by definition, but honestly Sam was just 'stress relief' from Jasmine's dreams. The problem was those dreams were starting to return again. Sex was helping Jasmine pin down reality, but what if a better mind than Jasmine's had designed sex? She had felt as if she was pearing under the sheet of reality and could see everything, and it was all a lie.

Why was it all a lie? Did someone make Jasmine and her memories? Was someone just watching her as some part of a simple game?

She had an answer to this. Jasmine knew what was real. Things felt real. Pain was real!

Day 108

Jasmine had been staring at herself in the mirror for hours now. She did this on some days now. She didn't know why, but she would look in a mirror and just forget the moment. Of course she was putting the finishing touches on her android everyday as well. She downloaded English as it was the easiest to download these days. Eve would be quite the finished piece soon. Jasmine would let her go and that was it. Jasmine had even started applying the andriod for simple little retail jobs. In a couple of weeks Eve would be a part-time cashier for a grocery store!

Day 111

Jasmine was finally having fun again with her work. She was now putting the final touches on Eve's personality. It was actually designed to grow based on her surroundings. If she met 30 people she would agree with the larger group of them. Was red or black a better color? Most of her personality growth would be based on the people she met and knew. Jasmine knew this would be one of the best ways to hide, just be another piece of the cattle.

Jasmine never liked how dumb she saw the world, but it would work in her favor now.

Day 112

Even would be Jasmine's 'roommate' and even pay rent. Eve would know very little other than the fact that Jasmine was a very good friend. All of Eve's memories were very specific and anytime Eve had questions Jasmine would answer them... in Eve's sleep. She could upgrade the android's software whenever she needed. But there was still one problem.

Day 114

Today was the first day Eve was at work. It felt weird to Jasmine, leaving her work out in the real world. But she came back with all sorts of stories. Eve was full of smiles and told about her day over and over again but in new ways and remembering new details. It was quite intriguing really. But while Jasmine was listening she knew she was very uninterested in the goings on of a cashier. Boring.

Day 117

Jasmine looked at her steak knife. Eve was at work again but she was beginning to feel far too real. No one was questioning whether Eve was a robot or a human. A few jokes were made because of how nice Eve was, but it was when Jasmine decided to slightly alter her creation's personality that she decided to grab the knife after Eve left. Was Jasmine real? What was real? Maybe if Jasmine cut down to the bone it would help. Maybe if she cut off her left pinky she would she the reality of the world. Jasmine was beyond suspecting whether or not she was a human, she needed proof of it. So Jasmine flexxed her left hand over and over until she laid it down flat on the kitchen counter. She would believe it was supposed to hurt but she knew pain wasn't real. It was made up.

Right?

So dark like somebody's thrown a black hood over our heads.

My daughter's small hand in mine.

A point of light.

Harsh, fading; repeated. Human: (inhaling) a cigarette. The sweetly burning smell of tobacco.

We walk to it.

It goes out.

A firearm—instead:

“Who's there?” asks a soot-faced soldier, pointing it at me.

“My name is Fadros Moti. This is my daughter, Tera. We're from Goshnen Station.”

“Long walk.”

“Yes.”

“I heard most at Goshnen stood and fought," says the soldier. (“And died,” I think.) “You ain't a coward now, are you? You got papers for the kid?”

“No, sir. Yes, sir,” I say and hand over our documents.

I hate losing possession of them.

I say, “We couldn't find space on the government evac shuttles—”

“Half the pop couldn't find space on the government evac shuttles,” says the soldier, scanning our identity cards.

“I was hoping we might buy a private flight.”

He stops looking at our documents.

He raises his eyes.

“I have gold coins,” I say. Gold, in addition to skills, is the only thing worth anything anymore.

He hands back the documents.

He waits.

“I was told there were still spacecraft here. Do you happen to know if that's true?” I ask.

He waits.

“Of course,” I say, bowing my head, and give him a handful of gold coins.

“I'm thirsty,” my daughter says, weakly, from behind me.

I like being her shield.

The soldier counts the gold coins.

“Would you also happen to know where we can get some water?” I ask.

When he finishes counting: “There's a well about half a mile that way—” He points into the darkness. “Unmanned. No escorts. Access at your own risk. But I heard it's clean.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And a spacecraft?”

“Try the Bastion-IX. It's a freighter docked by the launchpads. Been collecting passengers for about two and a half months. The captain's name is Boyermood. He's good. He'll let you sleep onboard till blast-off.”

“Thank you,” I say.

We walk the half mile to the well. After coming all the way from Goshnen Station, the distance feels like nothing.

We drink.

We sit.

I think of my dead wife.

I wish I knew what my daughter is thinking of. Whatever it is, I wish I had the power to change it. I wish I could protect her mind. It's hard to believe—sitting, finally, in the darkness—that we are on the outskirts of a great city.

It's mostly empty now; inactive.

It has to be.

It's a matter of weeks or days before they get here too. It's inevitable. There's no stopping them. The horrors I've seen. The horrors I've seen at Goshnen Station after they came across the commlines, digitized, recombining and rematerialized, pouring out of our techports like cloudforms of static, the inevitable progeny of man and information, unkillable flesh-data hybrids infusing themselves into our minds, cooking us, boiling our brains with cognitive overload; the screaming, the impossibility of forgetting; the melted, dripping eyeballs and voided sockets—

My daughter's face.

Scared. Calm.

“You fell asleep,” she says.

No, I couldn't have. I have to be on guard. I promised. I promised my wife as her thumbs pushed into her eyes—

”I'm sorry,” I say.

We fill our canteens and walk back to the edge of the city.

All the electric light is off.

Nothing hums.

We find the launchpads. We find the Bastion-IX, just like the soldier said. Boyermood's inside, as are a few dozen other groups of people. Friends, families, coworkers. No one survives alone. I guess there aren't many left alive now who want to get out. We don't speak to the others but smile; and by smiling we become something else than strangers. We become co-passengers. Boyermood takes what remains of our gold coins and assigns us to a cabin.

We sleep.

For days we do nothing but drink water and sleep, dreaming of a different world.

“Where will we go?” my daughter asks.

“I don't know.”

Perpetual, fallen night.

Faces.

Time spent at the well.

We're used to hunger. We sleep through it. The alarm sounds—

A thunderous wave of the banging of metal against metal throughout the Bastion-IX and beyond. A dead city in final turmoil. I squeeze my daughter's hand. No one needs to tell us what's going on. They've arrived. The other ships on the launchpads are initiating launch sequences. Boyermood runs by. “Are we going?” I yell against the noise. “Yeah, we're going,” he yells back and disappears.

We stay inside.

The Bastion-IX creaks.

Shakes.

The engines ignite, but before they can fully power on I start to hear the pitter-patter of tiny bodies pinging off the exterior of the ship.

I'm scared.

I'm pretending not to be.

“Daddy—”

“Yes, darling?”

The pinging intensifies.

It's become a storm, a relentless precipitation of information.

“—tell me you love me, please.”

“I love you.”

(Over the intercom: “Attention! They're overwhelming us. We need volunteers,” Boyermood says, his voice breaking. “We need volunteers to go outside and clear the hull...”)

I'm up before I know it.

“Daddy?”

My daughter's hand slips from mine because mine is moving away.

“Daddy!”

If we don't get them off the ship, no one gets out of here.

“I'll be back,” I say.

I won't be.

I turn away because it's easier to turn away. I don't want her to see my face. (“Daddy, no…”) I hear her cry out, but I am no longer present.

Someone hands me an airblower.

I take it.

I exit the Bastion-IX.

I'm not alone. A few others are with me. Two men, a woman. The atmosphere is a static, swarming, whirling chaos that pricks my skin, crawls across my face, into my mouth, my ears. I spit. I shut my eyes, blowing as many of them off the hull as I can. They taste bitter as batteries.

The inside of my head begins to burn.

My jaw locks.

The Bastion-IX lifts off.