Family Hellhole
It was a cold and wintry night. Indoors, everyone could hear the dry wood crackling in the fireplace. Silence lingered. Eyes drifted, no one wanted to interrupt the quietude.
Out of nowhere, a metal clang sounded. All eyes turned to the one who had clumsily dropped the firewood poker while playing with it. The guy grasped the poker almost instantaneously. He was the youngest in the room.
A few exchanged glances later everything returned to normal as if nothing had happened. But there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere. It was as though the room was now holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
"Let's break the silence now, shall we?" said the plump middle-aged woman.
"You already did...Aunt Marie." replied the man, Josh, leaning on the windowsill. "Also I think the silence was much preferred."
The 'Aunt' scoffed at his words and gave a glare of 'No one asked for your opinion'.
"Why are we gathered here, may I ask?" queried the younger blonde woman. It was a question they all had on their mind.
"Well, that is a great question but, the brat who knows the answer to that is apparently not present." Josh said, stating the obvious.
"That 'brat' is my son, you punk." the 'Aunt' retorted.
"And how does that change the fact that he's a brat?" Josh said temptingly prompting a fight.
"Let's not pounce on each other like cats and dogs." intervened yet another relative. "We're a family for Pete's sake. Maintain some composure.".
The former tranquility resumed, but only for a moment. The man of the day made an entrance, pushing through the double doors in a grandiloquent manner. He silently went straight to a side table to pour himself a glass of blood-red wine. Everyone's gaze stayed on the host.
"I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you, your Highness, but could you elaborate on the reason for gathering us in this hellhole?" Josh asked.
"I think we'd all like to know." backed the youngest.
"I just did as I was told."
"When have you ever done as you were told? And by whom?" asked his mother eagerly.
"The police, of course."
"Police?" inquired Josh.
"They intend to arrest one of us."
"What?!" they exclaimed simultaneously. Confusion ran in circles round the room.
"By the way, they're already here."
The FBI then barged in with guns in hand. "Robert Carmichael, you are under arrest under the charges of...blah, blah, blah." an officer announced while he cuffed one of them. The cuffed man was the one in his eighties, who had previously commented about family and composure.
For years, Robert had managed to evade being detected, using his innocent demeanor as a cover while carrying out his illegal crimes from the comfort of his suburban home. But his luck ran out when the FBI finally caught up with him, armed with evidence linking him to a string of bombing attacks that had wreaked havoc on national security.
It was a revelation that forced the members to confront the unsettling reality that even those closest to them harbored hidden depths and dark secrets.
Where Seraphs Sleep
There lies a place,
Weathered buttress,
Crag stone face,
That betrays her crumbled spoils
With velvet feather flair
Of once opulent grace,
Now evaporated air,
As vernal tidings
Give marigold kisses
Upon the crater scars
Of this ancient space,
While minutes walk
A carefree pace.
There lies a field
To which time yields,
Her waking dreams
And die cast will,
Through budding trees
And hand clap leaves,
Applauding hope
In emerald green.
Her leaves breathe peace,
Where seraphs sleep.
And Zion’s stars
Cast glittering chariots
Burning firefly gold,
Cloaked in tormentil sun,
Neon lemon bold.
From flesh to dust
With wolf leer lust,
Death pines for life,
His nightshade creep
Of eternal sleep,
Coiling serpentine dungeons
Fang dagger deep.
And my halo is nailed
To shipwrecked sails,
Though I’ve reaped the bones,
Of bygone tales,
Of courses charted
Through heaven and hell,
And suffered long
Death’s siren spell.
Yet we will tread
Those fated steps,
Up stairwell skies,
Where devils crept,
Towards Shekhinah glories,
Through sun capped flowers,
As death surrenders,
Its raven hour,
Where seraphs sleep.
Gas station burrito
My initial instinct was to paint the horror that I experienced in the sacrilegious and abhorrent light that can only be attributed to a rating of no stars. However, upon further reflection, I came to the conclusion that I, myself held a certain responsibility in the matter.
It was a cold night in March, and I was north bound on the New Jersey Turnpike. Weary from driving all day, and resigned to the fact that the final slivers of my sanity had escaped me, I resolved it was time to stop.
My cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, I stepped into the doors of the Thomas Edison Service Area. This is no ordinary service area, but the final stop before performing a deed that cannot be undone. A final chance to stop oneself from entering the hellish wasteland of potholes; the inferno of brake lights that they call the Cross Bronx Expressway.
I rarely waste my time in the lines that accompany the regular fast food joints within the establishment. After you've been on the road for so long, lines are just another type of traffic.
Instead, I chose to go directly to the hub of the most seasoned traveler. An area with no windows and compromised lighting, occupied mainly by passing truckers and tradesmen; men who have places to go and things to get done, if you will.
I browsed for a time, waiting for anything to catch my passing eye. Then it happened. My eyes, and perhaps my entire being, honed in on a beacon of hope. A potential comfort to lessen the pain of the Cross Bronx.
In front of me sat a microwavable burrito of rice, beans and cheese. In my dazed mind, it seemed to be quite a nice balance of carbs and protein and certainly less risky than the taquitos that roll around in that little display case for days on end.
My decision was made. I paid for the burrito and placed it inside the gas station microwave for the instructed one minute and thirty seconds. At the time, I payed no attention to the gas station cashier who would occasionally cast me a glance that can only be described as something between confusion and concern. Reflecting upon the moment with a clear mind, it seems as though I missed a valuable warning.
I was back on the road, less exhausted and almost sane, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding the burrito. In that moment, the most fragrant spices and sweetest flowers could not counter the aromatic harmony and comfort that was produced by that burrito.
Unable to wait a minute longer, I bit into the burrito as the radio played the absolute banger that is "Low" by Flo Rida. It was a moment of near-solace where everything was almost okay. An eye in the storm, if you will.
The burrito was not bad. The textures and flavors didn't quite match what the smell had suggested, but I was hungry and the burrito warm. I finished it quickly and washed it down with a sip of Poland Spring, because I was not about to spend my hard earned money on a six dollar bottle of Aquafina.
I was ready for the Cross Bronx. Still, I did not want to go there, but sometimes there is a difference between wanting something and being ready.
In the beginning it was average. There were lots of bumps and the expected host of aggressive truckers and stupid people, but nothing tragic. I kept my head down and kept driving. Traffic was slow, but it was moving. All I had to do was not hit anything and I'd be through it soon enough.
It was just after the George Washington Bridge that I experienced that first twinge of pain. Initially, I thought little of it. The burrito may have crossed my mind but I quickly dismissed it thinking that it was just a coincidence.
Ten minutes later, I knew that it was not a coincidence. I was building up the remains of my stamina to convince myself that things were going to be alright. So what the gas station burrito gave me indigestion. Things could be worse.
By the Throg's Neck Bridge, things were even worse. I will spare the most concerning details, but this was the point that I truly began to worry. I told myself that I just needed to hold on a bit longer. Realistically, I was still at least an hour and a half from home, but in that moment of despair, even false hope seemed better than none.
I'd arrived on the Long Island Expressway and mercifully, the traffic was light. Suddenly, my preferred driving pastimes of complaining about the bumps on the road and wondering where, exactly, my tax dollars had gone, seemed obsolete.
I drove fast. The cops didn't matter to me in that moment. Instead I thought 'fuck it, let them come.' My entire being had isolated itself within the singular cause of receiving the twisting, bubbling pain in my stomach.
The Long Island Welcome Center couldn't come soon enough. Had it been only moments later, I may have perished. I ran straight through the doors, and through the middle of a foreign family that looked at me disapprovingly and muttered incomprehensibly.
It did not matter. In that moment, nothing mattered except receiving that pain; that absolute apocalypse that had been born from the gas station burrito.
After a period of resentment and betrayal, I have accepted that the gas station burrito may not have been a good choice. Better than the taquitos, but still a poor decision. To anyone who is still reading this, I warn you to stay away from any burritos in the gas station. Resist the temptation at all costs and remember this; sometimes it's okay to buy a banana or some crackers and call it a day.
A Superhero, the Secretary, and Breaking Into the Manor
He'd not meant to be sick, he really hadn't.
And now, he could hardly reach his phone.
Which the always unflappable and chaotic Mr. Wainburr had way too much fun tormenting him with.
On a good day he would scream and shout and complain, perhaps threaten to fib-- much as he abhorred doing it-- to his Dad to get the man demoted from Director's good graces. Wilhelm used the man's name sparingly and never without reason. Otherwise, he was the cruel, brilliant, and callous Director who puppeteered the organized Underworld simmering just beneath the surface of a truly picturesque and lovely suburban town.
But his head simply hurt too much and fever plunged his brain to boiling water still on the stove despite dense, vast swathes of steam and the lingering tinge of gasoline.
He moaned to the sheer despair of this situation.
To which Wainburr stopped the laughter and jeering nicknames, having fun with the little son.
He placed the phone down, still out of his hand's meager reach, and sat himself on his other side, facing his back and the bookshelf.
"Do you want a classic or those comics you like?"
"Manga," he complained, "Shoujo." A racking, raspy cough cutting off anything else.
Once it settled he requested the penultimate volume of his latest romantic reading endeavor.
"You got it Heartbreak."
He cringed, hearing his moniker come out of an enemy's mouth.
A dubiously aligned enemy but still-- he was an enemy long as he worked with the Director. His Father.
******************************
Wilkes couldn't be considered presentable.
Just an hour ago having contentedly enjoyed his stories in a fuzzy pink robe ashamedly stained with barbecue sauce over a few loving years where they'd gone through many takeout boxes and some cheap beer every few months.
He'd not had time to fix his bedhead once the kids stormed through his house making a ruckus, clearly having individually cut school.
He had not agreed to adopt teenagers.
Nor for those teenagers to stalk another innocent kid who likely knew nothing of what was going on.
Nevertheless he took their information and made use of it to get a blueprint for a wealthy, cutthroat executive's private estate.
"Willie says his room was at the highest floor, furthest from anything and anyone else. Gave him more privacy and more opportunity to sneak out, especially with the overgrown old hedge maze in the way."
"There's three ways to get into that room through the regular entries and hallways," Eli pointed out, fingering both the North and West avenues of the main centerpiece of the property.
"Yeah, only he also installed an escape hatch or something of the kind in the room a month in," the leather clad boy surmised, sipping at his drink as his aviators slipped just a bit. His uniform sloppily done and barely compliant with his dress code. "And I don't believe for a second that the added benefit wasn't being able to steal him away or intrude at whatever time the Ol' Yeller saw convenient."
"Then we should make sure to take out that entryway and any security bound to be there," Eli concluded.
"Alright kids, I'll deal with that," Wilkes decided, having so far watched them in silence, letting them lead.
While he wasn't completely sure this situation was the nefarious kidnapping and torture plot a long time coming he'd be hard pressed to take even the most minute suspicions less than seriously.
That little Oliver orphan boy had somehow weaseled this disgraced hero with bad joints and a watch list of guilty pleasure melodrama stories on TV out of both some expensive car parts, nice little keepsakes and pictures-- before returning them-- and into an odd spot of affection and Mama Bird territorial instinct.
Besides, these new kids in the hero beat, breaking several laws acting independently and the like, were on this particular Crime Lord's list all the same, they were going to confront the man, better they begin to pick up how to keep the battle on their terms and at their paces. Send a message and send a warning.
Whatever was the matter, the little orphaned Heartbreak wouldn't so quietly disappear into nothing. And this Director would need to know that intimately before he considered raising the "disciplined" hand.
"Likely he'll come to check in during his lunch break which according to the company and Raji's visits is ten past one, with the travel to the manor already accounted."
12:45 would be crunch time.
"Through the rose gold bathroom window, that's a blind spot on the mounted cameras, from there beeline for the office, and then across the hall Rayo," Eli said to the leather jacket Vampire Boy, "keep watch from that room, I think its either a parlor or a display room for something or another."
"And no stealing anything," Wilkes added in an authoritative tone.
"Geez fine," he sulked drink empty, tossing the empty plastic cup into a corner trash bin.
Wilkes checked his watch. "10:50."
The trio rushed out, tearing through the door into the driveway. On it Wilkes kept two cars, one a decommissioned undercover vehicle that would pass for an old, shuddering powder blue minivan.
***************************
In an almost deafening silence Jason Wainburr tensed, never at ease in too serene of circumstances. His hyperactive, always morbid mind made and wired for intrigue and violence.
An empty bowl and its tray were in his hands.
Nevertheless he took a deep breath, conscious of his heartbeat, satisfyingly loud and strong.
The boy had settled into some much needed sleep and he'd been cooperative to boot. Having downed the entire thick cream clam broth and a hunk of simple white bread.
"Goo' nigh.'"
And without another thought settled with his eyes closed and his breathing slow and tranquil. It stirred an unexpected sense of "caring." in a region of his body he'd been sure was carved hollow.
Jason was aware to make sure the door didn't groan and squeak too loud when he shut it and even walked in longer, more graceful strides than usual. Not too easy in platform combat boots.
Care is an odd emotion to have. Care had often been associated with guilt, associated with leverage and control.
What he should, as any decent human being, propose himself to care about.
Did he not care, about the very few things in his life that had earned affection? And what was wrong with him to not? Had they, who were nurturing his talents at great expense to themselves, done something?
Absolutely.
But it had done nothing to do about //caring.//
Eventually the word itself became a vile one tasting sickening on his tongue.
And anger had taken its place. Dark, uncomplicated, consuming anger that had simply snarfed his heart whole as recompense for the troubling presence of a meat suit that had entrapped it's amazing force.
However Jason by no stretch hated children or even resented them. Did not demean them, did not generalize them into yet more faceless inhabitants of a reprobate of a society. Did not, would not, wish them active harm or dirty his hands.
And in that at least, he and his chief, superior, and housing agent were the same. The man this adopted son of his so spitefully insisted was just "The Director."
He had liked paternal, uptight, and radiantly generous and content Heartache from day one. Had thought, it was unfortunate he surely had a loving family, Jason would have otherwise snatched him up and never let go. But no, instead they played their game. Seize him, jab a needle in his neck, then fight a bit or let him puzzle his way out in a right fit that put him in a spandex wedgie giving mood.
That never failed to have Jason laughing, even at the honcho's death glares each and every time. Mocking each and every rage when he broke yet another set of crystal studded wine cups or delicate computer discs full of crypto.
Once the stuff was washed and put away in the kitchen cabinet, Jason dried his hands intent to give his boss a status update. And remind him not to fill his lunch break with the usual bitch-fest with the old, bitter ladies in fake emeralds and imitation snake skin bags. Since he'd already been bursting at the seams about his son he spiked a fever.
Being a known fact, of course; "heroes don't get sick! If they did I wouldn't need the gas or the morphine to keep that kid alone, still and not in a biting mood for more than three minutes!"
His phone speed dialed the number.
"Yes," drawled his boss in disinterest and disdain palpable.
"Hey dickweed just wanted to give you a heads up, Wilson crashed already."
"WHaT!" he yelped, voice cracking at the edge. "Oh my goodness--"
"Into his bed, he's asleep."
"Well don't scare me like that," Boss man groused. "You know he looked awful in the morning, didn't even--"
"I know, I know, didn't even have the energy to ask if breakfast was laced with truth serum or how he'd loooove to get the name of your explosives contact."
"Or that mercenary who hit his precious Underdog," Boss agreed, "as if I needed to rent a missile when two fingers would crush baby bird's skulls. Anything more is just in terrible taste."
"But he is... better now is he?"
"Yup," Jason assured, popping the 'P.' "Look sir, he's gonna be wiped for a few hours at this point at most with the headache before the medicine really starts kicking ass like it's supposed to and yes I checked on the off in a billion trillion chance it was expired. He's still coughing and frankly pretty gross stuff coming out his nose but that's normal. He is a snot-nose."
Sarcasm was heavy in his voice. Boss got so mom-like, the chance was too hilarious to pass up. Ah, this kid, this kid was heaven.
"Yes, yes of course. And well he doesn't know does he? That I'm coming by?" he asked tightly.
"Yeah you hired me cuz of my big, fat, sensuous mouth sweet cheeks."
"I can and have whacked other assistants for less," he reminded in a weary, unfettered tone. Ughhhh, exactly why it was hardly fun anymore and why he liked the occasional rise from Will. Kid still hadn't gotten the concept of a scabbed over, grown-up facade.
"I think we both know how that ends," and just to really hammer it in he blew a singular, pucker of a kiss to the phone.
The exhale that left did not sound wholly healthy or polite but it did the trick and made a nice tingle shiver down in a very special spot.
"Well good, I'll still be by, but otherwise make sure he sleeps. He needs the rest."
"You got it. See ya."
"Yes, see you."
And with that the line clicked dead.
And Jason could stop looking pretty leaning over a pristine crystal counter and instead sit pretty in the grand library with a Stevie King.
That had been the plan at least.
And is what he would report a few hours, before the alarm had gone off.
Only abruptly cut by the Blackout procedure.
Active for the event of assassins.
Into the fire
I didn't do anything wrong, I thought as I hopped over old Mr. Hunt's fence and ran down Pine Street. I could hear Officer Stone's heavy breathing. I didn't turn around to see how close he was.
"Stop!" I heard as his partner, Officer Pitt, landed with a thud on the sidewalk.
I kept my head down and my feet flying toward Main Street.
If I was so innocent, why was I running, you ask?
Easy: I live in one of those places where you're guilty until proven innocent. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but no one was ever going to believe me. I know the deal. So, I ran.
As soon as I turned onto Main, I ran into the first alley on the left. A door was ajar so I slipped in. Pitt and Stone thundered by and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Welcome, my child."
The voice came from behind me. I turned slowly and froze. At the same time the door behind me clicked shut and locked. The room before me was dark, lit only by candles on the wall. And a fire pit in the middle of room above which was...I rubbed my eyes, sure I could not be seeing what I thought. Above the fire there was something...someone, turning like a pig on a spit. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the face and screamed.
It was me.
"We've been expecting you," the voice continued from next to me.
I turned and white eyes glowed beside me.
"Uh, I th- think I made a wrong turn," I stuttered, trying to surreptitiously twist the knob behind me.
"No, it was fate," the voice said as a clawed hand dug into my shoulder. "You've been expected."
"No, really, I have to go," I said, desperately trying to open the locked door."
"We insist you stay," glowing eyes said.
"We?" I whispered.
"Mmmhmmmm," the voice murmured as dozens of glowing eyes blinked around me.
April 28th
It all comes down to the voices: the ones in my head that accelerate and hit every hard corner of my prefrontal cortex, reverberating against every edge when the brain is only made of fine lines, memories, soft tissue and regret.
April 28th, 2018. Maybe regret is the emotion of that day: me, walking down the street at midnight, crying so hard I had to lie down on the cement, the dandelions that grew from the cracks in the sidewalk coming up to meet my body like a whisper in a crowd of voices, like dirt overtaking the dead.
It's hard to explain to someone who has never been suicidal what it's like. It's hearing every bad thing you can say about a human being and flinging it like jelly at a wall, but the wall is your mind, and you have no where to run - or to even duck and hide.
No one wants to know about the suicidal. It's a stigma, a cringey fact of life: there are people out there who want to die. As Sylvia Plath said: I do it exceptionally well.
Jack, Don, Nathan, Zeb. I repeated these names to myself, the names of the men who had rejected me most recently, and repeated them in my head until I'm sure my synapses were bleeding just trying to contain that sadness, that hurt, that fear of being incapable of someone loving me.
I was such a sob story, right? You're bored, about to click out of this screen. About to press "escape." Here's the thing: I wanted out, too.
I was twenty-five and just about done with myself.
Suicide, some say, is selfish. But how is erasing this sorry mess of a mind selfish? Aren't I doing everyone a favor? The dandelions came up to meet my body like so many little reminders of life, of all the strands of things that unravel in the end.
They say men are more likely to successfully commit suicide than women, and that they typically do it by more violent means: guns, hanging, etc.
"Successfully commit suicide." There really isn't a vernacular about this, is there? Who talks about this stuff?
After the swallowing of a half a bottle of Xanax, and the ER visit, and the subsequent sleeping for twenty hours - really, it's boring and clinical, the aftermath. It's just heartbreak, and regret - there it is, again. And the voices - they will never go away, not fully, not completely.
Self-involved, some say, attention-seeking. But until you've been there, until you're the one on the sidewalk, and being dead and underground seems a lot more appealing than continuing to suffer endlessly, until you're the one picking the dandelion fluff off your arms even hours later, in the ER - until you've been there, you just don't know.
You just don't. I can't explain to someone who wants to be alive, why you might not want to be. I just can't.
My dad asked me the next morning, after I woke up, as I was about to leave home, back to the realm of Jack, Don, Nathan, and Zeb: "Can you tell me what your name is and where you are going, and why?"
I slurred: "My name is _____, I am going to Boston, and I am going to survive this."
She’s All That
"I'm supposed to be the man," the narrow minded thought can't help but emerge. I mean - I did say that, once or twice? As a joke. Regardless, the thought persists. The smile on my face grows. It's so funny.
I snap my sports bra to remind myself it's there and real. So, how did I fail?
Outdone?
Outdone?
OUTDONE?
OUTDONE WITH NO QUESTION!?
Oh, how refreshing. The reality settling in tethers me to reality, as a gentle warm breeze says hi to my face. I smile hi right back at it, begrudgingly. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Just on the resume, man.
All to be outdone. Flawless social skills, pleasantries, perfect resume appearance, outdone for a less qualified, 'better team fit'.
The humor in the fact I over-qualified myself for 'entry-level' but 'under-qualified' without 'entry-level', supposedly...? Appears to me as plainly as the stench of the mass amount of rotting apples around me hits my nostrils. Yup. I always forget how the trees grossly overproduce, the excess fruits dying off en masse, those highest apples spoiled, naturally, as a part of their individual life cycle. The proof is in the proverbial pudding, as well as the sad attempt my feet have of avoiding street-style applesauce.
"Maybe life is more like a cartoon,"
If I'm ugly or something... I guess, would someone tell me?
"Would I be an ugly cartoon? Oh, some sort of offensive caricature, of sorts?"
As I near the end of the mystical, mythical orchard, I see the white and blue top of the bus stop sign in the distance.
"And this morning, in the mirror, I saw an offensive stereotypical caricature staring back at me," Oh, what an insidious mind, inside what is apparently sometimes a lady killer body. As I stroll past the equally rotting field, placed perfectly along a growing zone and city limit, isn't that an offensive stereotypical caricature? The forgotten corn field parallels an equally forgotten soybean field.
"All that food, gone to waste - I would've eaten it if I had known I was allowed to," The sweet release of an innocent thought reminds me to again, ground myself in my own reality.
Ahh... unemployment. More like, "Isn't this supposed to be funemployment, amirite, ladies!?"
I force my hands into my pockets to feel my empty wallet. Oops. That is not fun or funny.
...But really, to some, it is. As the blue and white top transforms to a full sign, and joins the grey steel pole to the ground, I see him. Oh, joyous day!
It's the homeless man who calls himself God but is the nicest sweetest guy ever - like to the point you kinda... he... excuse me, He. Let's all respect my view of God in this poetic... probably... I mean. If God says He takes many forms - anyways, how lovely the sight of H-him is!
Looking at the flaking, cracking leaves of the decaying yet standing stalks, the deep yellow ochre shades, the black mold shades, the baby yellow hues, the big orange patches scattered throughout... how grounding and mentally stimulating.
"Hey, God!" I call out to Him. [Thou shalt bear no false idols, in sincerity.]
"Ah, my Child!" He calls right back as He rears up from what I had assumed a sitting position, reaching his natural seven foot tall height.
"God, your Earth is surely, naturally, Created - Glorious and beautiful!" I need a really good windup for this one.
"Child of Mine, you are Blessed with the Gift of Plain Sight," Throwing His arms out to welcome me into the final stretches of reaching the city limits bus stop, He booms His support of me.
"Yes; But Father, mine cup runneth dry."
"Surely - You Jest, Child!"
"Father, I solemnly swear this is no jest - I was out-butched in a job interview. I don't even know if you know what that is? But you call me She, I assume you can see how that may not be the easiest thing in a man's world."
"...Surely. You Jest, Child."
"Father, I really need the regular ribbing right now, no jest, I am still unemployed."
"Child."
"Yes, Father?"
"Surely, I Solemnly Swear, Ye Was Out-Butched Two Times Today - In Quick Succession, As Well. Your Father is Your Mother."
Attention To Tea
Nobody tells you how to go about, 'seeing through it all.' Nobody around me seems to see it the same way I, and maybe we, see it. Nobody could help if they wanted to.
"Can you be more specific?" She looks at me with that look.
I don't know how to respond. Maybe we.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was speaking. I meant to be thinking to myself."
"On every point, honey. I'm just trying to understand." She still has that look, and the bridge between us splinters from more constant communication of not understanding.
"I'm just - I'm lost on where exactly you're lost,"
I can tell by the look on her face, it's spread to me. The bug, that bleeding, smearing bug of unintentional ignorance.
"I went voluntarily to the doctor because I knew I needed help, and I brought my relevant medical history. That was not considered because I - I don't know. They kept implying it was because of my disorganized speech, but my medicine manages my disorganized speech. Do you see why that would be scary to me?"
Please, please, please, please, please, don't misunderstand.
"I... I understand your feelings are valid, I just still don't understand why you choose to be so negative and mistrusting. Why would the doctors be out to get you?" She puts the question to me so gently, and yet it hurts so bad. Oh, honey. You strike me with the sharp end of the blade.
I'll try again.
"I'm not saying anybody is out to get me, I don't think I'm relevant socially enough for that. That's - that's not what I mean, that - no, I mean, I just am floored they didn't know how to, or couldn't, support me at the mental hospital. That's where anybody goes to get extreme help and support, right?"
"Well, yes," she sighs. Straightening up how she always does to show she needs me to consider what she says next, my honey strikes me yet again with the sharp end of her verbal blade. "I'm going to ask you a question because I'm still just so lost, and I think you're lost, too. Doctors have gone to years and years of medical school, doctors are always trying to improve and nobody wants to be liable, especially on hot button issues." Meeting my gaze straight, she delivers the final blow.
"Have you considered if they're right? I'm not saying they are..." And off we go to the beginning.
I physically feel my ears ring before I hear it. Imagine, the love of your life. Or, who you thought was. To titter between two equally abysmally stigmatized labels, within my own forcibly labeled body, daily, debating if you are a person beneath the words and the more you use, the less people understand.
Stress can induce disordered speech, too. So can mood disorders. So can settings, or substances.
I remember where I've felt this feeling before. Very few times has it ever broken through to my heart - this time, it was guided as if an expert sharpshooter had lined up the shot.
True fear.
"Fear can produce disordered speech," I say with tears in my eyes. I don't know when my eyes noticed my petition papers had been slightly mussed with, but they did. I know that is the heart of the issue. "Please," I may not be able to read a room, but I can read text from a distance. Years of bad vision without glasses refined this talent of mine.
Report if Suspected Danger to Self or Symptoms Resurface
"I just - I don't get you right now. It's like how people treat gay people. You know how that manifests, right? So... think like that. Why didn't I just get my regular medicine...? Why was that ignored?" I'm pleading. I can't deny I didn't ask to be monitored like this.
"I'm so sorry, honey," She's crying. I know I've lost. Oh, I don't want to go - don't - how many strikes against me? Is this the third time, or fourth? She wouldn't strike me with a proverbial blade like this on purpose, right? "But the papers ended up in the back seat of the car, right? So, did you really bring them in? Hallucinations on everyday tasks and activities are common, did you read up on it for yourself?"
"Yes - listen, if I imagined it, how come someone else can verify they saw me drop the papers off?"
"But can they verify they were the right papers?" She knows that's a point I can't ignore.
Why can't I be supported... outside of the hospital? Why does everybody want me sent back once I start to feel real...? Who plans to pay for this? How can I work to pay off my own bills, if I'm held against my will in yet another place that's going to stick me with both needles and worse, more bills?
"I don't have the means to help you as much as you need, I'm sorry, honey, I try, and try, and try - I just... I don't understand you, or what you want,"
How? When? Did I say that out loud?
How does she not get it?
The Gift
Note: I mostly write, or hope to write, sci-fi or plain-old humour. However, as a challenge, I wrote a fantasy flash-fiction based on an image prompt. I hope this fits in with the brief of this challenge!
---
The tribe would never be the same again.
Kagura fell back from the crowd that watched Lephiane emerge from the top of the mountain. The strange plume that billowed from the sack behind her had stunned her. Not long ago, the two witch sisters had had one of their arguments when Lephiane was venturing across the Barren Rift.
“Lephy, please don’t go!”, she had pleaded.
“Sister, you know we are the chosen ones of the tribe”, Lephiane had argued, “We must venture for the tribe’s survival. They say the land of the Infinite People has a magical gift that has helped them survive for eons and eons.”
“But … but we have everything we need, don’t we? What’s more, we can now conjure up new things for the tribe. Things they never knew existed!”
“Be that as it may, it doesn’t change the fact that we are all dying. Fast!”
“I am working on it …”, Kagura had been hurt.
Lephiane had then held her sister close and comforted her.
“I know. I know. You are smart, brave and skillful. I am sure you will soon be able to save the tribe from extinction; one way or another. But my destiny lies in seeking wonders that exist across the lands, the waters and the mountains.”
“When will you leave?”
Lephiane had smiled as she wiped Kagura’s tears with her sash. “At the first sign of dew tomorrow. You can send me away with your new creation that always brings us home.”
“The Pathfinder!”, Kagura had exclaimed.
Now, as she watched Lephiane making her way back slowly, she was filled with dread about the new dangers that would follow. What if the Infinite People were not friendly and the tribe faced an onslaught like the last time when the long night had come? Hadn’t they been happy for so many ages just being black or white?
The land was white and people were black. It worked very well. The Radiant One in the sky never burned them with her wrath. They saw her walking by, watching over them serenely, where the lands, the waters and the mountains met the sky. There were no shadows to scare the little ones. There were no harsh bright surprises either.
The soft cushions that covered most of the sky were white too. Occasionally they cried along with the tribe. Often when someone went back to The Invisible One. The lament lasted weeks sometimes. They just buried themselves deeper until the crying stopped. It also gave them a chance, in a way, to get closer to those who were gone.
Lephiane was clearly visible now. Kagura retreated a step as if not wanting to meet her sister, not wanting to accept that she was back – and what gift she bore this time. She was happy with the way things were. Simple is always better. Two is better than many.
“I love this black and white world of ours!”, she almost said aloud.
The rising plume of smoke was growing in size and Kagura’s heartbeat sped up. What was about the smoke that she could not fathom? It was neither black nor white. She had never seen that shade before. She wondered if her sister had turned evil from a sorcerer’s spell. She began chanting her secret hymn to face the imminent danger.
All around her, the tribe watched Lephiane. Each of her sisters stood motionless, like they always did to receive travellers. It was a show of strength. No weapons, no spells. Just silence and a resolve to stand their ground. Then, it happened.
A faint restlessness rippled through the watching sisters. A step here, a twitch there. Soon, they were all retreating, slowly but surely. This had never happened before, thought Kagura. Lephiane was already bringing fear with her. The tribe that had lived without distress, doubt or phobia of any kind were moved. She prepared for the inevitable and made her decision.
---
“Kagura! Kagura! My dear sister!”, Lephiane broke into a run and then stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong, sis? Why is everyone retreating?”
“It’s the … the smoke!”, stammered Kagura.
“Oh this? No, don’t be afraid, dear sisters”, assured Lephiane, “This gift will free us from eternal perish. It will provide us with the magical powers to live forever!”
“How?”, demanded Kagura, “All we have ever got from these gifts is destruction and pain.”
“I will teach you how to use it! I have met wizards all over the land of the Infinite People. I know why they are called the Infinite People!”
Kagura frowned but did not retreat any further. Lephiane was now within a few hands from her. Kagura mustered up her courage and met her sister. As they held hands, as she felt her sister’s fingers curl around her palm, Kagura felt something she hadn’t ever before. It was as if she was slowly thawing.
“What’s happening to me, Lephy?”, she asked.
“This is the gift I bring”, smiled Lephiane, “We will never pass away cold and frozen.
We can survive the long white days and nights. The Infinite People keep this gift everywhere. Their homes, pathways, mountains. They even carry it with them over water. Their nights are not black anymore. They can keep away all creatures with this gift. That is how they have survived for many many eons.”
“How does the gift help them do that?”, demanded Kagura, not convinced.
“It keeps them less frozen, or warm, as they say. They offered it to me when receiving me. A warm welcome, they exclaimed. I was as fearful as I sense you are now, sister. Then, I began enjoying the fruits of this gifts, and there are countless! Do you know that we can keep this gift going forever? You can share it and it grows. Oh Kagura! We can finally see in the black nights. We can drive all the demons away that frighten the little ones of the tribe!”
“Does this … this gift have a name?”
“Fire!”, said Lephiane and Kagura knew:
The tribe would never be the same again.
Detention Kids
Well, I always thought that I would end up in detention one day, but never in my life would I guess that it would be the fight with the school's 'golden boy' that would get me there. Yet there I was, sitting on a lousy wooden stool and staring at the terribly-colored cyan wall out of boredom, as the ticking of a clock slowly drove me mad. I was pretty sure it would still keep ticking inside my head once I was out, and I didn't have my earphones with me to cure it because of course I had to forget them back home.
But hey, at least I wasn't alone – they bagged the golden boy too, though they put him on the opposite side of a classroom so we wouldn't fight. Which we probably would if he saw how happy I was that he didn't get away with a fight that, mind you, he started. But we were separated not only by a distance, but also by two other poor souls occupying this room long before we even got there. There was Dana, our school's resident trouble-maker, notorious for pranks that bordered between extremely funny and actually criminal, and then there was a new guy whose name was Adam or something, and, unlike Dana, Adam did not belong there. You see, in addition to being a new guy at school, he was also so extremely quiet and shy that you wouldn't even know he's there unless you accidentally stepped on his foot, after which he would apologize to you and scurry somewhere else. Honestly, him being in the same boat with us three was both intriguing and terrifying.
But that day was a day that just kept on giving, because, when I thought that it would be just the four of us (under the watchful eye of Mrs. Chevinsky, of course) for the next hour or so, the door to the classroom opened, and I almost dropped my jaw. Out of all the people that could've walked through that door, it was her – the prettiest, kindest, smartest girl in the whole city. Her chestnut-colored eyes were an irresistible magnet. Her smile was a sunshine that made the dead flowers bloom again. But despite of that, it was actually her wit and positivity that got her not only the best grades in school, but also the respect of students and teachers alike. While I could somewhat believe that Adam could've done something to end up in detention, I knew that her being there was either a mistake or a stupid joke.
Anyways, there I was, dumbstruck by her unexpected arrival into our humble prison, when I heard someone shout "You know, it's very rude to stare, Greggy!" from across the room. I turned around and saw Dana laughing her little black heart out. I wanted to say something back, but instead I just turned away to the wall, red with embarrassment.
"Silence in the classroom!" Mrs. Chevinsky exclaimed.
"Thank you, Mrs. Chevinsky, I'll take it from here." Said a female voice I didn't expect to hear. I looked back at where the girl stood – apparently I was so starstruck by her that I completely missed our Principal entering the classroom as well. Now why the hell would the Principal be here? The plot began to thicken.
"Of course, Ms. Crowford." Mrs. Chevinsky promptly got up from the desk and left the classroom. Principal looked the girl and gestured to an empty stool in the front row. "Layla, please take a seat." Without dropping a single word, Layla sat down.
"I see everybody is here, that's good." Principal Crowford leaned back on the blackboard. "I know you're wondering why am I here, and let me answer that in the shortest way possible: because I am not happy with you. All of you."
I took a quick glance at Layla and found her looking pale as a ghost.
"Now I'm going to give you an honest answer. Despite our successes, The Ministry thinks that our school is not 'up-to-standards', which brings us on the verge of closing down for good. The only way to keep that from happening is to have a positive review from the Ministry's annual inspection, which began today. And it was today that each and every one of you has decided to mess around and put our school's future – and your future as well – in great danger. But you have a chance to make up for that.
"As you all know, the City's Day Festival is happening soon. This year, our school will take a big part in its preparation, which will gain us the favor of the City Council and show the Ministry that our school is, in fact, up to and well above their 'standards'. So every day up to the Festival itself, you will stay after school to help plan an--"
"Oh this is bullshit!" Dana shouted as she got up from her seat.
"Dana. Sit. Down." Principal commanded. She didn't shout nor raise her voice in any way, but there something in how she said those words that compelled Dana to shut up and sit back without any objection.
"But Ms. Crowford.." 'Golden boy' spoke up, reminding everyone of his presence, "I need to practice for the championship after school – I can't do both at the same time!"
"You'll have to skip your practice then, Max. And this applies to everyone – starting from tomorrow any practices, extracurriculars, hobbies and anything else you have going on after school are non-existent. You will spend your free time, weekends too, in this very classroom, fixing your mess, and if you don't want to get expelled, I recommend you keeping your mouths shut. Am I clear?"
The room was dead silent.
"Good. I'll be expecting to see all of you here tomorrow. You're free to go now."
While the rest of us just started getting up, Dana was already out the door. I tossed my backpack on my shoulder and followed suit, silently cursing this blasted school, the city with its festival, and the guy who got me into this whole mess. In hindsight, it wasn't the fact that I'd have to stay after school that pissed me off, it was that I'd have to work with others on a group project I couldn't care less about.
Little did I know of the bond the five of us would form, how quickly we'd grow to care for each other. Of the love and horror that awaited us.
Little did I know that, by the end of this nightmare, out of five Detention Kids, only three would make it out alive.