Also, what I would have entered into 'The Emerald Challenge,' but I'm out $5.99

Stinks pretty elitist if you ask me. Anyone who reads this, please @Prose for me.

______________________________________

…This is hush-hush classified information, and very important before anyone proceeds…

Handle it wisely, you have been warned by the Reese Publicity Team.

Was it any special kind of day when the event had happened? When they’d been found miles away from each other– grasping at a hand that would never hold theirs again? No. Absolutely not.

And it wasn’t rainy or horribly hot or windy or balmed gray when they were laid into the ground either.

Dad had been found face down just before the city had woken up, not really having drowned in a puddle, but it was better than what the papers in a manila envelope had said so Mason had gone with that. And Mom?

Mom had made a big mess on a highway.

The day of the funeral, when Mason and Ryan both wore itchy gray suits and almost obscene sweater vests to cover up that all they had were their school shirts, it was just a blue sky. Blue sky without a hint of cloud or even the sun save for a pinprick.

An absolute pain, to the very end. Such a stupid thing to do Mom and Dad.

Ryan’s all alone now, or what, was he supposed to take care of him?

He was eighteen and had just managed to not get booted from school much less barely graduate on schedule with his dismal grades.

And worse yet, they did do the job well. Better than he could have ever hoped to do.

Did they leave Ryan on the weekends with a babysitter only paid for Monday and Tuesday? Yes.

But Mom always eagerly cooked Ryan’s favorites to see him smile. And she always had to have pictures of Mason eating the same cute bear face pancakes.

Dad was always there when Ryan needed the sound of his strong heart to drift off, and never said no to reading an extra bedtime story.

Did they ever tell Ryan in any way what they did? No, they hadn’t come up with the right story yet, they would have lied to Ryan.

Had Mason not told him first.

“Mom and Dad take money from other people, probably put them under spells or something because they always take a lot. Sometimes they can’t afford that much and that doesn’t even cover when what they sell just plum done breaks.”

There, he’d told and it didn’t look like three year old Ryan loved them any less.

“Oh yes it's true,” Mom admitted, just like that, “What we do, well, it’s not legal and– oh just promise you’ll be better than us. That you’ll both be better than us! Do very well in school.”

She’d pinched his cheek.

“You have big, attentive eyes, did you know Mason, that means a child’s going to pay attention to every little thing. Every. Little. Thing.”

What he had, Mason wasn’t sure he could call it grief.

It wasn’t about them at all, who, hard as they had tried, were people rather than “parents.”

He’d have to say, it had to do much more with what was broken. What was dead and slipping from his fingers. No dreams. No future. No future, except Ryan.

No future, except the crooner. Whose cheeks often burned red at the nickname and stupid older brother’s smirking face.

Ryan had always adored to sing just as his parents had adored to listen. Clapping in all the right parts and playing music in the house so he would learn about rhythm and melody and rhymes.

“What now?! We can’t– we need Mom and Dad! Why would you say that?! Where are they?!”

In time, as soon as next year Ryan may not remember they’d had parents. But society had affirmed children needed adults and Mom and Dad had introduced him as “brother.” And brother he’d remained.

Obstinate, dismissive, and occasionally a horror. Not a caregiver, but he was all Ryan had left and so accepted his hug in their parents’ bed.

A hot room never failed to put Ryan to sleep so he’d blasted it on and now he was too lazy to turn it down.

His pillow was moist with tears.

Why?

Why?

What was wrong with you both?

A lawyer was in charge of them now, paid in monthly installments from an otherwise sealed account and who knows what else before then. Considerably so, given that their parents had never seen a day’s jail time for their cons. Of which the lawyer had a list.

“Hmm well alright, perhaps when you’re a bit older,” he said, “sir.”

This was too much! He was a kid! And the adult– the adult could or would do anything. Mason was scared.

Mason spent the whole night scared.

So he wouldn’t spend the morning scared.

So a little boy still buried deep down; defiant and bitter, with simplistic concepts of justice– a pretty, palatable lie to feed society– would know he belonged down at his very depths.

“It wasn’t personal.”

And snap.

When Mason beat that child dead with the shovel to bury the evidence.

Poor child. He deserved a grand, beautiful bonfire as his parents had done with 550,000 euros of counterfeit cash.

Date: 05/14, 1 yrs. later. (please excuse coffee stains)

“Come on, get your butt out from under the bridge, goblin,” Mason chided cheerily.

Ryan came out an absolute mess, he knew so and Mason’s laughter wasn’t helping.

But he’d tried! He’d really tried.

“You did good, now come on and eat. Your favorite.”

No, actually, Mason had just made eggs and put the cereal box in front of him.

Divvying both brothers up. Hey! Not polite.

Fine, if he didn’t want Ryan to see all his work stuff.

When he poured and put on milk without spilling Mason nodded approvingly again.

And Ryan smiled, even if it wasn’t nothing really, ugh brother-old man, it was confusing.

“Listen I did get permission to leave work early, I’ll be there by the time lunch gets out and you have your band right?”

The one taped to his wrist after bath time last night? Ryan raised his hand anyway to show it was still on his arm.

His brother laughed lightly.

“That’s good but hey I’ll still bring you some actual snacks.”

Bleh.

Why couldn’t they just go watch a movie? The teachers had said he didn’t have to actually be in school today.

And Ryan didn’t wanna, he wanted to sit and watch TV to catch whatever was on Mason’s “adult cartoon” channel. Couldn’t be so adult if old kids gave big brother weird looks.

If only he were still allowed to make fun of stupid Mason when he was being stupid.

“Done,” he said, shoving the plate in his brother’s face.

“Thank you, you filthy gremlin,” he chortled with an eerie, con-descend-ing smile.

“Okay hop down, spot check,” he said.

Ryan’s legs moved before Ryan did.

And his arms stretched as if big brother had swapped him out with a robot a long time ago. And hey, he absolutely would do that.

He squirmed in revenge.

Still, his shirt got straightened and dusted even if it was as white and clean as when he’d left it on his bed.

Mason, such a grown-up. Picky and blabbing all the time about nothing. Quite a do and big fuss about the tiniest dandelion duffs.

In the car, he let himself look a bit sad, or was he lying again?

“Can you sing this time? I like that better than what’s on the radio.”

But he did like it and he’d come up with something but Mason had been too busy to hear then.

“When the sun peeks, peeks peeks, and peeks the light comes too. The light comes warm and the birds chirp, chirp. The sun is saying: Hi everyone, say hi to you and you and you and all, and all who are sad!"

---------------------------------The sun says hi to all who are sad.--------------------------------------

“Can you believe that?” Mason asks his coworker at a bar. One where he often stares at the large piano.

It definitely had that smoke room, jazzy theme.

The older man put down a load of glasses to restock the back of the old place.

“Sorry,” he said, “your brother, he’s what. Eight?”

Mason simply nodded. “But he is good and he’s getting better. I mean, sure he sings as good as any kid probably but then at home there’s just something in his voice. His music teacher–”

“I think that’s something he should know,” his coworker had come beside him and nudged his shoulder. “And I do mean from you, I think it would be a little weird if I asked around.”

Why wouldn’t–?

Oh.

“Not that it isn’t a good idea to hire someone to finally play the old girl.”

Just that the only people who praised him on it were– in the ground.

Mason put his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey now none of that,” he said, and with a strong heave placed the box down on the floor. Stepping up to Mason whose head was down on the counter in his grim stupor.

“Listen to me okay,” and Mason rose to find him leaning with his arms on the counter, “you are a good brother. Say it.”

“I am a… good brother?” he repeated in more of a question than anything else.

“You’re damn right,” and Mason flinched when he had just slapped his back like some fraternity broski would… Completely out of NOWHERE!

“Listen,” he continued– okay. “You can’t be perfect, that's just the fact of life. You honestly could have chucked the kid into foster care for the state to raise and really, pretty valid.”

Mason gave his superior a withering glare at that moment.

Hands up, he acquiesced, “sorry, what I mean is man, ease up on yourself and tell the little singer now that he has the chops.”

His manager thwipped the rag off his shoulder and toward Mason, “it isn’t so hard honey.” And went off with the most smug grin, as he whistled a tune.

Mason would ask later, just how did the music teacher coax that shy disaster into singing in a red wig and equally garish red church shoes.

Matter of fact, where did she get her props? Those shoes looked store quality– good store quality.

But onto the point, which was that he lived with this shy disaster and he’d complained at length about how scary and confusing and not worth the time— or risk— it was to make friends.

And Mason stopped clapping, when he saw the grin spread across Ryan’s face. The way his eyes sparkled under the lights, how he looked up at them as if– as if a dream had come true.

And, his songs were getting better. And he was listening to his best-liked bands and Japanese idols. Or Korean. One of the two.

“Say for argument’s sake Ridley—”

“Ryan,” he corrected, “what is this about?”

“I dunno but I mean you like music right? Come on don’t think about anything else, not the future or costs whatever– what matters is that you be honest with me. Do you like this jumping around and belting out poetry stuff?”

Mason would like to say he’d been going for casualness with the whole thing.

And all the same he got the answer.

Ryan stared into his jeans, picking at where the pants had been viciously torn into “fashionable,” and then nodded. Nodded furiously and with conviction that yes– “I feel safe and go to– a different place when I do.”

“A better place.”

Then he had his work cut out for him.

The duplex had no computer and until it was a sure thing, Mason couldn’t risk Ryan having to go alone in the evening, by himself, while he hunted for an Internet signal.

The rain fell in heavy sheets, pounding the cobblestone streets with a relentless fury. I stood at the edge of the city square, hidden in the shadows cast by the towering buildings. My eyes locked onto the figure standing in the centre—the so-called hero of this tale, bathed in the soft glow of a streetlight. His armour gleamed with the promise of justice, and his sword hung at his side, waiting for the moment he would draw it against me. He didn’t know it yet, but this was the endgame.

For both of us.

People always speak of heroes and villains as if they are roles assigned at birth, as if some are born with the light inside them while others are forever consumed by the dark. But that’s not the truth. It never has been. You see, I was once the hero of this story, too. I fought for what was right, stood for justice, saved lives. But somewhere along the way, I made a choice. I chose to become the villain.

And I did so willingly.

I stepped forward into the light, my boots splashing in the puddles below, each step echoing in the silence of the night. The hero's gaze snapped toward me, his hand hovering near his sword, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

“Why?” His voice was steady, but I could hear the confusion, the disbelief. He still couldn’t understand why I had turned my back on everything we once stood for.

I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Because I had to.”

He frowned, taking a step toward me. “Had to? You didn’t have to do anything! You chose this! You betrayed us!”

Ah, betrayal. It always comes down to betrayal in stories like this, doesn’t it? But there was no betrayal. Not really.

“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I did choose this. But not for the reasons you think.”

His hand gripped the hilt of his sword now, but still he hesitated, as if waiting for an explanation that would make sense of it all. I suppose I owed him that much.

“I was once like you,” I began, my voice low and measured. “I believed in justice, in fighting for the greater good. I believed that we were saving the world. But then I saw it—what we were really doing. We weren’t saving anyone. We were keeping the balance, yes, but only by making sure the cycle of suffering never ended.”

The hero’s brow furrowed, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about?”

I let out a soft laugh, but it was filled with bitterness. “Don’t you see? Every time we saved the day, we only prolonged the suffering of the people we were trying to protect. The enemies we defeated—new ones would always rise in their place. The people we saved—they would suffer again, whether from famine, war, or sickness. And we, the so-called heroes, were nothing but tools to maintain this broken world. We kept the system alive.”

His sword was out now, gleaming in the pale light. “So what? You think you’re better than the system? You think you can change it by becoming a monster?”

“I think I can end it,” I said coldly.

That was the truth of it. I had realized that the only way to truly break the cycle was to destroy everything. To burn it all down and let something new rise from the ashes. Yes, I had made myself the villain—because only a villain could destroy the world. Only a villain could do what needed to be done.

“I didn’t want this,” I continued, taking another step forward. “But you and I both know that heroes can’t change the world. They can only preserve it.”

His face was pale now, the weight of my words sinking in. He didn’t want to believe it. Of course, he didn’t. That was the curse of heroes—they always believed there was a better way, even when the world showed them over and over again that there wasn’t.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “There’s always another way.”

“No,” I said softly, “there isn’t.”

I moved faster than he expected. My blade was in my hand before he could react, and it was over in seconds. His sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees, blood pooling around him. His eyes were wide with shock, staring up at me as if he still couldn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and for a moment, I meant it. “But this is the only way.”

As he collapsed, the rain washing away the blood, I stood there, alone in the dark, my heart heavy but resolute.

I was the villain.

Because I had made myself one.

And I would end the world, even if it meant damning myself in the process.

Hey thank you all for reading! I want to apologies for not posting more of my writing but I assure you I have a lot more I intend to release, just going to measure it out so I don't run out if my motivation hits a dry spell. But as always, any feedback is more then welcome!

What people don’t talk about when it comes to the market crash is the ripple effect of it all. Yes, people lost their jobs, and there was a certain horror in that, but there was also a horror in how those men and women processed the loss of their life’s work. Many drank, some skipped town, leaving their families behind, and some took it out on their families.

I lived in a small working-class suburb, and Danny lived a block away from me on Dover Street, and Brooke also lived on Dover, just further down towards the mountains. There was a small park in between all our houses where we met up most evenings when the wind wasn’t too cold, or we weren’t locked in our rooms playing catch up on homework we should have started months ago.

The park was built by the town right before the crash, with hopes of the vacant lot behind it being turned into a school, because the elementary school up on Normandy Avenue was in a serious state of disrepair.

The park got built in a hurry around election time, the only time anything really happens, and then all the money went to abroad to places where factory workers didn’t complain as much about little things like benefits, pension plans, raises, and labor laws. So, now we were left with the shadow of a town filled with disillusionment at the great lie that our parents’ generation were sold.

I was lucky, in a sense. My father was able to switch over to a management job for the railroad, which was a non unionized position. He knew the storm was coming and could switch over before many of the conductor jobs got axed along with the closures of our three major industries, which all fell like dominos within six months of each other.

But the railroad hung on by the skin of its teeth, because of the smaller industries all along the coast heading west. It wasn’t much, but he remained employed, though that didn’t always make me Mr. Popular at my high school. Danny’s father survived too. He was a cleaner who had a contract with the Walmarts in Atlantic Canada. He was on the road nonstop, but Danny, his mother and sister kept a roof over their head because of it. That was what mattered the most.

Brooke’s father, however, did lose his job. We didn’t know the severity of it until she started coming to the park with different afflictions. One evening, it would be a cut just above her left eyebrow. A week later a shiner with every color of the rainbow swirling like a vortex, and then a few days after that a swollen lip, cracked and busted.

“What’s going on, Brooke?” I finally said one evening.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She answered, walking towards the small yellow slide where she laid at the bottom and stared up at the night sky.

I looked over at Danny, who shrugged his shoulders, and we followed her. I laid on the slide next to her, and Danny dug in the sand under the playground and grabbed three bottles of warm beer that he buried for evenings like these. We opened them up and drank warm piss, making faces like we were shooting hard liquor, and then I asked again.

“Seriously, Brooke. What’s going on?” She was silent for a moment.

“You ever wonder what you’re gonna do after high school?” She asked, then continued before Danny or I had the chance to answer. “I know that we won’t see each other anymore. I know that.”

“Brooke, that’s not tr–,” I tried to say, but she cut me off.

“My mom was going through photo albums the other night. She was a teenager here in the late 70s. There were pictures of her and she was beautiful, so full of life. She had that Charlie’s Angel’s hair, and she was so happy. Every picture she was smiling like her face couldn’t stretch anymore. Every. Single. Picture. I asked why I’d never met her friends from back in the day, and she said, that’s life, sweetie. People drift apart. People lead different lives. And she started to cry. One of them died of cancer a few years ago, and the other’s were on the other side of the country living in a goddamn glass cathedral on hills overlooking a mining town. And she was here.”

Danny and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do with our bodies. He peeled the label off of his beer, always trying to extract it in one go, and I stared at the small dark freckle just below her left cheekbone and kept my eyes locked there, not knowing where else to point them. I got lost in that freckle, and for a moment I loved Brooke, and I wanted to tell her I loved her, and that I’d keep her safe, and I’d make sure that we never drifted apart, but I couldn’t because of the pact. When Brooke first started hanging around Danny and me, she said we had to make her a promise, and we said sure, what was it? And she told us we couldn’t fall in love with her, no matter what. Danny and I had looked at each other and laughed, but she was serious, not a hint of humor in those auburn eyes, and we agreed. We spit in our hands and shook them. No one was allowed to fall in love, as though that were something within our control.

“My father isn’t handling things well.” She said in a voice just above a whisper. Almost like she was hoping we didn’t hear, but that she could still say she told us. Or at least she told the wind.

“Your dad’s doing this?” Danny asked, the half peeled label in his hand. “Jesus, Brooke. We gotta go to the police or something.”

“No, Danny. You’re not gonna do anything, you got it?” She said, sitting up from the slide and pointing a finger right between Danny’s eyes. Danny was timid and small, always a target for small town cruelty.

“You got that too, Jamie?” She turned to me, and I nodded.

“No cops, gotcha. But what are you gonna do?”

She relaxed and laid back on the slide.

“I turn 18 in six months. I’ll have to go somewhere. Anywhere. Find a place, and grow up.” She sipped her beer. Then I followed, then Danny. It was terrible, but still to this day, anytime I drink a beer, I travel back to the park, the cold sand slipping through my fingers. The frigid evening air was cold, often too cold, but feeling like being a cool teenager meant always wearing less clothing than was needed. Danny’s laugh, the way his front teeth came out, and he looked like a rabbit. Then if you got him laughing hard enough, and loud enough, he’d snort like a pig and the three of us would erupt in laughter. The kind of laughter that you thought would never end on those days when your mind didn’t care about reality because you had friends, good friends, to take you away from it. Just like best friends should do.

But we didn’t do enough for Brooke. We didn’t do enough because we respected her wishes too much, or because we were scared, most likely a healthy mixture of the two. Because the cuts and bruises got worse, and the laughter became a rarity and even when it reared its head, it wasn’t filled with life, nor escape, it was just a short cackle, that signified, hey that was funny, in better times, I would have given you more. But this is all I’ve got left.

Danny and I didn’t talk about it, because talking about it would turn into finding a solution, and the only solution was the cops, exactly what Brooke didn’t want. So we remained silent, talking about sports and superheroes, and pretending we gave a shit about anything other than what was happening to our best friend, and the helplessness we felt.

——————————————————————————-

When she died, I was asked to do the eulogy. This is the note that she left:

When you bury me, I want Jamie to do the eulogy. Jamie with his soft brown hair, and his worried eyes that always made me chuckle, but also a little bit sad. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I think that I didn’t let him talk enough. I didn’t let him talk enough because I was frightened of the truth that would come out of his lips. He’s wiser than his years. Oh, and one more thing, Jamie, I wish we would have never had that stupid pact. But it never changed the way that I felt.

So, I stood up at the altar of the Holy Cross and stared out at scattered people occupying less than half of the pews and talked about Brooke. As I looked down at her father in the front row, I realized something definite. I was going to kill him. At the altar of a church in front of a statue of the crucifixion, I decided I was going to kill a man.

That evening I sat at home, slouched on the couch, my father on his chair beside me, nursing a beer. For the first time, I felt like my old man had nothing to say. He always knew the right words to keep you going, but this time he didn’t. I could feel his eyes in my peripheral, constantly moving back and forth from the TV to the side of my head.

“I’m gonna go to the park with Danny for a bit.” I said, and my father said, “Sure, kid.”

When I got there, I laid on the slide. The one to the right, because by laying on the side that Brooke did, was admitting to myself that she wasn’t coming back. And that was something I wasn’t ready to process.

There were no stars that evening, just clouds that looked ominous in the dark sky. Like the sky understood how I was feeling, like it understood that people didn’t want sunshine and starlight every day, that some days you wanted to know that the universe could be ugly too. Like it was reminding you that you weren’t alone. We all had cloudy days.

Danny showed up a few minutes later, and he sat in the sand where he normally did. It was one of the reasons I loved Danny, because he understood the world the way I did. We saw things the same way.

“Shitty day,” Danny said.

“Yup.”

“Can’t believe she’s really gone.”

“Me neither.”

“What are you thinking about, Jame?”

Another thing I loved about Danny was that he cared what was on your mind. He wanted to have a conversation the right way. So many people spoke only to wait for their chance to speak again. That wasn’t the same as listening, that wasn’t the same as inquiring. But on that evening, I was scared to tell him what was on my mind. We thought alike, but maybe this was me descending deep into the throes of madness.

“Something’s on your mind, man. Unburden thyself.” And he smiled. I did too.

I sat up and looked at him with as much seriousness as I could muster. “Look, Danny. You might think I’m crazy, alright?”

“Too late for that.”

“I’m serious, man.”

“Okay, okay!” He put his hands up.

“I want to kill Brooke’s dad.”

The words came out of my mouth, and it felt like the entire world shut down. Everything seemed so quiet in the moments following the words, because they were out there now, and there was no way to bring them back. No way to say that it was all a joke.

“What?” Danny asked. “You’re not serious?”

I could feel the tears coming now. I closed my eyes as my mind played snapshots of every memory I had with Brooke. It was the three of us watching movies in my old man’s man cave, laughing our heads off and spilling popcorn onto the carpet. We were sneaking out of our houses and walking along the abandoned rail line that was growing its own ecosystem behind the old high school. We were sitting right where Danny and I were sitting, drinking beer that we’d stolen from Danny’s dingy basement, and trying to act like grownups. She was alive, and we were talking about getting out.

When I opened my eyes, Danny had tears coming down his too.

“He took her from us, man. He beat her until she had nothing left to live for. He did that. He killed her. He doesn’t deserve to live. HE DOESN’T DESERVE TO LIVE!” I screamed.

Then it was quiet again, and Danny looked down at his hands buried in the sand and said,

“How are we going to do this?”

“I have no fucking idea.”

And we both laughed. Bent over laughing, unable to keep it in, and as my eyes closed, I could almost hear Brooke laughing with us.

We’re doing this for you, Brooke. I love you.

——————————————————————————————

That evening I laid in bed tossing and turning, and wondering how exactly we could kill a man. A few questions continued to echo inside my head.

Could I do it?

Could I get away with it?

And could I come up with a plan?

I thought I could do it. There was enough hatred flowing through my veins. It was just how to do it and how to get away with it. Did Dylan and I just knock on the door and when he answered, just pop him in the head?

Dylan’s old man did have a collection of Ruger’s. We could probably get our hands on a gun, but how did we dispose of the body?

But then I thought about talking to Dylan about the school they were supposed to build before everything went to shit, and how it was just a deep, dark pit. You probably could put a body down there. Plus, Danny also had access to his mom’s car. She was off on disability and the little grey Toyota usually just sat in the driveway begging to be driven.

Then there was the question of Brooke’s mother. She was as much of a mess as the old man. She wallowed in her alcohol, and in another life, she’d likely deserve what the old man was going to get. Her sin was the one of pretending things weren’t happening, but then again, if I were going to kill her for that, the next bullet would need to go under my chin.

But Brooke said that her mother went to the Legion for Bingo on Wednesday nights. She always said that because Wednesday nights we stayed at the park longer, because she didn’t want to be alone with her father. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, or talked to her when it was just the two of them.

Then my heart started racing because I thought I had formulated at least a semblance of a plan. Wednesday night, we’d get Danny’s mom’s car, put some kind of tarp in the trunk, and we’d knock on the door. Boom. Point blank, we’d shoot him once in the head. Grab the body and take it to the park, where we’d bury it in the hole. 

Of course, the plan wasn’t foolproof. There were neighbors who might see what’s going on. There’s the chance he might not answer. There was also a chance that Brooke’s mom skipped Bingo that evening, and hell, there was the strongest chance of all that we just didn’t have the balls to go through with it.

But if all went right, there was also the chance of everything going as planned, and nobody finding out a thing.

Yes, Danny and I would have to live with it for the rest of our lives, but if he stayed alive, we’d have to live with that, too. And which was worse?

The following evening, I told Danny the plan and his face went pale.

“Put the body in my mom’s car?” He asked.

“We’ll make sure there’s no trace of anything. No way they could trace it back to you or your mom. We’ll cover it up and put his body on it, and then we’ll dump him.”

“You really want to go through with this, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because at night when I get scared of doing this and start trying to talk some sense into myself, I feel worse. I feel like letting him live is worse than killing him. Walking these streets every day knowing that there are monsters like that who are allowed to wake up and just go about their days. It makes me feel worse.”

“So, you want one of my old man’s guns, and my mother’s car, but you’re going to pull the trigger?”

“I’ll pull the trigger.”

“And not one soul finds out about this as long as we live?”

“Not a soul.”

We both paused, and then finally Danny said.

“Then let’s do it.”

I smiled.

“I love you, man. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “Best accomplice to fucking murder you’ve ever had.”

——————————————————————————————

On Wednesday night, I waited at the park for Danny to show up with the car. I still had Brooke’s suicide note that told me she loved me. And if I ever lost it, I think I’d go mad.

Danny was a few minutes later, and I started to feel like it would never happen. That I should just forget it. That I was just a stupid kid.

But then I heard tires rolling down the gravel and knew it was Danny. I hopped the side of the fence to grab a green tarp that had been lying around since the contracting company pulled out, and I ran back towards the car.

“Pop the trunk.” I said.

I placed the tarp in the back and went around to the passenger’s side.

Dylan looked pale as he handed me a loaded Ruger with hands that shook. He looked like he was about to cry, and I tapped his shoulder. “Within an hour, it’ll all be over.”

We backed out slowly and drove west down Dover until we came up to Brooke’s house. It was a small one story with chipped yellow paint and shingles that direly needed repair. I told Dylan to back in, so that we would have less distance to carry the body, and at the word body, Dylan threw up on himself. Only a little, and it didn’t get in the car. But it was enough to tell me we had to do this fast.

He backed the Toyota up with expert precision, and I felt like we could get away with it. There were neighbors but not stuck together, and in front of their house was a crescent with no houses for at least 500 feet.

It wasn’t exactly the boonies, but there was a chance no one would notice anything. Of course, there was the sound of the gun, but we’d have to get the body in the trunk and leave before anyone even realized what had just happened.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“No,” he answered with a sad smile.

The gun was loaded and ready. We walked up the three concrete steps and I knocked on the door. Christ, I hoped Brooke’s mom was at Bingo. There was no answer for a moment, so we knocked again, Danny scanning the area to make sure that no one was looking. Though it was hard to tell.

After the third set of knocks, I heard a grumpy hoarse voice call out.

“One goddamn second.”

And I waited with the gun pointed at the door. As soon as he answered, I shot. I didn’t allow myself enough time to think, and I didn’t allow him enough time to grab the gun and turn it around on me.

He dropped quickly.

“Oh my God,” Danny said from behind me.

I turned to him. His face was white, and I’m sure mine was as well. “Let’s grab him. Grab his feet, okay?”

Danny nodded, and we struggled with the body. He was a big man, at least 250 lbs. And now it was 250 lbs of dead weight.

I grabbed him from under his armpits, and Danny grabbed his legs, scooting his hands up close to his knees. And we did a three count before throwing him in the trunk.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.” I said, and we scanned the area again. A couple of lights went on, but no one had exited their homes. “Don’t peel out, Danny. Just back it out slowly.”

He listened, and we took off east down Dover Street, driving even under the speed limit. Then we got to the park, drove slowly down the gravel, and backed the car up close to the hole.

“You did great, Danny.” I said. “Other than the puking.”

He didn’t laugh, but he seemed to be over the worst of it.

We pulled the body out of the trunk and just let it drop four feet into the dirt. Danny had a small flashlight, and he flashed it inside the trunk to make sure that the body touched nothing, or that no blood splattered, making his own mother an unknowing suspect in a goddamn homicide.

I jumped in the hole, and began burying the body as deep as I could, so that even if in time somebody came back to do the job, they’d just pour the concrete over this spot and hopefully no trace of this man would ever be found.

I came back up, and Danny was leaning against the trunk of the car. “I think we’re good.” He said.

“I think so too.”

We stood there for a long time, and then I said, “want to go to the park?”

He nodded, and we sat in our spots. I grabbed three beers, handed one to Danny, who instantly began peeling off the label. I put one on the slide next to me for Brooke, and then I drank one myself.

Danny and I didn’t talk much that evening. We just said, “To Brooke,” as we raised our glasses. And we both hoped that the horror of what we’d done remained a secret.

“Remember when you used to eat alone in recess”, she said mockingly,

Remember when all of you decided to be bad classmates to me?

Not even once I felt included in your class, nor in the other section when I changed paths.

9th A or 9th B seems to be the same to me, full of people that don’t give theirselves a chance to meet me.

And you know what’s funny?

I actually started believing that something was wrong with me.

Maybe I was too quiet. Too awkward. Maybe I deserved to be alone.

But then, over time, I realized it was never about who I was. It was about the narrow walls you all built around yourselves, the ones that kept me out. You never gave me a chance to show who I really am.

And as time went on, I found something unexpected in the silence: my own voice.

I started listening to myself more, understanding what I wanted, what I enjoyed, and who I truly was—away from all of you.

I learned that I didn't need your approval or your friendship to define my worth. The person I was becoming was stronger, more resilient than the one who desperately tried to fit in.

Now, when I look back, I see a girl who wasn’t weak for sitting alone. She was strong for surviving every day in a place that made her feel small.

You all taught me something without even knowing it: that I don’t need to be included by people who don’t value me. I just need to belong to myself.

So, thank you for pushing me away. Thank you for making me realize that the only acceptance I truly needed was my own.

Just eight years old. He grit his teeth, held his arm as if it could protect against the cold.

"Help me."

"Help me."

"Just some food."

"Please!" He was growing a bit angry, speaking through almost closed lips.

So many hands that would reach out, so many kind eyes before--

This time it was a girl no older than fifteen, in a school uniform with the most clear blue eyes.

And as if caught in a flash they widened.

Her hand retracted, muttering about an adult doing the deed.

Shouldn't be involved.

He stumbled to sit back.

Alone. And cold.

In the heart of a quiet town stood an unassuming library that only opened its doors at midnight. It was a peculiar place, filled with shelves upon shelves of books, each containing the life story of a different person—one that could have been lived if different choices had been made. The librarian, an enigmatic woman named Nora, had a twinkle in her eye that hinted at secrets deeper than the stories themselves.

On a particularly sleepless night, a disillusioned musician named Leo stumbled upon the library, drawn in by the soft glow of its neon sign. He had long abandoned his dreams, settling for a mundane life as a barista, but something about the library called to him. He stepped inside, greeted by the musty scent of paper and possibility.

Nora smiled knowingly as she handed him a book titled The Life of Leo, and as he flipped through the pages, he was entranced by a version of himself who had pursued his passion relentlessly—touring the world, playing to sold-out crowds, and living a life filled with vibrant color. Overwhelmed with longing, he wished he could live that life instead.

Suddenly, a loud chime echoed through the library, and the pages began to shimmer. With a jolt, Leo found himself transported into the book, standing on stage in front of thousands, guitar in hand. It was exhilarating, but he quickly realized that every choice he made in this new life was governed by the weight of consequence.

As he embraced his dream, he learned that fame came with its own price. Friends turned into rivals, and the thrill of success was shadowed by isolation. Each night after the show, he found himself more alone, longing for the simple joys he had once taken for granted—a late-night coffee with his barista friends, the laughter of familiar faces.

Just when he thought he’d made a terrible mistake, a chance encounter with a fan led him to an unexpected twist: she was a struggling writer named Emma, who inspired him to blend his music with storytelling. Together, they created an immersive experience—live concerts that wove tales of love, loss, and redemption. Their collaboration sparked a wildfire of creativity that revitalized both their lives, drawing audiences from far and wide.

But the deeper Leo delved into this new life, the more he sensed a darker undercurrent. He began to notice other books in the library, each one representing lives twisted by regret and bad choices. People were getting trapped in their stories, unable to return to the real world, their dreams morphing into nightmares.

Realizing he needed to escape before he became another cautionary tale, Leo confronted Nora. With a sly grin, she revealed her true nature—she was the guardian of dreams and nightmares, feeding off the stories of those who lost their way. “Every dream has its price, Leo,” she said, her voice echoing with a thousand whispers.

In a desperate gamble, Leo called upon the power of his newfound friendship with Emma, inviting her into the narrative. Together, they crafted an ending that merged their dreams with a reality they could share. As they wrote the final chapter, the library began to shake, and the shelves started to crumble.

With one last look at the life he had lived, Leo leaped toward the exit, pulling Emma with him. They tumbled into the real world, landing in the cozy café where Leo had once served coffee, laughter ringing in their ears. They had escaped the clutches of the Midnight Library, but the experience had changed them forever.

As they walked out into the dawn, Leo turned to Emma. “What if we write our own story?” he asked, a spark of hope in his eyes. With the sun rising behind them, they began to dream anew—no longer bound by what could have been, but eager to explore what was yet to come.

He walked past her again. It almost felt like he was walking through her. She cried out to him, begged him to stop, but this was going to be another day of the silent treatment.

He slammed the door and headed to work. She stood at the window, watching him back away down the driveway in his new truck. He refused to talk to her about the purchase; he just showed up one day several weeks ago, the dealer sticker still in the window.

He hadn't spoken to her in over a month.

She looked out at the neighborhood. It had gotten to be fall without her even realizing that the weather had cooled. Leaves gathered in silent blankets, warming the earth.

She felt a chill, and went back to bed.

______________

She'd been sleeping more, lately. It was unusual for her, but she'd somehow slipped into a deeper darkness than she'd ever experienced. She'd been depressed before, but this was different; black days didn't begin to describe it. She'd sleep, she'd awaken. He'd ignore her as they watched television, when she actually joined him downstairs.

Most nights, he'd fall asleep on the couch, a highball glass with remnants of an ice cube giving testimony to how he'd spent another one of his evenings. The empty Glenlivet bottles were lined up in a windowsill.

The ghostly green was absurdly beautiful in the setting sun.

One night, seized with a frustration that words wouldn't cure, she grabbed one of those empties and flung it at the wall.

Finally, he looked in her direction, eyes bleary, a gasp on his lips and a trembling tumbler in his hand.

A rorschach of whiskeystains colored the offwhite sheetrock. Little divots formed where the bottle struck and shattered; verdant shards rained to the hardwood. A glass garden bloomed on the kitchen floor.

She didn't speak, but wailed tears of sorrow, anger, and sadness.

She was angry at mourning the loss of the two of them; she was angrier at his apparent lack of concern for their love slipping away.

He just looked at that rorsharch on the wall. A study of himself, painted in single malt.

She went back upstairs, crying herself to sleep.

______________

Winter came, and nothing improved between them. He started missing work some days, and those bottles began to line the floor beneath the window.

She refused to clean up after him.

She sat down in the chair opposite the couch one day when he slept past his alarm. She reached out to turn off the television, but it smoked and smouldered under her fingertips, and it died on its own. She snatched her hand back, expecting a shock, but she felt nothing. Where it had been blasting on about some winter storm on the Weather Channel, now there was only silence and the smell of ozone.

She just sighed.

One more thing gone wrong.

She tried to wake him, but he wouldn't stir.

She couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in the bed with her. His only trips upstairs were to dress, and even those stopped when he moved everything he needed into the guestroom.

She was a heavy sleeper, and the depression she'd slunk into forced her to stay in bed most days.

"We need help, babe." She said, hoping he'd engage her.

He just rolled over, curled away from her, shivered, and continued to sleep on the couch.

"I'm going to leave if we don't try to fix this."

Nothing. He reached for his blanket on the back of the couch, still sleeping.

She knew it was a lie. Despite all this darkness, she loved him still.

______________

Time was a slippery thing to her in her depressions.

When the snow began to melt, the man from the bank came. She refused to open the door, but looked out the peephole at him. He left an orange flyer above the knocker.

She went back to sleep, and the tears took away the worry.

She awakened to the ear-splitting noise of reversing alarms on a truck.

A Uhaul sat in the front yard, but she was too tired, too sad, to care anymore.

She slept again.

______________

When she awakened, everything in the house outside of her bedroom was gone. Echoes greeted her creaking steps down the stairs, and she cried out in fear, in shock, and in such incredible, aching remorse that she felt her heart shatter just as a windowpane above the kitchen sink did.

He'd left her bedroom, and moved out around her.

She collapsed in the living room in a heap, wails filling the air and blackness coloring her world.

______________

She felt like she was being torn apart.

Sleep disappeared, and dreams were replaced with the sound of Latin being spoken downstairs.

Latin?

It echoed throughout the emptiness of the house below her. Inside, she ached. Physical pain tore through her, and she screamed, despite trying to listen.

The Latin stopped, and the clinching in her gut relaxed.

She stumbled to the stairway, and looked down into the living room.

Strangers gathered, surrounding a priest.

He looked at her.

At her. He smiled.

It was the first real contact she'd had since...

And memory flooded her.

______________

Images of she and her husband.

He was driving, she was holding his hand.

They were just going to the store; a beautifully mundane ritual.

He said something and she laughed.

And then it happened.

______________

The priest spoke to her.

"Hello, Melanie."

She didn't reply.

"These are the Murchisons. They own this house now. They asked me to bless it before they move your bedroom out, and they move their family in."

"Mine," she managed to croak, tears flowing.

She noticed the couple cringe, and the man, Mr. Murchison, she presumed, shivered. They were young; they reminded of her of how she and her husband looked back when.

"GET OUT!" she managed to yell, voice cracking through tears.

The young woman began to cry.

The priest just continued to smile, and he took a step closer.

"Melanie. You need to go Home. You need to let go of this place."

The Latin resumed, and the last thing she heard:

"Go with God, Melanie."

"Amen."

And she let go.

The house disappeared from around her, and sadness was a distant whisper.

______________

A tractor trailer blew through the red light.

It hit the passenger side of the car at somewhere around fifty miles an hour.

As the noise died away, so did she.

At 27, life became a cruel parable of self-sabotage and relentless despair. I stood amid the wreckage of my flooring company, a venture I once nurtured with the fervor of a man seeking redemption. That business had been my sanctuary, a place where the hum of saws and the rhythm of hammers drowned out the cacophony of my inner demons. It was more than a company; it was a testament to my struggle against the dark tides of addiction and depression.

But like all things I touched, it withered. There were whispers of betrayal, the cold sting of discovering everything had been stolen—the trust, the money, the dream itself. My sanctuary was violated, and I found myself facing the harsh reality of my own failures. Pride had become a noose around my neck, tightening with every misstep.

Then there was her. Ten years, we shared breaths, dreams, and nightmares. But as the years wore on, the space between us grew wider, an unbridgeable chasm. We became distant shadows, two strangers cohabitating in a bed once warm with intimacy. The silence between us was a living thing, suffocating and relentless. No sex, no tenderness, just the cold, hard reality of two souls drifting apart.

I knew she was fucking someone else. I could see it in her eyes, the way she avoided my gaze, the way her body tensed when I reached out. But how could I blame her? For years, I had battled my own demons, drowning in a sea of depression and addiction. How could she love a man who couldn't even love himself? I was a ghost, haunting the remnants of a life that once held promise.

Our home, once filled with laughter and the playful chaos of our dogs, became a mausoleum of broken dreams. She took the dogs when she left, and with them, the last vestiges of warmth and companionship. I was left alone, the echoes of their absence a constant reminder of my solitude. The bed, now a barren expanse, mocked me with its emptiness.

The nights were the hardest. I'd sit in the dark, chain-smoking, the glow of the cigarette a solitary beacon in the blackness. Memories flooded back, each one a dagger to the heart. I could still hear the laughter, the whispered promises, the shared hopes. But those were ghosts now, haunting the corridors of my mind.

Recovery was a relentless grind. The AA meetings, with their well-worn phrases and bitter coffee, were a ritual of survival. I'd sit in those circles, listening to the confessions of others, each story a mirror of my own shattered life. I wasn't just battling addiction; I was wrestling with the existential dread that seeped into every corner of my being.

Jung's archetypes danced through my thoughts, taunting me with their elusive meanings. The warrior, the lover, the fool—I embodied them all and yet felt disconnected from each. My unconscious mind was a labyrinth of symbols and shadows, each twist and turn leading me further into the abyss. The collective suffering of humanity weighed on me, a constant reminder that I wasn't alone in my misery. Yet somehow, that shared suffering only deepened my isolation.

The question of meaning gnawed at me. Was there a purpose to this suffering? Was it a test, a trial by fire that would forge me into something stronger? Or was it all a cosmic joke, a cruel twist of fate that left me grasping for answers in the void? The universe offered no solace, only a cold, indifferent silence.

I envied those who found comfort in faith, who wrapped their fears in the warm blanket of belief. For me, there was only the harsh, unvarnished truth: life was a series of losses, punctuated by fleeting moments of joy. Each day was a battle, each breath an act of defiance against the crushing weight of despair.

So I stood amidst the ruins of my life, a recovering addict at 27, stripped of everything I once held dear. The future stretched out before me, a barren wasteland of uncertainty. Yet somewhere, deep within, a flicker of defiance remained. I wasn't ready to let the darkness claim me. Not yet. There was still a fight left in me, a spark that refused to die. And perhaps, just perhaps, that would be enough.

Or maybe it was just another lie I told myself to keep going. But in the end, what is truth but another construct of a mind desperate to find meaning in the chaos? Either way, the road ahead was long, and I was still standing. And for now, that had to be enough.

The night life happened, I was ten years old, and the air was thick with the kind of oppressive humidity that makes breathing feel like a chore. The living room, dimly lit by the flickering light of the television, felt like a stage set for a tragedy that had been rehearsed in whispers and shadows.

My mother sat on the threadbare couch, a cigarette burning slowly between her fingers, its ember the only sign of life in her otherwise lifeless form. Her eyes were vacant, staring through the television screen into some dark void that I couldn't see but could feel creeping into our home. She had been like this for days, trapped in a silent battle with demons that only she could see. Depression, they called it, but it felt like a possession, something dark and malevolent that had taken hold of her and wouldn't let go.

I reached for the phone, my small hand trembling as I thought to call for help. “Dad…” I whispered into the silence. Dad, we called him, but he was anything but. Likely, he was at some dingy bar, hunched over a drink, his face etched with the lines of a man who had given up long ago. He was always drunk, it seemed, always doing everything he could to avoid being home, to avoid the life he pitied. When he did stumble through the door, it was with the heavy scent of alcohol and regret, his eyes bloodshot and his movements sluggish.

He had his own demons, ones that he drowned in whiskey and cheap beer. I knew he hated himself for not being able to save my mother, for not being able to save any of us. But instead of fighting, he chose to flee, seeking solace in the bottom of a glass and the temporary oblivion it offered.

I stood in the doorway, my small frame trembling with a mix of fear and anger. I hated her in those moments. Hated her for the weakness that seemed to seep from her very pores, for the way she had let herself be consumed by whatever darkness had claimed her. Yet, beneath that hatred, there was a flicker of something else—pity, perhaps, or the remnants of the love that had once bound us together.

She moved suddenly, a jerky, desperate motion that sent the ash from her cigarette scattering like grey snowflakes onto the carpet. Her eyes, now wild and frantic, darted around the room as if searching for an escape from the demons that tormented her. I watched, frozen, as she began to mutter under her breath, her words a jumbled mix of fear and incoherence.

"Mom?" I ventured, my voice small and hesitant. "Mom, are you okay?"

She didn't respond, didn't even seem to hear me. Her muttering grew louder, more frantic, and she clutched at her head as if trying to keep it from exploding. I took a step closer, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing with the urge to help her, to save her from whatever horror she was experiencing.

But then she screamed—a raw, guttural sound that cut through the silence like a knife. It was a sound that spoke of unimaginable pain and despair, a sound that would haunt my dreams for years to come. I watched in helpless horror as she collapsed onto the floor, her body convulsing, her screams turning into sobs.

In that moment, I saw the demons. Not as she saw them, but as a reflection of the torment inside her. They were the dark shadows that had consumed her spirit, the invisible chains that bound her to a life of misery and despair. And I hated them. I hated them with a ferocity that surprised me, a burning rage that was only matched by my helplessness.

I wanted to run to her, to hold her and tell her that everything would be okay. But I couldn't move. I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a mix of fear, anger, and sorrow. All I could do was watch as the woman who had once been my mother was reduced to a sobbing, broken shell on the floor.

As the night wore on, her sobs eventually subsided, and she lay there, exhausted and spent. I finally found the strength to move, to go to her and wrap my arms around her frail body. She didn't respond, didn't acknowledge my presence, but I held her anyway, hoping that somehow my touch could reach through the darkness and bring her back to me.

In the rare moments when my father was sober enough to speak, his words were slurred and bitter, laced with the pain of a man who had lost his way. He was a ghost in our lives, present but absent, his presence a reminder of the life he was trying so desperately to escape.

I held my mother tighter, feeling the weight of our shared despair. I pitied her, pitied him, but most of all, I pitied myself for being caught in the crossfire of their demons. The night it happened, I realized that I was alone in my fight, that the adults I looked up to were too broken to save me or themselves.

In that darkened living room, surrounded by the echoes of my mother's sobs and the phantom presence of my drunken father, I made a vow. I would not let their demons become mine. I would find a way to fight back, to carve out a life for myself that was free from the shadows that haunted our home.

And as I held my mother in my arms, I promised myself that I would survive. I would endure. I would find a way to escape the darkness, even if it meant doing it alone.

Spilled ink like passion across the sheets, caressing her curves in every love letter. Kissed up and down her thighs in short sentences and prose. Tasted all her innocence without a spoken word. Bit her lip and pulled her hair between the lines, making her arch her back and scream, all with a pen.

The room was silent, save for the scratch of my pen and the whisper of the paper. Each stroke, each word, a brush of skin, a murmur of desire. I traced her silhouette in paragraphs, every letter a gentle touch, every comma a pause to breathe her in. She came alive in the margins, a ghost of ink and imagination.

In the quiet of my room, she was mine. No barriers, no boundaries, just the raw, unfiltered connection between ink and page. Her laughter echoed in the rhythm of my sentences, her sighs in the spaces between words. I felt her shudder in every exclamation, her heartbeat in every period.

Every letter I wrote was a caress, every line a lover's embrace. She unfolded beneath my pen, revealing secrets, surrendering completely to the dance of ink. I devoured her in metaphors, tasted her in similes, held her close in the clutch of a semicolon.

And when I was done, when the ink had dried and the passion had faded, she lay there, captured in my words. A masterpiece of longing, a testament to the love affair between a writer and his muse. She was mine, and I was hers, bound together in the permanence of ink and the fragility of paper.