Chapter Twenty-Nine – Normal People
Gina woke up alone. The small dwelling which Toby had taken her to looked pretty much the same as it did the previous night. Gina didn’t notice the flame that appeared that kept her warm all night and by the time she woke up it was gone. Gina wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t know where Toby was. She didn’t feel safe walking around by herself, so she decided to stay where she was.
The minutes ticked by slowly. As she was looking around, bored out of her mind, she noticed her clothes were missing. The clothes she wore that she had to change out of, they were gone. Toby must have taken them. Normally she would have been mad, but she wasn’t mad now. She didn’t need those clothes anymore. Those clothes belonged to the princess. She wasn’t the princess anymore. Toby finally came back. He brought with him some food for Gina to eat. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she started eating.
“I have some news. I got you a job. If you are going to be normal, you are going to have to work.” Toby announced.
“I don’t know how to do anything.” Gina protested, “What kind of job is it?”
“It’s a job in a bakery, baking bread.” Toby explained, “You will be assisting the baker and I have already told her you don’t have any experience. All you have to do is be able to follow orders.”
“When do I start?” Gina asked. Gina was resigned to her new fate. At least she didn’t have to find her own job.
“Right now.” Toby said. When Gina was done eating. Toby took her to a small bakery and led her to a back room where the baking was done. An older woman was there.
“So, this is what I have to work with?” She said out loud as she looked Gina over, “I guess she’ll do.”
“Then I will leave you two to work.” Toby says as he excuses himself. Toby was a bit apprehensive about leaving Gina but had to grow up sometime and he knew coddling her wasn’t going to do her any good.
Toby worked out in the fields, planting crops, tending to crops, picking crops. Anyone who has ever done that type of work knows it’s more than a full-time job. Today was different though. Today there were men there that Toby didn’t recognize. Furthermore, they didn’t do any work. They just watched. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t do anything. Toby thought it was kind of weird. He asked some of his fellow laborer’s if they knew who the strange men were and none of them knew. Toby wondered if these new men represented their conquerors. While Toby was working hard in the field, Gina was trying to get the hang of taking orders.
The woman who oversaw her was aware that she didn’t know much. So, she went over things as slowly as possible while still maintaining some efficiency. However, even going over things slowly was too fast for Gina. Gina was told what each ingredient was and that it was important to the right ingredient when called for.
The first mistake Gina made was mixing up the salt and the flour. If Gina had just taken a bit more time, she would have recognized that she was retrieving salt when she should have been retrieving flour. The problem was that Gina was flustered and not thinking clearly. When Gina’s mentor tasted the results, she realized what had happened.
“I’ve mixed up a few ingredients in my time.” The older woman said, “Just slow down and concentrate.” The older woman was understanding but this made her work harder. Because one batch was bad, she would have to take the time to make another one and all the money she spent on the ingredients in the bad batch were lost. “We’ll have to do it over again. Throw this batch out.”
Gina wished that she hadn’t made the mistake. Instead of being pleased, her survival depended now on pleasing others. She noticed the texture of the batch change at that moment and took a taste. It turns out the batch wasn’t ruined at all. She rushed back in to get the older woman.
“The bread tastes good to me. Will you try it again?” Gina asked. The older woman tried the batch again and this time it tasted good. In fact, it was the best tasting bread she had ever made. She wasn’t sure how this strange thing happened, but she was happy that she didn’t have to spend the time and resources to make another one.
“Maybe I was mistaken,” the old woman said, “This does taste good.”
Gina finished the day feeling a lot better. It wasn’t fun working all day, but she was doing something useful and participating in the general welfare of the community. She had earned her keep for at least one day. When her work was done, she waited. She assumed that Toby was going to come get her and while she had to wait longer than she wanted to, he did just that.
“How was your first day being normal?” Toby asked her as they walked back to Toby’s place.
“It was tiring. Is this what peasants have to do every day?” Gina asked.
“Everyday.” Toby replied.
“Something strange happened at the bakery. I had made a mistake with the ingredients and the bread tasted really bad. I wished for my mistake to be corrected and after that, the bread tasted really good.” Gina explained.
“Last night, a flame appeared on the stove but there wasn’t any wood.” Toby followed up.
“Last night I was wishing it wasn’t so cold.” Gina remembered.
“It’s just like the magic in the dream.” Toby said, “You thought something, and it happened.”
“Are you saying I’m a magician?” Gina asked, stunned.
“I don’t know but the old man let you kill him. Maybe by killing him, you got his power.” Toby surmised.
“That can't be right.” Gina shot back.
“It must be.” Toby said.
The next day, when Gina got to work, there was a crowd of people in the bakery. “You know that bread we made yesterday?” The older woman asked Gina.
“Yes.” Gina responded.
“All these people want us to make more!” The older woman exclaimed.
Patience
Seremis wakes with a gasp, sitting up abruptly and clutching her blanket around herself.
Her roommate, Joran, blinks awake to find her just sitting, staring blankly.
“Seremis?”
She flinches with another little gasp and her eyes dart to him and around him, flickering but not really landing.
“Seremis.”
Her eyes finally meet his gaze, unblinking and wide, vulnerable and scared.
“You had another nightmare?”
Her eyes dart around again. She nods slightly and shrugs at the same time.
“Past or future?”
She twitches, but her eyes manage to stay on his face at least. “I'm…it was…I don't…can't remember.”
Joran nods. This isn't the first time. “Do you want to snuggle?”
She doesn't seem to hear him. Her eyes are searching the window like she can see through the curtains, like something is coming, like she's scared of it. For all he knows, maybe there is something out there, something only she knows about. Or maybe it's an aftershock of her nightmare.
“Seremis?”
Her gaze snaps back to his, alarmed.
He keeps his voice calm. “Do you want to snuggle?”
She stares at him, as if comprehending slowly, then tucks the blanket tighter. “I…is that…um…”
Joran breathes slowly. She's gorgeous, but her safety and health are more important. “Not like that. I told you, you have the lead on that. You said you feel safer when we're touching.”
She twitches again, blinking. “Right. Yeah. Okay. Snuggling.”
He presses his lips together to avoid smiling. “You want the edge or the wall side again?”
She wiggles backwards. “Wall.”
He nods. “Let me grab my pants.”
She nods and he watches out of the corner of his eye as she resettles all of her blankets to make room for him. He's never understood why she sleeps with so many when she overheats so easily, but it makes her happy.
When she's all settled, he snuggles in behind her until his chest is against her back and gently removes a layer of blanket. At her noise of protest, he chuckles softly and murmurs, “You will overheat if I leave it, and I'd rather not end up on the floor tonight.”
Her grumbles go quiet. After a moment she snuggles back into him.
Just before he drifts off to sleep, Joran sends a prayer to anyone listening, wishing that just once, Seremis won't be the one to suffer.
4/29/2024
I feel like my world is closing in on me. I got maybe three hours of sleep last night. I somehow managed to drive my kids to school this morning and now I’m alone again. Tearing myself to pieces. Trying hard not to think about anything.
I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried everything to get money to pay my bills. My wife and I are in separate houses splitting time with my kids but since she refuses to get a job I’m paying for both houses and both sets of utilities and four kids and I just can’t afford it anymore. My credit is destroyed, partially because after my wife told me she wanted a divorce, she spent 30,000 dollars of my money on psychics. I have tons of equity in the house she’s in but she’s on the deed and won’t let me sell it. I tried every sort of loan including home equity loan and cash out refinance, but I couldn’t get them because of my credit. There’s no more money and I need to stop paying the mortgage on the house she’s in, stop utilities and move the kids in with me full time. I’ll lose hundreds of thousands of dollars in equity and my credit will be even more destroyed than it already is, but I really don’t have a choice. There’s no money and this is the only way I can make ends meet at this point. But I can’t watch the kids while I work and I can’t drive them to their current school because it’s too far away. So I’d have to change schools and they’d lose all their friends. My oldest son is already dealing with depression.
Also, my wife threatened to call the police and child protective services and accuse me of kidnapping if I take the kids out of there. I don’t have any more money and I can’t get any money. I can’t afford a lawyer. My life is about to fall apart.
And then last night I got a text from someone who I’m in love with but who’s with another man and my world imploded all over again because I was trying hard not to think about her as impossible as it is. My oldest son who’s 9 looked at me and said “Dad are you okay?” I really wanted to say yes and appear strong like the father who can hold it together through anything but I said no. And he hugged me. And it was beautiful and it reminded me that my kids are all I have left. I’m crying writing this right now. My kids are literally the only things keeping me alive right now.
Everyone keeps telling me that things will get better but they aren’t and soon it will be too late. My whole life I’ve believed in God. I teach Sunday school and play music in the worship team. But I’m doubting his existence. Or if he does exist, I’m not a part of his plan. I’m attrition. I‘m the sacrifice that’s made so other people can be happy. And I just suffer in agony. I’m not Jesus. I’m not Moses. I’m not Job. Hell, I’m not even Jonah. I’m not a great man. I’m weak. I curse at God and hate him right now. I’m falling apart and he’s letting it happen. And nobody can do anything to help me. And I can’t help myself. I’m just imploding. I’m staying alive because of my kids. Does that make me strong? I don’t think so. I don’t feel strong.
I feel old. I feel unwanted, discarded, unnecessary. Except for with my kids. I know they need me. So I somehow have to find a way to survive through all of this. And even be there for them. Be a parent for them. Maybe one day they’ll appreciate all the pain and suffering I’ve gone through, all the sacrifices I’ve had to make.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
Meagre Easter
After Easter brunch, Liliana was clearing the table, eager for her annoying relatives to leave. Meanwhile, her partner Denis was taking out the trash when he tripped and fell. Suddenly, a werewolf bit him. “It’s just a human. I was revived to hunt a dangerous vampire that lives around here.” Denis returned home, believing he had simply fallen. Gazing at the full moon, Denis' inner wolf emerged, hurling the relatives' car off the cliff. Liliana tackled him and summoned her vampiric fangs, bringing his humanity back. Oblivious, Denis awoke on the ground. "What were we doing here?" Liliana just smiled.