Out of all the dumb decisions I’ve made, this by far has to be the dumbest bullshit decision of all dumb bullshit decisions. I want to love him—I do—but right now, all I feel is a disbelieving resentment towards him and reprehension towards myself. How could I have been so stupid?

On the dark, wooded side road of 65, Chris Sandoval and I sit in a humid, leather-wrapped, ugly little Grand Prix that his grandfather “fixed up.” The car “stalled.” I knew we should have met at the theater like I suggested; but no, he insisted that he pick me up like a gentleman. What a load of shit.

God, I’ve been so captivated by him since day one of meeting him in the chat room—by his strong jaw under the short beard in the photos and his typing speed and his cajoling words and his appetizing voice over the phone. We had talked for months about everything, until he finally said he’d love to meet me, to get to know me better. I agreed. I wanted to see the side of himself he bragged about. He said he’s the best at Battleships and that he makes the best sushi. I wanted to see if those are true. So, I said yes, you can pick me up. And really, I wanted him to.

But now here I am, 10 o’clock on a Friday night on the side of the road with the man I only just met an hour ago. He’s a lot taller than I imagined, and his arms are a lot wider. I shouldn’t have lied to my friends about knowing him—we've been friends for years, I said, from college. And they believed me. God, why would they believe me? Between the two of them, they should know I don’t go on dates, let alone to see a sci-fi film. Now, because of their lack of incredulity, I’m going to be dead and buried in the woods somewhere. He could be a serial killer. I don’t know; I never asked.

Our conversation lulled a while ago—after ranging from the weather to his grandfather’s car hobby to future plans (him getting his master’s in engineering at some college I forgot the name of, and me posted in some artist gallery far, far away from here, with him, I said. If he’d like that.)

After five minutes of trying to turn the engine over, he stops and leans back into his seat, sweat beading on his forehead and under his nose.

“Fuck man, it’s hot in here,” he says, pulling at the collar of his dark gray button-up. He loosens two buttons from his neck, exposing the top of a black undershirt. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, displaying two armfuls of artful tattoos. From the side, he looks down and over at me with hazel eyes, roaming top to bottom, lingering at my chest and legs. I had thrown on a Black Sabbath t-shirt and short denim overalls thinking that there are enough layers and buckles to get through that if something starts, I would have enough time to stop if I changed my mind, yet his eyes are looking through me as if I’m naked. He is looking at me for what I can be to him.

I unbuckle and resist the urge to put my feet up on the seat to get comfortable. I feel useless. I know next to nothing about diagnosing car problems and don’t know the area enough to offer advice. Instead, I just stare at him. I shouldn’t, I know, it’s kind of rude, but I can’t help it. There’s so much potential built into just this one man, and it calls to me like a promising siren of future stability and safety I yearn for.

He doesn’t seem to notice me staring. Instead, he’s trying the ignition again. The car sputters and wheezes and then stops. It won’t turn over. He grunts and hits the wheel, cursing under his breath. His hands grip around the wheel, and he lays his forehead against the top. Some of his pushed back hair fell forward, covering his eyes and exposing little black studs in his earlobes.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he says. He looks defeated. There was an inflection of sincerity in his voice. Maybe I had overreacted earlier. He really can’t be that bad of a guy. Not if he loves Battleships and sci-fi and sushi.

“It’s okay,” I squeak. “I wasn’t really interested in seeing Independence Day anyway. I’m not a huge fan of Bill Pullman.”

“You take that back,” he says. He is facing me now, with his cheek against the wheel. His face plays a hurt pout, but his eyes are gleaming with a teasing smile. “Well, then what are you a fan of?”

“Oh, I’m more of a Robin Williams and Bill Murray kinda gal.”

“No way.”

“Oh, yeah. Give me Jumaniji and Ghostbusters any time of the day. It gets me going.”

He laughs then, an affable and genuine one. It sounds so much better in person. So much richer and real. He turns to me then, that smile on his face. His gaze makes me want to pull him in closer, but before I can, I feel his hand slide over mine—so large and encompassing. He drops it down to my upper thigh and wriggles his strong fingers underneath my overall shorts. At this moment, I contemplate my choices. Location isn’t ideal. I was hoping for something softer, something less humid. I was hoping to be able to take off my Converses and shower afterward. How would we fit? He’s so tall—his hair almost brushes the top of the roof—and there’s no room for me to straddle him with the center console...

I want to say something, to tell him maybe we should wait; I want to do this, but just not here. Tell him that; use those exact words.

I say, “Isn’t this your grandfather’s car?”

“What?” He pulls back a little, flustering. “I mean, yeah, sure, but who cares? I drive it; it’s going to be mine anyway.”

Stupid. I ruined the moment. I didn’t mean to upset him. I don’t want the date to go this way. I put my hand over his and lean over the console to him. I grab at the front of his shirt and try to reach him with my lips to shut him up, to shut the doubts up. He doesn’t need to feel flustered or embarrassed. No, that’s not what I want. I want him to kiss me. And he does. He meets my lips, then pushes me back into my seat, one hand on my thigh and the other on my cheek. Yes, yes, I say, but maybe not out loud. He presses so hard into me. No more thinking. Just shut up. I let him guide our mouths and our hands. The seat collapses back under the both of us; he can’t fit but he tries—he tries so hard—to fit himself on top of me in that tiny leather seat, but only his torso can reach across the center console.

As Chris begins to slither his hands deeper into the sides of my overalls, a sudden crack bursts across the windshield, shattering it into a web of fractured glass. I yelp.

“What the fuck?” He says, snapping back to his seat, a red flush across his face.

I pull my seat up, slowly returning it to its upright position. I sit for a moment, staring at the crack. It sounded like a screech—like a bird. I saw something, Chris, I want to say. I saw a face, but he won't believe me. Hell, I don’t believe me. It was quick. It was a shadow. A bird? Probably.

Chris sits in his own seat with disbelief, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. He’s staring at the crack, just as intensely as I had. His chest is heaving, eyes fluttering. In a quick motion, he grunts a furious scream, throwing his left fist to the side, and landing it on the driver’s side window. The glass shutters under the force.

My own heart beats loud, deafening, pounding into my head. He just punched the window. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen him angry—what do I do? I sit as far back into my seat as I can, practically melting into it. Eventually (it feels like) his hands fall into his lap. He slouches forward, head again on the steering wheel.

It comes out so, so softly. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Touch him. Tell him it’s okay—you've seen anger before. It’s understandable. Put your hand on his shoulder.

I don’t.

“What do you think could have broken the windshield?” I say.

“I don’t know…” He shrugs, looking at me with a new sprout of uncertainty, cutting through a confident, concrete guise. “Should I go check?”

I shake my head no.

He nods, “Okay. Do you want to go check?”

“Are you kidding me?” In his moment of doubt, a fury began to spread over me—one that takes hold of the fear that bubbles low in my chest. He’s unbelievable right now. He’s a man. He should go check. What if there’s danger? What would I do? “It’s dark, it’s muddy, and something just cracked your windshield. Why in the absolute hell would you think I’m getting out to go check?”

He shrugs again and gives a nonchalant shake of his head, “Just a thought.”

“Of the many, I’m sure.” I know it’s mean, but I’m not a mean person, really. He just needs a push to get there and go be brave. One of us should check and it’s not going to be me. At my retort, his eye twitches, just once, quickly, as if he’s contemplating the audacity of me. He rolls his eyes. Oh, that eye roll. It stirs something low in me. A breath catches in my chest. I want to see it again—to push that button. But I should probably apologize.

Instead, I lean back in my seat and look in the side mirror, realizing that we are very much alone. I say, “Don’t you think it’s weird that no other cars have come by in a while?”

“There’s a light,” he says, nodding towards the woods, ignoring my observation. I follow his gaze to a white glow peering through the tree trunks. Silhouetted by yellow lines of light, I can make out shapes of statues and headstones. My eyes adjust, and I see that the light is from an outdoor sconce on the side of a shack—like a guard shack, maybe, or a gravedigger’s shed. I can’t really tell.

I shake my head furiously. No fucking way.

“No!” I say, “Don’t tell me there’s a fucking cemetery!”

He laughs at me, an unbelieving chuckle with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay, look,” I justify, “I’m not scared. I’m not. But I’ve avoided zombies this far into my life, and I’m not going to run into them now. That Dawn of the Dead festival last year doesn’t count.”

Chris shrugs and rolls those eyes again, then drums his thumbs against the steering wheel in some sort of nervous tick. He stares out at the cemetery, lips quivering before saying, “Why, uh, why don’t we go check the shack? See if there’s a guard on the... on the graveyard shift.”

His little smirk sends my stomach roiling. “Was that supposed to be a joke?” I say, “In a situation like this?”

“Jokes are best in a situation like this,” he says. “Are you coming or not?”

I shake my head again, “I’d rather die in the car.”

“Suit yourself,” he says as he unbuckles and braces some kind of courage to open the car door. When he does, a cold wind blows into the car, sending chills across my arms. A waft of decomposition flutters in behind it. I shiver. It’s July. It’s July. There is no such thing as a cold wind this time of year, and yet my bare arms are covered in goosebumps. Oh, I don’t like this. Something is out there. I’m safer in the car, right? I stay in my seat and my leg bounces anxiously as I watch Chris step further into the woods. He’ll be back, right?

As I wait, I look around the car at the leather seats and the waxed dashboard. Everything is free of dust and trash and fur (which is astonishing because I saw those pictures with his husky). The car is kept so clean; it feels wrong to breathe so I hold in my breath, afraid to disturb the environment of Chris’s things without his permission. On his mirror, he keeps an oval locket I never noticed before. I shouldn't, but I reach up and click it open. In the depths of it are two photos, one on each side. The left is a young girl and the right a young boy. The boy looks like him. They look like siblings. He never mentioned a sister to me. I want to ask about her, but what if it’s a touchy subject? Would he leave me if I insert myself too far into his life, into his future? Or is he open to the idea of us together past the first date, past a one-night-stand? We’ve talked so much over the last several months, and I was able to consume so much of his life, but never did we get any step further than the first meeting, the first date. Who knows what the future holds, he said. Just gotta see what happens.

Something bubbles in my stomach then—call it fear, call it premonition, but it forces me to call out to him.

“Chris, wait,” I say, my hand opening my own door. “I’m coming.”

Against my conscious will, my body moves to follow him. I don’t want to stay in the car alone—not with the sticky humid seats or the cracked windshield. At this moment, I don’t want to be anywhere without him. I follow him like the light, like some safe security I didn’t know I needed.

The leaves and twigs below us snap and crinkle under each falling step, amplified by the silent ambiance of the woods. Among the conglomeration of decay and rot of fauna and fungi, the humid air carries a sharp, acrid scent. I can only assume it’s from the cemetery. We now stand at the back of it, staring at a couple dozen blank headstones facing East. The light of the shack illuminates only so much in the surrounding area, leaving pockets of looming darkness at the edges of its reach. It’s hard for me to describe the feeling that envelopes me as I stand at the edge of the cemetery. I’ve never been a superstitious person. Nor religious, for that matter. But something is gnawing at me—some unseeing burden weighs on my shoulders, pulling me towards the center where the building sits like a gravitating planet orbiting, swirling, and spiraling out of its own control. I suddenly want answers to questions I never knew I had asked.

First, Chris steps into the invisible boundary of the cemetery, heavily, but now certain—some kind of confidence was gained in the presence of our impending, absolute death. My feelings falter a little about him and about the situation as I watch him stomp through the grass keeping to the sides of the graves and staying on a vague gravel path that leads to the door of the shack. He traverses respectfully through the graves, almost gracefully, in fact. Not a serial killer, after all. No serial killer respects the dead.

We approach the shack and see that it’s in good condition (better than I expected, to be honest). It’s resurrected with multi-colored cobblestone and topped by a shingled roof. A singular square window sits plainly next to the door. I try to peek in through the window, to find the source of that pull, maybe, but between the glare of the sconce and the darkness inside, I can make nothing definitive out except a small, blinking red light in the far back.

He knocks on the door. I didn’t expect an answer, and I’m not sure if he did either. At this distance, it’s clearly a groundskeeper’s shed, smack in the middle of the cemetery. So far away from civilization, I shouldn’t have expected anyone to be out here guarding or caring for the area at night. There isn't really a threat of vandalism; it isn’t that nice of a cemetery. Yet so, so far away. And I am so alone with him. And I am standing right next to him as he squats and jiggles the handle and pries at the lock with something buried between his palm and fingers.

He’s breaking in. I see that, but it does not stop my mouth from asking, “What are you doing?”

He looks up at me with a toothy smile—the one I fell in love with in his photos—as the lock on the door clicks and opens under his touch.

“There’s probably a phone in there,” he says, pushing the door open.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I know this is wrong. I see his intentions. Red flags are waving in my face. Yet some fiendish part of me still wants to know what his weight will feel like on top of me. I want to know what his sweat smells like and how his flesh tastes between my teeth. Against my moral fibers (if any existed at all), I step into the shed after him.

A fluorescent light buzzes overhead, singular and positioned in the center of the ceiling. The shed is relatively clean and orderly, with tools and boxes on shelves and pegboards. While clean, it’s still a shed and small and cramped with a wooden floor. And a phone. His hunch was right. Sitting on a weathered desk with a shitty rolling chair in the back of the shed is a baby blue landline with an “emergency phone numbers” list taped to the right of it.

He looks down at me, grinning, and puts the phone up to his ear. The dial tone roars throughout the shed, and he sets the phone back on the hook.

“I can call for a tow, but we’re going to have to wait for it,” he says, leaning against the desk.

I laugh, partly annoyed, but partly relieved, too, that the immense pressure of impending doom had stopped. This is it. Simple as that. Car breaks down, we call for a tow. Cemetery looks scary, but we walked right through it, didn’t we? No hiccups. No hands plummeting up from the graves to snatch at our ankles. It’s safe, and I’m safe. Safe with him. I look at him, now, locking eyes. He doesn’t waver under my gaze. Sturdy. Confident.

“This was your plan the whole time, wasn’t it?” I ask.

“No,” his face falls, “Why would it be? This would be a terrible plan.”

I nod. No plan, no pressure. No doubts lingered any longer in the back of my mind. I turn from him and bolt the door behind us. Nothing is going to ruin this. No black birds, no zombies. He calls 911 and asks for a tow to be dispatched. He gives them the name of the cemetery, though don’t remember seeing the name of the cemetery on our way in. Easy thing to miss, I suppose.

When I turn back around, Chris is standing right in front of me. So close. He places a loose strand of my short hair behind my ear. I can’t seem to move. My body is shivering, but it’s so warm in here under the light and in his presence. So safe.

My breath comes out in wavering exhales. I have to ask, “Why here?” Of all the places we could go. We could wait, really. Oh, but I don’t want to. Not now, not when this opportunity rests simply here between us. The walk back to the car now felt too far of a walk, too far of a time to wait to have him.

“We have an hour,” he says to me, planting his soft lips on mine. “I promise it wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

Between our kisses, he says something about not having a condom and something about a latex allergy, but I don’t hear him. My mind is dizzy with some aerosol version of his scent overshadowing any clear thoughts that attempt to tell me to stop.

His fingers fumble at the buttons on his shirt, pulling them apart painstakingly slow, but they all eventually come undone like a puzzle we’ve both been trying to figure out all night. Underneath his button-up is a Black Sabbath t-shirt like mine, the tour name loud on the front with a Dehumanizer album cover. He pulls it off over his head with one hand on the back of the neck. A single swoop and it now lays on the floor flat beneath his button-up.

I let him guide me down to the floor, on top of his clothes, and let him take off my own, one overall button at a time. I can’t think while he does this; I can only feel him and his hands over me, sliding my overalls off and then my shirt up, exposing my unconstrained breasts. He kisses down my body and pushes apart my legs.

This is it. This is that pull I felt toward the shed. It was the thought of him and me—us alone together where we couldn’t be interrupted or looked down upon. Kids, they all think, still so young and naïve. Devil-worshipers, they said, with their tattoos and piercings and rock music. It was always something while they knew nothing. There was always something more.

But he takes all of that away. There’s no uncertainty with him, just a clear sense of want he wants. Chris melts into me, his aura merging with mine. I feel the emotion first before I can name it. I admit I was cautious about it. I felt like I was using the word “love” too loosely, too lightly. But no, this has to be real. There is no other way I can explain it as he props himself above me. This is right.

I wrap my arms around his neck, focusing on his movements, but as I do, I can only stare up and out of the singular window of the shed.

And it’s there that I see him watching us. I try to cry out but my throat closes up and my heart races. The bastard found me again. I tell Chris to stop—Jesus Christ, listen to me—but my voice doesn’t come out. My voice is trapped and I’m trapped under Chris. I tap his shoulder quickly, but he doesn’t stop. I look away, unable to bear his gaze any longer, and try to wriggle free, but Chris is so large and so strong and I’m not. I look back to the window and the face is gone. I’m no longer safe. Not when he’s around. I don’t want this right now. Not while I can feel him watching us. A wave of warmth spreads over my face as I feel the pressure of embarrassment rising through me, from my stomach and chest.

I tap Chris again, furiously, this time on his waist.

“Stop, stop,” I say, finding my words. His body lowers heavier onto mine, and his hand slides firmly over my mouth, pinky sitting just below my nose. He continues and I’m so fucking helpless. I try to move, but my shoulders are pinned by his, and his mouth is on my neck, and his hips are on mine. I try to push at his wrist that’s over my mouth, but he presses down hard enough that my teeth are imprinting on the inside of my lips. I try—I really do—to get him to stop. I try to scream, to bite his hand, to knee him, but nothing works. He has me pinned down, and now his face is Chris’s face and I want to vomit. I taste the weed on his breath mingled with cigarettes and Corona. This is not what Chris tastes like.

“Please,” I manage to choke out between his fingers, tears falling on either side of my face.

At this point, I feel his teeth on my earlobe and his hot breath down my neck. He says, “Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”

I can’t do anything but cry then. I just want to go home. I want to go back to the shitty car to before this happened—before he arrived, before the hand, before the threat. I want to love the smell of Chris, the feel of him, but I need to escape because right now this is not Chris. He would never do this.

He pushes down again, brutely, and hisses, “Say it.”

I gag, “I’m yours. Please. I’m yours. Let me go.”

He smiles—God, that fucking smile—and lifts himself up, releasing his hand, and it’s Chris again. His smile falls and tired eyes focus on me, shifting out of some sort of trance. It takes a moment for him to ask, “Why are you crying?”

I saw him. But I can't tell you. He’s here, and I don’t know how, but he is and he can hurt you and it’s all my fault. I should have said no. No, I don’t want to meet you. I can’t have you as much as I want to. I can’t because of him, and he’ll never go away. I can’t make him go away.

Chris stares at me as I bawl into my arms. He waits for an answer, and when I don’t give him one, he falls back onto his heels and throws his hands in his lap, frustrated. “I’m sorry,” he says.

That’s when the window shatters. Shards of glass spray across the room, and Chris grabs me, curling me into his chest. He gasps, angrily. Chris didn’t see it happen as I did—him as a shadow, an enraged aura, his fist breaking the window in an effortless punch (as it always had been so effortless to him).

“Jesus fuck,” Chris says. He then stands, pulling up his pants over his boner, clasping it behind his jeans button. He turns, standing in front of me, shielding me from the window. His back is sliced with small shards of glass still sticking into his flesh. I stare at those glistening shards, wanting to reach my hand up to pluck each of them out and tell him I’m sorry. It’s my fault.

Chris calls out, “Who the fuck is there?”

There’s no answer. Of course, there never is going to be an answer. There isn’t anyone actually there, stupid. He was staring at me, but you didn’t see him. No one ever did. He’s like a hungry shadow, always so gluttonous and hidden behind what he wants you to see.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, wiping tears away with the back of my hands and arms, spreading little black mascara streaks all over them. “I should have told you about him.”

“About who?” Chris turns. His face is scrunched in a mix of confusion and anger and panic.

I shake my head, “I’m so sorry.” He’s going to hurt you and it’s all my fault.

“We’re getting the fuck out of here,” Chris says, looking back at the window again, scanning. He holds out a hand to help me up. I put my overalls back in place and throw on his button-up and he slides his t-shirt over his back as carefully as possible knowing that those shards are only going to dig deeper.

“Let’s go,” he says, then grabs my hand and throws the door open, pulling me behind him as we run back through the cemetery towards the car. I stumble over mounds of graves I didn’t notice before and knock my knee into a crooked headstone. As we run, I feel him behind us. He’s there. He’s somewhere. I turn to look—God, I know I shouldn’t have—and he’s there in the cemetery, staring at me from inside the shed from the shattered window, skulking as he always did.

Suddenly, the car is in front of me, and I’m yanking the handle as the door locks and unlocks and finally it’s open and slamming at my side. I look to my left and Chris is there, turning the key, praying that the engine comes to life. Sputtering, sputtering, wheezing, cough. Nothing. He tries again.

I scream. He's at Chris’s window, mouth gaping, eyes just as black as they always were. He's screaming at us. The window bursts in, scattering more glass. And then his hand is around Chris’s throat, and his head is pressed firmly against the headrest.

I scream, “Let him go!” But no, he doesn’t listen to me. No one really ever does. I try to punch at him, but I can’t seem to hit anything solid. He ignores me and continues gripping Chris’s throat until his face turns purple and his eyes fall into the back of his head. Chris’s body goes limp in his seat, and then he disappears.

At least, I think he did. I do not want to wait to find out. I lean over Chris, open his door, and push him out of the driver’s seat while a stream of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” pours out of my mouth. His body crumbles onto the black pavement, and I try to close the door, but his foot is still in the car. I wrestle it out, then slam the door closed, and turn the key. The car sputters to life. All of the gages and meters light up, and the seatbelt chime dings at me. The headlights burst, beaming onto the highway. He’s there again, staring at me again with his hungry eyes. He mocks me with a grin. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s gone. He needs to be gone.

“Go away!” I scream, pounding my palms against the steering wheel. I smash the accelerator down and something crunches under the tires. And as I run the car into him, his body slams against the grill, rolling onto the hood of the car, and over the side in a chorusing crunch of thin metal. While I do not want to, my eyes flick to the rear-view mirror, and I see Chris's lifeless body in the road, pushed to the center. But he’s gone.

I drive until I come upon the first gas station. I pull into one of the spaces by the door and park. The attendant looks at me from the front windows, craning his head to get a better view. What do I do? I don’t know how to get home from here. I am not going back that way. I can’t. It’s then that everything collapses. I sit in the driver’s seat and cry. I left Chris there. I didn’t want to leave him. God, why do I always have to leave people? Why won’t he just fucking leave me alone? I escaped and yet every corner I turn, every shadow in the distance, and every man I meet, he’s there and he’s mocking me and telling me that I’m his and he’s not letting go. Chris could have been everything he was not.

I’m tired of this. I’m so tired, and I can’t do this anymore. I wipe my tears away with the sleeves of Chris’s shirt and let out a sigh. It’s time to do something.

After a minute, I get out of the car and pause to look at the front of the Grand Prix. I stop and stare at the body-sized dent in the hood. Oh, Christ. I can’t. I turn and continue into the store to ask the attendant for a phone. He’s young and curly-haired and freckled, and he stares at me for a moment with light brown eyes before handing over a cordless phone accompanied by a concerned look. I tell him thank you and take it.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

Jesus, why do they always have to ask? I try to smile at him, to say, yes, I am just fine. But my face contorts from a smile to a frown to a sob. Walking away, I catch a glance of myself in the sunglasses mirror. My hair is wildly messy and black mascara is running down my cheeks, leaving watery streaks all the way down to my chin. Chris had kissed off any lipstick I had applied. It would have been nice, really, to get to see him in the morning. I yearn for something I never had with him, but can’t you imagine? Us cuddled on his couch watching Saturday morning cartoons with fresh pancakes and orange juice? I choke on a laugh.

Then I pause, whisking those thoughts away. I contemplate the weight of the phone in my hand. Who do I even call? No one would answer me at this time of night. No one would listen to me unless they saw him like I did. I’m also currently in the possession of a car that isn’t mine and wearing the button-up of a dead man. Yes, officer, I could say, it’s technically a stolen car. But it’s Chris’s. And he’s gone now. I didn’t even get to meet his family. It would have been so simple, wouldn’t it? To just be accepted into a new life. But fucking Christ, what good does it do to think on it now? I need to get back to him. I need to bury him. I need to bury all the dead.

I hand the phone back to the cashier, undialed, unsoiled. Then I turn down the short aisles of snacks and convenience store-priced home goods. I grab a few things. Of course, I do. And then I lug them around the store with them tucked under and balanced on top of my left arm while I use my right to touch things—to touch everything. I need to know what is real, so I run my fingertips along the polypropylene chip bags and the plastic toilet paper wrap hard enough that it makes a squeak. Then I reach the fridges and open a door and touch every single cold drink deliberately and intimately before seizing a Cherry Coke bottle by the neck and hauling the things to the counter to pay.

The ruddy cashier looks at the stuff, then he looks at me. I dare him to say something. I dare him to ask. I wait for it. I want it. Say it. Say it, now.

Beep. He scans the things. One by one, he grabs each item as if they’re individually dangerous. They’re not, I assure him with a glance and a smile. This does not persuade him, but he scans anyway, because, after all, what else is he going to fucking do? He finishes scanning, and then I pay, and then I haul all of my stuff to Chris’s car and organize it by potential need. The Coke is first, obviously, and that sits between my warm thighs to make it a drinkable temperature. Then in the passenger seat I separate everything—tall, black household trash bags, Gorilla duct tape (very expensive at gas stations, actually), fresh set of driver gloves, gallon of drinking water, set of 3 tie-dye colored handkerchiefs, a small container of Clorox clothes bleach, and the largest bag they had of teriyaki beef jerky.

Satisfied with the haul, I turn the ignition and back out of the gas station. I drive back. Which, oddly enough, feels like a shorter distance than on my way there. But as I approach the cemetery, I notice the roads again were quiet. Abandoned. I turn the brights on. They flash and illuminate the entirety of the road in front of me where I see Chris’s body, unmoved. And just behind him is… him. Unscathed. Staring at me. Smiling at me. He knew I’d come back.

My knuckles turn white gripping the steering wheel and my shoulders tense. I rev the engine. It’s time. It’s time to bury the fucking dead.

You went missing on July 16th, just two days before your twenty-seventh birthday. Two weeks later, I was standing in the amber glow porchlight of a neglected gable front house, unsure if the key you gave me would fit in the lock.

Three days passed since I crossed through the threshold of that seemingly innocuous front door, and now I am sitting at the small, round breakfast table with my back pressing against the far wall of the cramped, wall-papered kitchen.

I found a box of old photos stashed away under the belly of the bed in the upstairs master bedroom. I’m sorting through them now under the dim light of your old kitchen. I don’t know if you intended for me to find it. I don’t know if you intended for me to be here alone for days, cranky and bored and uncertain. With my back straight against the chair, I sip at a forgotten coffee that had been poured when I first set the box on the table. Cold and bitter. My head aches; a dull pounding above my right eye. I’ve been sorting through this box for hours now—a discolored paper carton, the brand Staples scratched out and replaced with photos underneath in thick black marker. Your life is separated into piles upon this weathered breakfast table. Years sorted with years, and unnamed faces stacked on the edge, teetering, threatening to topple over for as large as the stack has grown. Who are these people, Cass? Why am I finding yellowed photos of you hanging about them, laughing, your arms wrapped around shoulders and waists, kissing and holding hands? Look, before you start, I’m not jealous. Your life outside of me is your own, and I have no right to question it, but why did you never tell me?

Warm tears swell in my eyes, and I blink them away. I stand, scraping the legs of the aged wooden chair against the laminate tile-illusion of a kitchen that hadn’t been renovated since the early eighties. I pour the rest of the cold coffee down the drain, stale mocha lingering on my breath, and watch as the creamy brown liquid splatters against the sides of white porcelain sink. My natural instinct is to wash it out, but I do not. I want the sugar to stain the memories here, the ones you had without me.

There was also a box in the closet of the master bedroom. I didn’t grab it before—my hands were full of the first carton—but I am going to it now, climbing the creaky staircase carpeted with burgundy-colored shag to hide the discoloration of alcohol stains. While the carpet may have hidden splashes of berry-flavored red wines and margarita mixes that we used to sneak and drink on the small roof balcony (hiding from your parents and scolding older brother), it was useless against concealing the musk of dust mites and wet dog. I reach the top of the stairs and place my right hand on the wall, tracing the textured beige paint with my fingertips as I head towards the master bedroom. I dare not look behind me at the room that lay on the left side of the upstairs. The door is cracked open, but I fear that if I go there, if I peak in, that I’ll see you as I always did—sprawled upon your childhood bed. I wonder if your old bedspread is still on it, the sides tucked under the mattress like a hotel bed because your mom had some weird obsession with straight lines and order. Will you be waiting for me as you were before, in knitted crop tops and low-waisted Levi’s? Part of me wanted to turn around, to fling open the door just to see you again, to share myself with you again on that bed, the same place where we shared our first kisses and first touches before we even knew what we were.

I stay my course and open the master bedroom’s closet door. Within the wood-paneled closet—really? Wood-paneling? —I move aside pleather jackets and felt dresses to reveal the carton buried under two sets of Mary-Janes and a fallen turtle-neck sweater. The box is labeled Sera.

Cass, who’s Sera? Were they important to you? They must have been, considering the designated box, but you never told me about them—you never brought them up when we talked about exes—but maybe you did, and I wasn’t listening. I was lost in the sound of your voice, but never in the words you spoke. Did Sera listen to you, Cass? Did they love you?

I tear the lid off, scotch tape ripping down the sides of the weak cardboard construction. There is a photo album on top, pink and gold and frilly—not your style, or I thought wasn’t your style—and miscellaneous objects, miscellaneous junk. I dig through the box, setting the album to the side (I will deal with that later), and I just find shit. Dusty clothes, disfigured origami animals, an orange tabby cat beanie baby, its once-soft fur matted around the sides of its belly, a dead Tamagotchi, and letters. So many folded letters in girlish, bubble pencil, “To Cass.” I open one. A love letter, sickeningly syrupy and gooey like a pack of warm Gushers, the sides of the notebook paper letter is embellished with pink hearts drawn in sparkling gel pen and cat doodles. How cute. How disgustingly cute.

I fold the letter back up and place it into the box with the rest of the senescing junk. Why do you keep any of this? Did you store it and forget about it? Packaging up all of your memories of this person and stashing them away deep into the mess of an old closet of an old house you never planned to revisit. Is that why you sent me here; do you wish to store and forget about me until one day when you’re feeling nostalgic, you can turn the lock on the front door and find my skeletonizing remains sitting on your living room couch? I hope you find my gouged eyes reflecting in the old family tube TV whose wires were long ago chewed by a rodent, a rodent that also chewed the valves of my rotting heart, his tiny furry body stashed away within the closet of my ribcage.

Fuck.

I shove the box away from me and stand, tucking the photo album under my arm to add to the rest of the photos downstairs. I should leave it. It’s probably not worth the heartache. I take it anyway.

Before I head downstairs, I stop and look into the open bathroom on the right, in the middle of the two upstairs bedrooms in the short hallway. I see myself in the gold-rimmed mirror, face dark from the back-lit illumination of the gable-window that overlooks the foyer. I’m a mess—a crying, blotchy mess. For a moment, I don’t recognize myself—the deep brown eyes are not mine, nor is mellow-brown hue and maroon-tinted cheeks. There are bags under my eyes, a gauntness to my structure, and a tiredness down to my bones. I peek at the scar above my right eye for just a small second before feeling like someone else is staring back at me. My heart flutters, sudden anxiety peaking, pulsing through me as I remember the childish tales of Bloody Mary. In a rush, I shut the bathroom door and flee downstairs to the confines of the kitchen. It was silly, I know, but you know I believe demons are real.

The album slips from my hand onto the table as I head to the coffee maker. Still warm. I fill a clean cup and add some sugar and lean my lower back against the countertop, staring at the table. The album calls to me. I can’t pull my eyes from it. Do I really want to know, Cass?

Against my better judgement, the album lid opens under my fingertips. Yellowing photos, some with water stains. Some photos from a Polaroid, some that look like they had been printed from a Walgreens, grainy and blurred. Dates from as early as 1996. Prom. Prom dresses, but you were in a suit. I remember you that night as I watched you—from a distance, I think?—as you busted the stalest, cheesiest moves on the dancefloor in a navy-blue Guess suit and your tawny beige hair slicked back.  You wore those stupid gold-rimmed glasses with the red lenses, remember? They fell off during your version of “Hammer Time” and you didn’t stop dancing until you slipped on them, snapping the frames and cracking a lens.  You cried in the bathroom for an hour after that. The album also has college photos, ’98 and ’99—first day and last—happy you and happy friends, laughing, smoking joints, playing some sort of lute that I can’t truly identify, open mic night, SNL live shows. You and Sera.

Did you have fun? Did you meet Sera and make new memories as I laid on white polyester sheets? Wrinkle-free, they say, yet my skin still molded into the folds while I was under, barely conscious throughout the days while you were out and about living a life you never really wanted to share with me. I remember this revolving door, Cass, of doctors and nurses. Beeping and scans, white lights and antiseptic mixed with chocolate pudding and little pills. I saw so many pity-filled faces, yet I don’t remember seeing you. Where were you, Cass? And where are you now?

I squint at the blurred faces. Why does Sera look familiar? Did you introduce me to them? They’re with you in every single picture. Yeah, they’re with you in the prom photo under the balloon arch. They’re in a muted, metallic green dress, sheening golden under the floodlights. Golden leaf headband in their dark brown hair, feathery bangs hanging right above bright brown eyes. Golden eyeshadow and body glitter gleaming like metallic sand over a Saharan dessert sunset. They look so... healthy. I can’t help it. My eyes drift to their forehead. No scar. I nod. That’s what I thought. I flip an album page and they're there again with you at college—the two of you posing in front of a boxy black Impala. God, you look so fucking happy.

The coffee mug went bottoms up, attached to my lips, downed. I stare at the white popcorn ceiling as the mug settles back onto the table. My eyes fall to the front door across the way on the left side of the house’s front wall. My eyes drift farther into the open-floor living room, to the bay window and the dingy dog bed. They meet a set of brown eyes staring back at them. I yelp, hand jumping to mouth. My hand falls. It's just me. It’s just a mirror. I thought... I thought I had taken that down? The octagonal one in the living room? Your mom loved that mirror. I took it down the first day I got here, afraid I’d see ghosts behind me by the microwave. I look over myself again. Thin dark brown hair, darker eyes. Golden yellow light shimmers on beading sweat over ochre skin. Pale, muted scar. It’s almost as if it’s gone now. I can barely see it. Premonition bubbles with bile in my stomach.

The photos. I look over them again. Cass, who is this? A doppelgänger? A face-stealer? A Skinwalker? Who am I to you? Did you find a replacement?

No. Fucking hell. Who are you? And who are you to think that you can use me this way? I just want the fucking truth, Cassandra. Why did you go? After all that time, why did I wake to find an envelope on my hospital bedside table with this address on it and the key inside? Why didn’t you tell me anything at all? Who the fuck is Sera?

It needs to come down. Now. I strut across the room and try to tear the mirror off. Digging my fingertips behind the frame, I tug. Black-painted nails snap, peeling back flesh in the process. I scream as sharp pain runs through my knuckles to my wrists. I pull back. Fingers red and bloodied. It must come down. Down. Now. I throw the porcelain coffee mug at the sneering face of the mirror. I shatter it. One throw.

The lights above the breakfast table flicker. I glance over at the five-bulb chandelier, yellow-gold and dust-covered. The lights go off.

Thud. It came from upstairs, from your old bedroom. Like a door slammed. Footsteps. Cass, there are footsteps upstairs. I’ve been alone for three days. Cass, where is Sera now?

It’s echoing now. Down the carpeted steps. Frames on the staircase wall clatter under each step. It’s in the kitchen now, Cass. The chair moves. Then the photos scatter through the air, swiftly off the table, furiously fluttering. Oh, God, Cass. Wailing. It started sobbing. No, maybe that’s me. I can’t tell. Someone’s crying, Cass, and I can’t fucking see. I hear it tearing up the photos. The chair is bumped. The chair is thrown, clattering against the fridge, smashing the coffee pot. It’s screaming. The lights are flickering again, strobing.

I stumble back, slicing my feet on the shattered mirror. I feel the wall behind me and inch towards the front door. Locked. The door is locked. The door is locked. The door is locked. I fall to my knees, trapped. It’s going to get me.

The chandelier bulbs flash; they release a high-pitched buzzing that gets louder and louder, then pop pop pop. Filaments disconnecting. It’s dark again.

Bang. Deafening, I tense, body paralyzed for a moment as my head absorbs a sharp echo of thunder, as lightning illuminates the first floor through the scattered windows. My ears are ringing.

I saw a shadow, Cass. Only for a moment. It was at the table.

Silence.

In the dark, I feel the pitter-patter of raindrops against the living room windows. The rain is coming in. Slowly, the chandelier light grows from dark to dim, two bulbs survived. The chandelier sways slightly over the table. There’s blood splattered on the window, Cass. The one facing the table. Rain is coming in from shattered parts of window.

There’s a shuffle in the kitchen, Cass. I can’t really see over there. I want to cry. I can’t move. A figure emerges from the kitchen—the shadow—illuminated now by the chandelier. It’s you. It’s you, and you’re crying. You look scared. Do you have the right to cry? To be frightened? Where the fuck have you been?

Before I could unleash the wrath of pent-up questions that boiled inside of me, you extinguish all of that. From wet, red lips you say:

“Sera? You came home.”

I choke on a scoff, “Who’s Sera?”

It’s called the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon. Or, in simple terms, the Recency Bias or Frequency Illusion. It’s the circumstance that you start noticing the same object or phrase wherever you go. Most people experience this when they play “punch buggie” and suddenly a surge of Volkswagen Beetles emerge from seemingly nowhere, or when they run across a new word in something they’ve read and now they don’t understand how they’ve never seen the word before. For me it was a man.

He first appeared in the parking lot of my workplace. We had just locked up and only the cleaning crew lingered in the building. A chill whistled in the night air, initiating the late summer dying down and being replaced by discolored flora and sepia décor.

A man stood by my car. He wasn’t touching it, just standing by the rear driver’s side door. Despite parking my car under a lamp, shadows enshrouded his face. I stopped about twenty feet away and yelled at him.

“Hey,” I said, “Who are you? Get away from my car.”

He made no effort to move. Instead, his body flickered under the lamp. I didn’t blink.

My fingers fumbled around my keychain, seeking the pepper spray. Something smelled harsh, like composting soil. I kept my hand from my nose. “Get away from my car. I’m going to call the police.”

Behind me, car lights scattered the darkness around us. A car door opened. My co-worker Janina called out, “Hey, are you okay?”

I turned. Their head poked out from atop their door as they stood half out of their car. I turned back. He vanished. My fingers tightened around the pepper spray as I scanned the nearby lot. Without turning back, I called out to Janina, “Yeah, I’m okay. Just wait until I get in my car?”

I stepped towards it cautiously. As I got within a few feet of the door, I jumped, pulled the handle, slid into the driver’s seat, locked the door, and started the engine. The tires squealed as I pulled out of the parking lot with Janina following behind me. I drove home, but while I drove, my eyes flitted to the rear-view mirror. He was not in my car. I checked. Double-checked. It was okay. It was going to be okay.

He surfaced more and more after that. I called him stranger man. I’d see him on my way to work, admittedly in better light, standing on the sidewalks. He looked normal in the sun. Like a tall, brown-haired man with tan skin. Not unattractive. He appeared on my way home, during lunch rushes at the nearby sushi place, and during quick grocery store stops. We live in the same town, so generally I wouldn’t be surprised. But what got me was that he always stood still. Standing still and staring at me. He never arrived or left. He never followed me—physically, at least; he never chased after me or walked. I never saw him walk. He just stood, and I walked until he was outside of my line of sight, and when I came back around, he was gone. When I first started seeing him around town, I screamed. But after a few months, he became a normalcy. Compost scent and all.

I tried not to look at him too closely, for every time I did, he seemed to get closer to me without moving. Like my eyes dragged him closer. Maybe that wasn’t true. It certainly felt like it. Yet, he also seemed to hover. Not off the ground, but his presence was looming. Energy pulsed through him, shifting parts of him. I looked away. He disappeared.

Months later, I saw him on the news. His photo popped up next to the anchor’s. Car accident. One dead. His vehicle had rolled over off the highway, down into the ditch. It rolled five times before finally landing upside down in a local soybean field, the one right off the highway exit. His vehicle was the only one involved. No one who saw the accident reported it, if anyone had seen it at all. Some passerby called it in. The news said the police were still investigating. The autopsy reported clean—no traces of alcohol or drugs in his system at the time of death. Maybe it was suicide. Or maybe there was a bee—he's probably allergic to bees. Either way, he lost control of the vehicle and rolled. Hit his head and died.

After the car accident, I called him the burning man. He continued to follow me, stagnant and stoic. Yet, instead of compost, he smelled like fire. Well, no. More like burning, fire burning wood. Like charcoal. Like a grill being prepped for Fourth-of-July burgers by one of your neighbors. You could only see the smoke above the tree line, but couldn’t tell which neighbor you had to curse for not inviting you to a cookout with people you never knew and never cared to know. The scent was inviting, but then it turned vile. Still burning, but melting. Rubber. Melting rubber like a trash fire, you could feel the heat pulse from the flames of tires and cured furniture broken and slashed. The scent that rolled off of the burning formaldehyde stung your eyes and dried your throat, catching your breath deep down into your lungs. You couldn't breathe that stuff in. It was poisonous, it could kill you.

Since the accident, I had only saw him once. That one time to take in the reek of rubber and burnt leather. I told him off. I yelled at him, “Go away!” While retching. He left. The smell still lingered, but he took the hint. I only saw him once more after that.

I now call him the melting man. I thought he was gone for good. But there he stood, right in front of me. He just stared. My knuckles tightened on the steering wheel as I faced him again, headlights spotlighting him like I played a technician and he played a showman.

First started a low moaning then slap... slap... slap. He moved towards me. From the center of the street he walked towards me, or I should say trudged, for each step forward appeared to take great effort, slow and painful as he pulled one leg from behind him and slapped it on the paved road ahead. Slap. He was quite literally melting, the skin of him sagging in rolls like sap down a trunk, like river sludge in massive folds. His skin bubbled and popped like hot tar, pouring from him and sticking to the pavement as he moved forward, pulling his legs from the ground. Slap... slap. I inhaled, long and deep. He was coming for me. My stranger man. His bulging eyes reflected revenge, and in them I saw the pile of burning metal. A little red Beetle in a soybean field.

I don't get it.

Four years of psychological study, and I still don't understand you.

As I stand at the podium at the front of the class, watching these kids, I think about you and your words that have been riding through my mind on this 8-track minecart, going around and around...

You need some goddamn peace and quiet.

But I stand here, supervising. These kids are laughing. They're talking about passions, about relationships, and future plans. These kids are dreaming and sharing their dreams with their peers. Laughs fill the room. Mulitple conversations at one time, strung together by words and sentences that create this web of connections and vulnerability and trust. So complicated. So intricate by design...

And yet you need some goddamn peace and quiet.

Welcome to the ever-changing architecture in the main structure of my mind. The entrance to this structure is, in fact, a door: plain, wooden, unlocked, with a shiny chrome knob. When you open the door inward, you step into a beautiful, high-ceiling foyer. It looks pristine—sparkling, clean, and maintained.

Like a hotel lobby, it is long and rectangular. Cream and brown walls prop up the high ceiling that is latticed with red-colored wood, dangling antique chandeliers embellished with bronze cages and long yellow bulbs. Maroon-and-cream-striped chairs sit upon large, antique floral rugs with matching poufs, corralled around low coffee tables. To the left and right of these chairs are potted broadleaf lady palms and arecas full of life and invitation.

The floor design, with large cream, brown and blue squares lead you to the service desk and its pegged corkboard of intricate antique keys—some keys are large and bulky, some are small, the size of a fingertip, some are bronze, black iron, silver, nickel, pure gold, pure pyrite. And some are fragile like freshly baked butter biscuits waiting to crumble under the slightest pressure while turning a locking mechanism it wasn't specifically designed for. There is no service desk attendant. You're free to grab a key, any key, all the keys, if you will, and use them as you wish.

To both the right and the left of the central service desk, there is a grand staircase. It is blue and brown and cream marble, like the tiled floor of the Mind Lobby, and decorated with a maroon runner rug. With stairs on each side of the service desk, there are tens (or twenties) of tentacle-warped stairs, moving and squirming, like an ever-evolving, never-ending paradox designed by the love-child of M.C. Escher and Kandinsky's Composition X. Please, chose a stair to follow with that key you grabbed, if you want to.

I see that you have a handful of keys. That’s okay, too; that’s why they’re there. If you’re ready, we can make our way up. One step at a time, please, because there’s a lot to see. First, you may notice the sign: The Staircase Gallery. It’s kind of like the inside of an open skyscraper with hundreds of floors and hundreds of more doors. The staircase in the Gallery goes up and up... It appears endlessly, but time has the control for the hourglass that is life, and eventually, the sand stops.

As you go up, pay attention to the walls and the oil and acrylic painted portraits, both large and small and extra-large, that are hung delicately in heavy, carved wooden frames. They’re antique, so please don’t touch, though some portraits have been newly added to the Staircase Gallery. Watch these portraits as you progress, and you’ll see them change. Faces that may have originally been painted with pleasant features have been repainted with thick, heavy acrylic plastered over smiles and smiling eyes that turned sour. Some portraits have been burned. Others have cracked frames or frameless canvases that are frayed at the edges; they have simply sat and collected dust, abandoned but not really forgotten. I agree with you, yes, that there are a lot of portraits; they’re so closely hung together that it’s almost impossible to see the walls at all. A lot of these portraits are just blank faces without real stories behind them, and a dozen others are so covered with dust that you can’t make out features anymore—like lost memories. I can assume, of course, that these people have their own stories, but I’ve long forgotten them.

On the flip side, there are these golden portraits. They’re cleaned so regularly that they stand out like an animated object in the background of an old cartoon movie—you know, the ones with the stagnant, painted backgrounds? These are the ones that I’ve nurtured over time because they’re precious to me—my closest friends, my spouse, my grandmother. They’re the important ones, and they deserve the best in this Gallery. Speaking of the best: let’s go further, and I’ll show you The Tapestry.

On the way there, you’ll find new beginnings defined by red strings tied around doorknobs that link to other doorknobs. These strings follow the walls around portraits and go up and up... Some of these strings are tied to posts at bridges long burnt that were built over raging rapids one does not dare to cross anymore. Other strings are strong and woven, intertwined with mutual friendships and passions that form into ropes and safety harnesses.

You’re allowed to ask me about the red strings. That doesn’t require a key. You’ll notice that some begin as ropes and fray at the end—torn, sliced, or burned through—dangling lifelessly over the knob of a locked door, while others that begin as a single thread have grown and intertwined with others that bring life to a multi-shaded tapestry of friends and newfound family. This tapestry is the main display in the Staircase Gallery. It hangs heavily on a wooden rod, patiently waiting to be added to. It’s beautiful, yes, because it depicts my hope for the future and the pride that I have in those I love.

You’re passing a lot of doors on the way up. Some are hidden, so don’t feel bad about not seeing them—they were hidden for a reason or two. There are a few that aren’t so secret, though. Do you see the black iron gate with curled spikes on the tips and embellishment of decaying vines and wilting roses? Isn’t it enticing? The thick, black chains and palm-sized lock should not be a discouragement to access. You have a key, remember?

Behind the tall gate, there is a garden with hedges that reach the open, blue sky. It is only the front-entrance garden with a labyrinth-like path that leads to a distant, decrepit mansion. I recommend watching the ground. Some areas are covered in tall grasses, with both friendly and unfriendly snakes, while others are paved and well-trodden.

Notice your surroundings—this gives you clues on how to get out of the labyrinth the correct way because now there is no gate behind you. Follow the tall hedges. They’re so tall, in fact, that no matter your height, you can’t see over them. It’s possible to get lost a time or two, but please persevere and you will make it through.

I’m sorry about that body, there. Please don’t think too hard about it. It's not the only one you will come across. There are many dead and decaying bodies here, and like this one, some have already skeletonized, while others are fresh and still and haven’t had time to assimilate into the worms and roots of this garden. Some of these bodies you will find early on in this labyrinth, while others are closer to the end. They all make me sad, like lost friendships and suffocating flames of potentialities. Don’t loiter in one place for too long, either; you are not the only one here.

When you make it to the white concrete front steps of the dilapidated mansion, congratulations. It was once a beautiful piece of Victorian-inspired architecture in my childhood. It is still maintained in some areas—like the study and kitchen—but other areas have been locked, boarded, and neglected, acquiesced to the earth.

The kitchen had been newly renovated to adopt a form of enlightenment-modernist style, with sharp angles and unique curves, almost minimalist if not for the use of bronze, wood, and rivets, and long yellow bulbs that cast antique shadows on the pinks and creams of the walls. The kitchen is fully stocked and clean, except for a small pile of dishes in the sink and rising yeast dough under the stove light. In the kitchen and to the right is a sliding glass door—it leads you out and back to the black wrought-iron gate that you were so hesitant, like many others, to open.

The other doors of the mansion are locked. Those lead to rooms that have been forgotten—lost passions, crumpled ideas, discarded sketchbooks; sad, broken dreams that were tossed into the wastebasket of wasted time that is flooded with stagnant, weightless regrets. It would be useless to explore those. It’s best to let them be and head back to the Staircase Gallery.

There is this other door in the Gallery—I see you staring at it out of the corner of your eye—it’s cracked down the center. I would agree, yes— it looks like a medieval dungeon door reinforced with black iron slabs and bolted with a slide lock, and a key lock, and a padlock. No, you don’t have access to any of those keys. Please, leave that door alone and ignore the black liquid that’s pooling at its base.

I’d like to take your hand now. Don’t worry, my hand is dry and warm, and soft and smooth with clean trimmed nails and a beautiful ring with small leaves and a clear stone. Accept it, and I’ll show you my favorite part. The Museum. I love to walk it with my friends. If you’ve come this far, you’re my friend.

It’s not a linear museum. It’s an organized palace, with wings and rows and grand halls. There is no door to the museum. Its large, open archway is perched on its own platform in the Staircase Gallery. The Museum starts in the art galleries. It has a long, white hallway in front of us and rows of open wings to the left and right. Each wing is organized and themed with different types of art: sculptures—metal and marble—renaissance paintings, abstracts, global culture art.

Everything I remember and everything that I’d like to create is hung on papered walls under white spotlights patiently waiting for eyes like yours to grace them. We can stay a short while; sit on the peppered benches and ponder each piece and the meaning of the gold-trimmed plaques with the names and descriptions and dates.

It’s hard to say which part of The Museum is my favorite, but the aquarium rides near the top. When we finish the art galleries, we’ll end at a set of glass automatic doors with blue and white signs and hours of operation. Head in and down a short, red brick tunnel that declines into dimming light. Coming out of the other end, you’ll find yourself washed in fluid watercolor blues, refracted through thick glass that separates you from sunken ships surrounded by a plethora of sand tiger sharks and gnawed goliath groupers. You can sit in the center of this large dome and zone out while you watch the aquatic life float by. I’ll point out the eagle rays, and the amberjacks, and the conger eels, and barracuda snappers, but you can ignore me if you’d like. I just like to talk. I also like to watch the fish and the sharks as they swim in endless circles around the shipwreck. What do you think they’re thinking about? Do they know they’re stuck in this large pool, roaming on and on, pointlessly?

Sometime in the future, I’ll show you the botanical gardens and the astronomy dome. We can walk the historical architecture district, too, if you’re interested in the colonial houses across the country that I’ve visited. I don’t want to keep you longer, so we’ll take the shortcut out and head back to the Staircase Gallery. You can return later any time that you want, if you ever want to visit again.

Oh, you hear that, too? That’s just the rising tides crashing against the cliffs and shores of the islands. We can go there, if you’d like, but be warned that the tides are not always friendly, as much as I'd like them to be. They can be dangerous. Go on and take your shoes off; it’s more fun that way.

When you step through this weathered, wooden plank arched door with bronze rivets and a simple plank lock, your feet will sink into the sands of the island beaches. The climate and ecosystem change, depending on when you decide to visit. As of now, you’ll see low and heavy cumulus clouds building a storm, vibrating with potential energy, lightning bouncing between the edges in tune with the threatening growls of thunder. A grey haze fills the sky. The sands are wet and sticky and cold. Cold waters shove rocks and shells and red seaweed ashore, abandoning it as the ocean is pulled back with the tide. Chilled winds howl in your ears, raising bumps on your skin and sending shivers unconsciously throughout your limbs. This same wind blows palm trees horizontal with the ground, whipping waxy elephant leaves violently around like the winds of a hurricane. I warned you of this dark, grey horizon.

It’s hard to control sometimes. This building storm that you see—distant dark blue waves growing and collapsing, growing and crashing down, down, pushing distant ships under—is what causes those shipwrecks you see on your right. At the bottom of that tall, tall cliff are jagged black rocks with sharp edges and bloodstained debris of unfortunate past causalities. Fear not; storms like these are not often. The clouds need to build before something like this happens, and the clouds are patient, forgiving.

Walk a little further to the warmer side of the beach and you’ll find a much more pleasant, relaxing side of the island. Here, these sands are warm and dry, and the low-tide crystal blue water caresses ankles with warm kisses. Beautiful pink and blue shells are found with a little scavenging, and the longer you’re on the beach, the chances that you’ll come across a perfectly intact nautilus shell increase; you’re free to take it and put it on a shelf somewhere. Sit in the warm sands, dig your feet in. The sun’s just hot enough to keep the waters and sands comfortable.

This is what the island is meant to be—warm and inviting. Cozy shacks line the border between the grass and sandy beach, waiting to be occupied by vacationers itching for a break from the real world.

White sails peek over the watery horizon, bringing along masts and a brown hull and a forepeak with a beautiful figurehead of a woman in a long flowing dress hoisting a sword pointed forward, like an encouragement to push forward, push through the crashing tides. When the ship floats just beyond the shallows, we’ll swim aboard.

Don’t worry about the waters over here—they're unnaturally clear and safe. You might feel a fish or two brush upon your leg but fret not, the dangerous waters aren’t until much farther out. For now, we seek adventure on the unknown horizon that awaits. The rope ladder that hangs off the side of the galleon is frayed and worn, the wooden rails are petrified from the oils of many hands touching and grabbing, and when you’re standing on the wet deck, you’ll understand the deep sense of adventure that truly awaits on the waves of the open ocean. Freedom and life; free from the weights of communal responsibility, free from continental government, free from ancestral social constructs. Just naked survival under the voided purple sky and her multitude of stars while drifting in the vast mysteries of the undiscovered black ocean.

The farther you explore, the more curious spectacles you will find, like that of the darkest secrets of the Mariana Trench. Not all you’ll find ever sees the light of the surface, but it’s there. It’s always there, hidden in the depths.

We should... go back. There is a lot more here, but that takes more time—to go one by one through the many doors and memories that are scattered throughout this place. You’re welcome to come back anytime, though. Remember, the front door is unlocked and you have access to all the keys.

Spiraling.

I’m spiraling and I can’t stop.

I can’t stop searching for what I need.

It’s never enough.

Fuck.

It’s never enough.

I roll down my car window

and let the fresh air whip around the metal walls.

It’s overwhelming,

but damn,

does the fresh air feel nice.

It’s distracting,

if only for a minute or two,

from my goal of this drive:

to find the stopper to my madness--

my downward dive--

so out of control.

I can feel myself spiraling.