On the last day of a particularly long winter, while a swarm of bees was moving hives, the strangest thing occurred. A single, lone, baby bee was left behind! Without the entire swarm together, who knows what would happen, for surely, this was the first time in all of history a bee had been forgotten. Though scared and alone, the baby bee was certain he could make his way to the hive alone, and after some contemplation, set out across the meadow in search of his family.

The meadow was big, and this was the farthest the tiny bee had flown all at once, so when he reached the edge of the forest, he stopped to rest. At the foot of a tall tree, barely hidden in the stark forest, stood the cunning fox.

“Look at that small pest of a thing!” He said, as he pointed and scoffed at the bee. “Never in my life have I seen such a small, sorry creature.” The fox looked away in disgust, “and your audible hum is a clear indicator you are not swift or sly enough to hunt with the precision as I do. No fault of your own, I am the best in the forest. Now, what is it you do,” he asked in condescension. Without answer the intimidated bee decided his rest was over. He continued his journey, slightly daunted by the words of the fox.

Deep in the forest where the bee happened across a stream, he checked around to make sure the pesky fox hadn’t followed him, before taking a rest by the water’s edge. The tiny bee began to enjoy the warm sun on his wings when a loud thump came from downstream. The curious bee ventured the direction of the heavy consistent thuds in intervals of three. ­-thump-thump-thump- Rounding a corner near the mouth of the stream stood the strong, dependable beaver building his home.

“If you can’t help, keep it moving,” -thump-thump-thump- The noise rattle the tiny bee and the beaver waved off the tiny bee as he pounded some mud and clay into the cracks of his dam. “You don’t even have a strong tail, no teeth for chomping trees. Tell me, how could you possibly build a home? Get out of here you pest!” -thump-thump-thump- he piled more and more on.

Feeling especially sorry for himself, the bee took rest on a leaf just above the rushing stream. When all of a sudden, a deep rumble startled him into a hover. From underneath a moss canopy, sprung a family toads.

“-ribbit- You aren’t like any -ribbit- frog I’ve seen. “The oldest, loudest frog croaked, his ribbit shook the leaves around them. “Your legs are far too frail to jump, and you’ve already lost your tail for swimming. What are you small thing, and what do you do? -ribbit--ribbit-” Determined not to be bullied, the bee spoke this time.

“bzzzz-No I can’t jump or swim. I can fly-bzzzzz” suddenly the frog’s eyes switched over with a blink into a catatonic gaze.

“-ribbit--ribbit-FLY-ribbit--ribbit--ribbit-FLY-ribbit--ribbit-“Without warning a giant flash of pink tongue left the frog’s mouth. The bee darted left narrowly missing the sticky deathtrap. Instantly the tongue recoiled and lashed back toward the bee bringing with it a fury of other baby toad tongues aiming for the bee in a frenzy, forcing him to dart upward. The frogs leapt after the bee inching closer to him with every lick. The frightened bee flew away as quick as his little wings would carry him.

He flew and flew until those -ribbit-s were long out of earshot. He flew until his tiny little wings felt as if they would fall off, and as if his tiny little bee body would fall clear out of the sky. He flew and flew and flew until he just couldn’t anymore. The bee plopped down.

The tiny bee began to close his eyes and cry. His little bee heart had given up all hope of finding his bee colony, and of reaching his new hive. Though small, they flowed, and his exhausted and terrified tears turned into sobs. Eventually he could hear noises around him, but that didn’t stop his cries.

“who-“ the wise owl who had ventured onto a neighboring tree limb could stifle himself no longer. Though he said nothing more, it was enough. The bee looked up, tears still in his eyes and the owl met his gaze. He blinked back his tears and sniffled up his snot.

“How can I expect to find my new hive? I’m not cunning like the fox. I am not strong or dependable like the beaver. I am not limber like the frog. I can not do any of these things. How will I ever find my hive?” The wise owl smile brightly, a smile the bee had not seen on the face on anyone he’d passed, and finally the owl spoke.

“Oh but tiny bee, the compass inside you is mighty, and the heart inside you is fierce. Please now, stop your tears, for you are closer now than you think.” The bird then took flight leaving the bee to himself. His tears quickly dried as he sat in the silence.

…or was it silence?

He wasn’t sure, but that tiny little bee could swear he heard something familiar. At first is started very low, almost inaudible, humming in the distance. The distinct sound of his swarm roared louder and louder, as if the sound was getting closer and nearer to him. It, in fact, was, and the bee realized it was him flying toward the sound, not the other way around. He flew and flew, faster and faster as the noise grew, and warmth and happiness swelled inside him.

The tall trees of the forest began to thin out becoming more scarce and green fields of budding blossoms sprawled beneath him. He spotted the hive like a beacon rising through the foliage under him. Cheers resounded as the colony swarmed together around it’s missing member.

“bzzz-we’ve been waiting for you,” the swarm buzzed around him loud and comforting; a sound only other bee found soothing. “Now that the swarm is together, we can spread the pollen and bring spring!” As the completed swarm began to dance from blossom to blossom, playing and laughing in the warming weather. The bee realized he learned an important lesson. If you compare your path with the path of others, you will always feel lost; stay on your path.

Deep in the Confederacy of the United States where racism was strong, and minds stayed closed, Damen Morrow stuck out like a sore thumb. Driven by curiosity and his ambition to learn, Damen always seemed to break the social laws of the southerners who enjoyed living the ideals of 1865, even in 2015. When an unexpected opportunity fell into his lap Damen was faced with the choice to begin a new life in the more liberal Union and leave the structure of his cozy southern life behind or settle down in a community, where he never felt he belonged.

“Damen, you can’t just GO to the Union.” Winnie’s voice was unbearable when she was about to cry, which was only a few notches above her normal pitch; but people didn’t call her ‘Whiny Winnie’ for nothing. Her messy blond bun lost a fair number of tendrils to the heat and humidity the Texas sun.

“I can, and I kinda have to. It’s not like I’m going overseas or anything, I’m not even leaving the continent. It’s like crossing a line in the sand. You know, pre-Civil War people lived in ‘ONE’ nation called America.” He stepped off his soapbox when he realized Winnie had fought back her tears long enough to mock him while he spoke. She’d offended him, like countless times before, without apology. Damen continued.

“My great-aunt died, Winnie. Regardless of if I knew her, a person has lost their life! And not only that but they thought of me enough to leave me something. I feel more than obligated to at least ‘go’.” With the last word, he mimicked her horrid impersonation. Damen hated himself in that moment, both that he allowed himself to stoop to her level, and for having ever asked her to see him off. Every word Winnie spoke ushered him onto that plane, saw him to his seat and provided the inflight entertainment. The more she opened her mouth to talk him out of going, she only succeeded to push him further out the door.

Finally though, he’d struck a blow that landed, and it must have hit hard because they sat in silence until the boarding call hailed over them in the terminal. Even petulant Winnie wasn’t one to take death lightly. When the announcement to board eventually came, they embraced in a one-armed hug, barely an hug at all, and then she was off. Her bun bounced ever so slightly as she tramped away. Whiny Winnie was gone in an instant, and for a second Damen wondered if he was making the right choice.

“Last call for Flight 137 out of Dallas of the Confederate to Pittsburgh Union International.” Though it said, last call, he could have sworn it said, ‘last chance’, ‘now or never’, ‘last point of no return’. The tear of the ticket stub in the attendant’s hand made a horrible course rip as it pulled apart from break away piece. She handed half back to Damen and announced he would be in seat 32K; almost all the way back, to the left, window seat. He left the comfort of the terminal and headed down the passenger bridge the onto the nearly full plane.

Damen squeezed past the few people still getting settled, focused, intent on finding his window seat. Though he’d never flown, there were a fair share amount of elbow/service cart references he planned to avoid. After getting nestled in the less than spacious compartment, Damen took one last glance at the terminal. Through the window he saw people milling to and from their flights, exhausted from tearful goodbyes and joyous returns, when he caught a familiar face that stood still and watched. Nearly out of sight, her shoulders still shook from uncontrollable sobs, but otherwise she was a stationary cog in a tizzy of clockwork. One person among a crowd, that stood, and seemingly starred right back at him; pierced through the glass window, and into the windows of his soul; Winnie.

The streets in the Union weren’t entirely unlike streets in the Confederacy, though Damen quickly found himself in a sea of diversity. Everywhere he looked were people of different races as his ears tingled with dialects he’d never before been privy to. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end with every deep breath he took as he ventured farther from the airport. He hailed a cab, and as it neared, Damen could see no visible person inside.

“Hello?” he popped his head into the rear door that had opened for him and glanced around. “Hello!” his curiosity quickly turned to panic when he realized the vehicle was empty. Giggles formed around him from behind, sending a wave of shame over his entire body.

“It’s a self-driving taxi, man. Where have you been living your whole life, under a rock?” a heckling voice distinguished itself among the laughter.

“Yeah, I suppose I have,” Damen conceded, and much to everyone’s surprise, joined in the laughter. He thought briefly back to Winnie and her father, envisioning the sheer looks of dismay at such a ridiculous idea. ‘The Devil’s Work’ was the preferred term for most priest and preachers attempting to ward off constituents from modern technology. By all accounts it seemed to work.

The GPS suggested the trip to take 45 minutes, though the particular model he was in, failed to factor in traffic into it’s time estimates, meaning his barely hour-long commute turned into almost double that. He took the time to enjoy the ride, absorbing the sights as they passed, or moreover, as he passed them by.

People of all kinds littered the streets in beautiful mosaics of humanity. When you looked really close you saw the flaws and cracks, jagged from everyday life, but from afar looked more like a mural of vibrant mortality. Something inside him wanted desperately to be a part of it; of all of it. The air in the Union felt different, as if there were no black and white lines here, no do’s and don’ts of definitive social acceptance.

“Mr. Morrow?” the car door opened, releasing him to the single member party waiting for him. Her milk chocolate colored hand extended to him as he exited the vehicle, that then left the two of them standing curbside alone. When his eyes met hers, he was shocked to find the most vivid hazel he’d ever seen. Every feature complimented the next as her sleek black hair curled around her thin jaw line, which supported perfectly contoured cheeks and plump soft lips. Finally, he circled back to her eyes before he remembered to shake her hand, hoping she didn’t take him for entirely uncouth.

“You can call me Damen.” His hand found hers, soft, it folded into his like a missing puzzle piece he wasn’t’ aware he’d lost.

“Sylvia.” She said, no time for small talk. “We’ve got a lot to cover, Mr. Morrow, and since you seem to have an aversion to deadlines, let’s just get started.” Sylvia was a woman on a mission, and today Damen was the obstacle she needed to overcome. She led the way as he tagged along. They briskly walked past giant topiaries and hedges, up the straight walkway with intermittent stairs in sets of five, toward a sprawling estate.

Damen examined the structure as they entered, concluding it must be some sort of state official building. They walked into a room with nothing but a dark, heavy, hardwood desk where paperwork mars the otherwise pristine study.

“Ok, I’ll save you all the bullshit. Sign here, you get the house, the grounds, and the money tied to it. OR, and I have to put this in because most people would take the money and the house and run, but if you decide not to take the house, you in turn, forgo the money and the house then goes up for auction where anyone, and I mean ANYONE, can bid on your family’s estate. Now we didn’t get to do the full walk through like I intended, but I will give you a few minutes to decide.” She began to step out of the room. Usually Sylvia would go check her e-mail, or do some last minute touch ups to the bathroom mirror, or rehang a crocked picture in the foyer that never seemed to sit right.

“Wait. What estate? How much money are we talking about?” Damen always prided himself on being intelligent, so he found himself uncomfortable, still unsure exactly what was going on.

“This estate. This house, garden in front, pool and guest house out back. It’s all yours. Well, if you sign on the line.” She tisked, still semi annoyed with Damen’s lackadaisical arrival. His jaw dropped. That amazing garden they’d traipsed past, the mansion he’s already eyeballed emphatically, and there was even more he hadn’t seen?!

“And the money?” Somehow the words fell out of him, though his stunned composure still told Sylvia she wasn’t sure he could handle the vast amount.

“$1 mil.” She lowballed, a lie she wasn’t comfortable with but if a small million scared him away, his heart would stop at the actual $12 (mil) at stake. Why did she care, she thought to herself, what was it about this goofball of a man tugged at her heartstrings, made her want to brush the loose brown hair that had fallen over his brow up and sweep it back into place? She wasn’t’ sure what, but something about Damen softened her.

“Still need a minute?” She questioned, and even he noticed the sudden gentleness in her voice. It made him look up from the slurry of papers in front of him where he instantly remembered her beauty. It was hard not to.

“No, you can stay.” He paused, “I mean, I’d like you to stay, if that’s alright. I don’t really have-“ he didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. She knew what he meant. A second alone would mean there were things to consider outside of himself, a family, a lover, even a dog to think about this decision and the effect it would have on anyone, other than just Damen. There wasn’t, in this moment it was apparent to Sylvia, but even more so to Damen; there was no one. He thought of life back in the Confederacy, and he thought about Winnie. Pictures flooded his mind of children, the huge family Winnie would gladly give him, dressed in their Sunday best week after week, content to spread their seed and grow old in a world wearing rose colored horse blinkers, sheltering them from the outside influence of the Union and the world beyond.

“Congratulations! You are now the proud owner of a 9,000-acre estate.” Sylvia took Damen’s hand in both surprise and genuine joy for a man who seemed to have really nothing to his name. Damen realized somewhere along the thoughts of sitting in the church pews and the thought of growing elderly with Whiny Winnie, his subconscious mind had made the conscious decision to sign his name, thereby assuming full ownership, of what, he wasn’t completely sure yet.

“Well,” he sighed, more to himself than to anyone else.’

“Well,” Sylvia seized the opportunity, “seeing as how you don’t do deadlines very well, wanna catch a bite now? I know a great little place to people watch, if you like that kind of thing.” She reached for his hand, but Damen could have sworn she grasped his heart.

“I’m game! Not to brag or anything, but I recently came into a decent amount of money.” Damen winked at her, and as he locked up his new estate.

“More than you know,” she winked back, whispering in his ear the actual inheritance amount. Damen’s knees buckled slightly at the thought of that much money, but something told him he would figure it out one day at a time.

Shall we dance, here in the moonlight,

We could tango to the stars,

Waltz together through the milky way,

Tap-dance beyond Mars.

Shall we dance, among the cosmos,

Stop to polka on the moon,

As we boogie through the universe,

Each quickstep finely tuned.

Shall we dance, explore the galaxy,

Do the Charleston where we land,

But our feet can never leave this Earth,

If you don’t take my hand.

So…shall we dance?

“You were a Flying Tiger though, there has to be some story to tell!” Though the red from his hair had long faded, the red in his cheeks, for which he was nicknamed, had not.

“I went through these things so you would never have to,” his voice is strong from such a seemingly fragile man; a fight he had in him until the day he died, or so I’m told.

“Ok Grandpa Red, what about Poland?”

“What about it?” His focus is steady on the foam bubbling over the lip of his beer can, careful to slurp it up before it’s attempted escape.

“Did your parent’s tell you much about it? I mean, you are the first born American in our family, that’s pretty cool.”

“Is it?” His candor strikes me as he sips and continues. “It used to mean something. When your great-grandparents immigrated from Poland, this was the land of opportunity.” He scoffs at the last part, as if he’s made an inside joke with himself.

“Yeah, this is a pretty sad state of affairs right now; not America’s proudest moment, that’s for sure.” We both let out a small sigh, and smile at each other, like long lost friends, happy to still have their similarities; though in a way, I suppose we were. Suddenly, we are both giggling at our alikeness, happy to be in each other’s company.

“Do you want to talk about anything else?” His voice is tired. Not the sleepy, in need of rest tired. The kind of tired you feel in your soul that comes with emmense wisdom.

“Nothing in particular. Can we just sit and watch the sunset?” the question is almost sheepish from my lips. From his eyes to his mouth, his whole face smiles and there we sit, until after the sun fades and the purple twilight dims to the dark starlit sky. Watching. Sitting. Smiling. Tearing. Repeat.

“Hey Grandpa, I love you.”

I lay awake tonight, like most nights,

And wonder if you’re sleeping

All the dreams and all the secrets,

If they were anything worth keeping,

Keeping up playing the fool,

Keeping up with loving you,

Like most nights that I lay awake and wonder.

I lay awake tonight, ’til daylight,

While sunshine starts to creep in,

The world wakes up and comes to life,

But I’m still stuck here thinking,

I think about the mess you made,

Think and analyze each small mistake,

Like most mornings that I’m still awake, I ponder.

I lay in bed, mid-day, like most days,

After nights when I can’t sleep.

When all the answers that I crave elude me,

And it gets hard to believe,

Believe I even trusted you,

That I was blind to ugly truths.

Long nights lead to restless evenings, I start over.

Sometimes he loved me, wishing nothing more than to hold me still and keep me for a moment, losing himself inside dreams of where we would go together. Though I often fluttered away from him, flitting just out of grasp like the swift mouse evading the ever-agile house cat. He glanced at me, studying my movements in anticipation, willing me to move faster than I could muster; still I carried on regardless of his gaze, undaunted by his anticipation. In that moment he hated me, listless and waiting as if that were any fault of my own, still I danced around him, around everyone, in my own world.

The tension in the room, the friction between us growing with every passing second, his gaze left me, though briefly, to check the door at the other end of the room. Faint beeping from heart monitors down the hall echoed into the empty chasm of a waiting room, that now, only him and I occupy. Though it’s just us two in the room, it seems near capacity with the palpable strain our relationship stifling the distance between us. Muffled murmurs and hushed whispers of conversation wafting through thin drawn hospital curtains are the only evidence that other people are in fact even in the building. He returned his stare to me, unhappy with the pace of my progress, albeit steady and unwavering as always.

The loudspeaker clicks on, pulling all attention from me, and momentarily, he could swear even my incessant movements halted. He felt silly for even checking, by now he knew better than to wonder but I had not skipped a beat, unlike his heart which was still attempting to escape his throat. A lullaby wafted through the speakers announcing a birth, ‘The’ birth we had all been waiting for. The soft melody melted his hearts with memories of sleepless nights, baby’s first’s, scraped knees and contagious sleepover laughter as his entire soul filled with joy, not even fatherhood brought him. Him and I had traversed a lot together, his whole life, to be exact. A torrid love affair of both wanting more and wishing me away; as is many people’s relationship with time. After a hard slam of the cover of his timepiece, suddenly pleased with my performance, he shoved me back into his raincoat pocket. Leaping up from the waiting room chair, he leaves me, ushered through corridors and hallways until he finds his new destination, arriving with the new title of Grandpa, while I simply continue; after all, time can only do so much.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s like out there?” I didn’t need to look directly at her to know where she was pointing. Her fascination with space was astounding, even at an early age. Almost as if it were part of her, tethered to her body like her shadow. While other kids were learning colors, Pax was studying moon phases.

Classmates would come to school and share stories of losing training wheels, or obsessing over teen idols. But Pax was searching the cosmos through a telescope and lining her bedroom with star charts. If sneaking out was ever a concern for my parents, it was only during meteor showers or freak auroras. Dad always supposed it was because we were born dreamers with our heads in the clouds. When I sat and thought about it I knew he was right, he usually is. Which explains why my sister and I were never really ‘normal’ by any teenage standards. Though for two kids named Straea and Pax, I suppose we were as close to normal as we could ever hope for.

“Of course, I wonder what’s out there. Not as much, or as often as you,” the ideas begin to bombard me. Images of other creatures, other lives, other worlds in which we might visit. Pax and I would pick up customs from other worlds, collect them like souvenirs, pack them carefully and carry them with us. Eventually we would take them home and show them of like the galactical travelers we always knew we were destined to be. I would never admit it openly, not as openly as she, but Pax and I knew there was more than just balls of burning gas stuck in each other’s gravitational pull floating around up there. Which is probably why there was no surprise when the global announcement came a week ago. After centuries and decades of trying to contact any other life in space, we finally received a response. Global confirmation came in all forms, most of it was anarchy until everyone realized not much would immediately change.

“Come on, we’ve got to hurry, the city is on lockdown in twenty minutes,” we had more than enough time to make it back to the apartment from the park on any normal day. However, today was far from normal. Ever since the official global acknowledgment (OGA) the world has been in complete shambles. Any semblance of law and regulation went out the window. Getting back home would prove more difficult now in these hurried throngs of people.

Pax locks her hand in mind and shoves herself in front of me, plowing through the crowd like a salmon swimming upstream. I ducked slightly behind her, streaming her jet trails as she made her way home. The thought of missing the very first broadcast message from another planet lit a fire under her, and she weaves in and out, here and there, dodging anything that looks like a potential hang up in our otherwise smooth course. Though many people viewed it as apocalyptic, Pax and I both took this as a welcome opportunity. The OGA, backed by a live broadcast of their first message of contact is almost like witnessing the invention of fire. A life changing moment, the world collectively sharing, yet each in its own respect. They type of ‘you remember where you where, when…’definitive every generation has.

Once outside our building, the people begin to thin out, funneling into their respective complexes. Though less busy than the main throughway, the sound of dogs barking in the distance is second only to the sirens in the distance. Seemingly unending since the OGA, now it would be unsettling not to hear the sirens somewhere in the distance, always on but too far out of reach. At least that was unchanged.

Pax loosens her grip slightly, while we wade through the people still milling about. Most people chose to ignore and brush off this ‘mass hysteria’ as just so. For a second I try to take it in, ‘the before’. Before life changes forever. Before we knew we aren’t alone in this world. Before everything we believe to be true, is not. Everything else from this moment forward would be ‘the after’. Pax yanks me back into motion as she bursts through the lobby door.

As if the doorframe transported us to another time, the empty lobby was still and quiet. An eerie, still silence almost as assaulting as the chaos we were fighting outside, all but stops us in our tracks.

“Where is- “ before I can finish my question Pax cuts me off.

“Where we should be, lets go.” Though her voice never wavered, she moved slower now, as if the silence tied a weight to her. We trudged through the brutal mass of placidity, through the foyer, up the stark deserted stairwell, to our door where our mom waited. The look of panic on her face told me everything I needed to know. We missed the beginning of the broadcast. “Hurry! Hurry! they are having some technical difficulties.” She waves us in the door and shuts it gently behind us stopping there to lean. Glances dart across the room and I realize the still, heaviness from the lobby followed us up and into our home. Settling on all of us like dust, the silence made a home for itself. For once I ignored it.

“-and we are back, breaking news cast coming from an alien planet. Let’s cut to that feed now.” They change in time to catch the very end of the broadcast. Only one word registered. Only one word seemed important. Only one word, unmistakably foreign. It stuck in my brain. Like an imprint or a brand on livestock, the word cemented itself in tomb in my brain. What did it mean? Caught up in thought, my mind a million galaxies away, words by the thousands flood my mind. Beautiful. Exotic. Strange. Curious. New. Alien. So many words in my mind, yet only one word on my tongue.

“Earth.”

“You can’t tell me that with hundreds of thousands of dollars in renovations, they couldn’t spare one dime for the elevator,” I gasp, pulling my suitcase up to the first of four narrow flights of stairs; obviously untouched in the remodel as well. So far, nothing about this hotel looked inviting except the ‘EXIT’ sign. It very closely resembled the Warner Kasern, father used to drive by, in Munich. Its institution style walls, towering and ivory white, commanding attention from its surroundings. Though no one I knew ever made it inside the Warner Kasern, I pictured the inside as bland and white as the outside, relying on its prominence rather than aesthetic appeal. The bare concrete walls are better suited inside a penitentiary and just about as imposing.

Inside the lobby is nearly silent, though I swear you could hear the receptionist dying of boredom. Though she made quick work of checking us in, her enthusiasm for conversation only demonstrated her lack of human interaction. Not that I could blame her, the entire town in the hills below seems more of a modern day ghost town than a thriving tourist economy. I try my best to engage in small talk, something I admittedly have never been both good at, or fond of. Without fail, simple banter quickly turns to awkward pauses. Now she is back holding up her counter, and I am tasked with choosing to trust my life inside of a lift built in the 1800s, or to squeeze my bag through this stairwell like the last dab of toothpaste from the tub.

Each flight of stairs is roughly only twelve steps, however just as tight as the walkway up, the 180 degree turn to go up the next flight is equally as cramped. The tiny space doesn’t even look like it was meant for use. For a second I felt like a child again, playing the game where you have to put a square peg into the square hole, until all the shapes fit. Except, in this instance, it was a rectangle hole, and a circularly packed tight suitcase ready to bust at every seam. History told me how this would end. Exasperated before I begin, I let out a preemptive heavy sigh.

“Well, no one said you had to take the stairs,” my sister Eva calls from inside the elevator shaft as she slides a loud and rickety cage door shut. Something about that eerie elevator makes me feel old and musty, not unlike my great grandmother’s coat closet; and probably as ancient. Just hearing the metal hinges makes my skin crawl and my muscles tense. Eva casts an odd glance my way, halfway pleading me to reconsider.

“Are you kidding? that thing is a death trap!” At this point I am not sure if I am responding to Eva, or attempting to offend an inanimate object with the force of my words.

“It was built in the ’20s, not in ancient Egypt.” Eva spits back. Though she is trying to convince me, her and I both know there is zero chance of me approaching that cage door. As if purposefully interrupting, two barely functioning automatic doors close around the cage and I can hear the noises of the machinery lift her away.

“I would trust it more had the Egyptians built it,” mumbling under my breath. I turn to face my current task, of not only getting myself through this stairwell, but also my belongings. Seemingly I crammed every article of clothing I have ever owned into this bag that is more apt to handle an overnight sleepover rather than two weeks in the mountains. I glance back at the front desk, oddly out of place and dysfunctional. Like an afterthought of the hotel it sits in a dim dark corner of the room.

Halfway up the stairs, I can’t help but begin to think, how so far everything has seemed like it came second. What kind of hotel has such a tiny staircase and outdated elevator unless you are priding yourself in vintage restoration, and not even music in the lobby? I felt vane as soon as the thought crossed my mind, but it would appear these things are in place merely for appearance. Chuckling to myself, I pictured the lobby much like a Hollywood movie set, equipped with standing cardboard cut outs and wax figurines. This thought keeps me perplexed enough to forget the agony my arms are enduring with this baggage. I hear the echo of the elevator door lumber down the corridor, enveloping me, and rattling the tiny space as I round the last flight.

Almost as if the sound will topple me back to ground floor, my free arm lunges toward the handrail. In a brief moment of terror my hand falls right through thin air, down along the wall, missing any handrail that would have been there, had one been installed. The reverberation travels down the stairs away from the point of origin, leaving little ghosts of its echo in its trail, and leaving me more shaken and baffled than before. One more deep breath, and its time to resume lugging this mass inch by constricted inch to the top floor. It isn’t until the final step that I see the absolute grandeur of the hotel.

The heavy dark hardwood covers the floors and door frames. Crimson runner rugs line the hallway almost entirely wall to wall, so not to scuff the wood, leaving only a few inches on either side to complement the mahogany. Ivory white walls adorned with beautifully hand-blown glass sconces, unique in each one’s shape, yet all uniform in glaze. Where every other aspect of this inn seems overlooked, not a single inch of the fourth floor was discounted. Every entryway hand carved with flowers and blossoms, and each curtain swept perfectly open, offering a view of the mountains and the town below. It’s as if so much time and detail went into this level, that every subsequent level was underfunded and undervalued. This hotel, and I imagine my time within its confines, shall be strange to say the least.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Suddenly I’m awake. The room is black. Silent. Still. The white glow of the alarm clock dimmed to gray, barely brighter than a lit match. Even my breathing halted, as if someone hit the pause button; nothing moved. Everything hung in a weightless suspension, untouchable and in that moment, unshaken. Until all at once everything turns back on, full volume.

Drip.

I knew I should have left my migraine pills on the nightstand. It’s too late to think about that now; that or anything really. Pounding, throbbing, aching, and spinning my head feels combustible. Both hands shoot up toward the pain in my skull as a writhe in the bed. Sheets and blankets tangle and wrap around me as my body contorts. My head!

Drip.

Suddenly the floor is beneath me, cold, frozen, stinging on my flesh. For a brief second it provides slight relief from the excruciating thrashing of my brain. I’ve got to get out of here. Some small spurt of adrenaline pushes me to my feet. My first thought is how to stop this noise, and obviously my migraine.

Drip.

The door frame to the bathroom offers some stability as I stumble toward the shower. I must have left the bath on. Fumbling for the light switch becomes a frantic act in the darkness. How could something so routine suddenly be so difficult? I’ve done this a million times before. Finally! I flip the switch to the overhead light.

Drip.

The bathtub is empty. Not only that, it is bone dry. How is this possible? The drip sounds as if it is coming from inside my head! Every second that passes feels like an hour of torture. Where are those pills? I throw the medicine cabinet open, and fumble through the bottles. An big orange one, a small blue one, a small orange one, a fatter orange one; where are those pills?

Drip.

In a fit of pain my hand jets through the bottles, spilling the whole lot onto the counter and into the sink below. FUCK! My eyes scan bottle by bottle looking for the white plastic bottle with a red label.

Drip.

Go faster! My mind is shouting at my hands, who have suddenly become lethargic. Almost just as abruptly as it began, everything slowed to a crawl. As if I am fighting underwater, all of my energy goes into simple movements, and noises become muffled and hard to discern.

Drip.

I am aware there are people in my apartment. Why are they rushing? Why can’t I move? HELP! My mouth forms the words but nothing comes out. At least, I don’t think anything came out. HELP!! I try again and no one flinches, no one can hear me. My head pounds, sending me to the ground where my head falls just out of the bathroom.

Drip.

My vision starts to blur but I can see the people around my bed. Some words are barely audible.

Drip.

“…noise complaint,” one whispers. So I wasn’t the only one who heard the noise? Then they must know I am in pain! They are here to save me!

Drip.

“official time…” one says, glancing at his watch before taking a picture.

Drip.

“Homocide?” another questions as he jots some notes before stepping away from the head of the bed where I catch the only clear view I have had all night.

Drip.

“Time of the noise complaint coincides with the time it took her to bleed out.”

Drip.

“…won’t know until the Medical Examiner arrives but she could have suffered massive cerebral hemorrhaging.

Drip.

“…excruciating death…”

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.