Dorisa Fenten was moving to a new apartment and had to take the bed apart. A simple wooden box was hidden underneath, protected by thousands of malevolent dust bunnies. They watched with dead grey eyes and dared her to breathe. An anxious asthmatic, it didn’t take much to go from normal to the emergency room. Then again, she was never normal. Molly didn’t raise her daughter that way.

###

“Molly’s a strange one,” people would say. “And so’s her child.” In the small midwestern town of Riddle, Mom and little Dorisa were inseparable, often seen walking hand in hand through the town.

The Third Eye Five and Dime was a regular stop, an unusual store Molly explored alone. “This is no place for young ladies.” Mom would shop for hours while her daughter waited at the laundromat next door.

They often carried parcels wrapped in brown paper, talking about mystical arts and how important they would become someday. “Sorry, Di,” her mother would say, “but this magic is too advanced for you. Let’s wait until you’re older.”

“Yes, Molly.”

“Dorisa Fenton. We talked about this.”

“Yes, Mom.”

###

Dorisa glared at the box. Molly gave me that damned thing for my fifteenth birthday and told me to make a wish.

“Stay with me forever,” echoed in my head as the box quivered in my hands. I lifted the lid and saw hope. Looked it in the eye. Later that day, a drunk driver killed Molly. Without warning, Mom was gone, and hope disappeared with her.

Minutes of anger became hours of anguish became days of desperation became months into years of dejection.

###

Every night, her wish comes true. She dreams the box opens, blinding her with its golden demonic light, and she sees Mom die. She feels the crushing pain of impact and prays for God’s mercy at the excruciating instant just before death brings eternal emptiness. As its lid closes, the box forces her to smile and say, “Thank you for bringing Mom back.”

From the depths of its hell, the box whispers, “Forever,” and goes dark. Without fail, Dorisa awakens to unspoken pleas for death and feelings of desolation.

Finally ready to move on, Dorisa glares at the dust-covered box. Dingy. Unmoving. Uncaring. Unassuming bits of wood and glue. Powerless to resist, she picks up her wooden devil and peeks inside. Light rushes out, filling the room in a brilliant golden sheen. Walls pulse with anticipation, a mist of expectancy clings to the ceiling. Cowering by the bedroom door, she curses the glowstorm, afraid it might demand another wish.

Summoning every bit of her rapidly failing courage, Dorisa slams the lid and wraps the box all around with packing tape. Laughing at her unexpected bravery, she screams, “It doesn’t own me, Mom. The box will be harder to open next time.”

There’s always a next time.The words echo in her head as the box quivers and the lonely woman collapses.

###

Sixty days later, the landlord finds Dorisa Fenton’s shriveled body, its mummified hands holding a simple wooden box. Riddle’s medical examiner estimates the teenager died soon after the accident that took her mother’s life. “Appears to be natural causes,” he reported. “Some might call it broken heart syndrome. I read about the theory in school but never bought into that tommyrot.”

###

“It’s about time you got here. Wake up, silly girl.”

The voice sounds familiar somehow, but it can’t be. The box must be up to its old tricks. “I should never have opened the damn thing.”

“It’s a good thing you did. I was thinking you’d never finish the wish.”

“Molly?” she whispered with eyes closed.

“Dorisa Fenton. We talked about this.”

“Mom?”

With an all-too-familiar squeal, Molly pulls her daughter upright. “Di, look at me.”

It has to be. The girl finally watches the world come into focus through a golden-tinged light that shines from nowhere and everywhere. “Mom, what the hell have you done?”

“Welcome home. Just like you wished, we’ll always be together.” Molly smiles.

“Where exactly is home?”

Molly rolls her eyes. “The box, child. We’re in the box.”

″ You are not alone. There is nothing the world cannot offer you Babe.

Now where's my kiss?"

The salty tang in the air made my eyes water. The blowing sea breeze made my skin prickle. My hair blowing up in tufts made it look like a veil against my Army uniform. My hands were embodiments of ice by now. They were numb. But i liked them numb, maybe if i sat still enough i would turn numb too. Immune ,unaffected by everything. It wasn't pain, not necessarily. It was just the lack of pain , or anything really. The human craves touch. Why? To feel. The human kisses. Why? To feel. The human cries on loss. Why?

Cause it feels.

His hearty laughter rang within me. It captivated me, even after years. The low rumble it made in his throat, blossoming into a husky chuckle and then finally... full-blown laughter. It made me smile. His words echoed within my conscience and I instincitvely reached for the Army medals hanging on my uniform.

"You are the reason," I repeated to myself for perhaps the hundredth time that day," You are the reason why I am what I am. The world told me i had nothing. You told me the world was nothing, without me."

But the truth is, the world is nothing without you. Or maybe it is everything ,except you.

Laying there, pale and crumbling, a thousand machines hooked upto you, a thousand borrowed breaths. You still made me feel loved. You were still sweet,silly Samuel. And i was still me, broken and wrong. But you were my right. The gift you gave me satisfied me for my whole life. You were more then ' Babe' or ' Love'. You were what the world should have been like. Where love failed, you came. Where pride won, you humbled it. But when life came, your love was omnipresent .

I should have put up a harder fight,you know,kept you anchored to me. Maybe then you wouldn't have gone. I loved your warm wriggly toes, your messy coconut hair and your honest, heartwarming laugh.

Somedays i wish it was the only song on repeat.

Laying there, hanging by a single thread, i still wanted to show you the world. I tried to hold that thread, but you slipped through. Just a crack. A single crack is all it took. And poof! Just like that, conversations became memories, feel became feelings.

The salt in the air was now crusted on my cheeks. I rolled my tongue around in my mouth just to get a slight taste. The sting of salt quickly dissapated into a lingering tartness on the edge of my tongue.

I smiled.

Then as quickly i had come, i gathered up my thoughts(beleive me ,it's a tediuos job nowadays) and rolled off along, on my wheelchair.

12/05/18

Im stuck, my feet are buried.

Im sinking, my family's worried.

Position a tombstone right above me, "felt his life was ending, so he made sure it hurried."

The past few months are kinda blurry.

I cant remember the last week I was sober.

All I do is tweak until the night is over.

My soul is crying out, "God forgive me," im crying loud.

I dont even know if he's real, but ill do anything that'll help.

But I wont stop doing these drugs that help me escape the lack of love.

And my mom's worried, asking if im okay.

I tell her that im fine before I part to my own ways.

Im barely 19, failing at all my dreams, saying ill be okay then smoke alittle weed.

But truthfully im not, I havent been sober a while, I feel like im not a being.

I think im gonna die when im 36, enter the river Styx, buried with dirt and sticks.

The Devil will cage me, torture me to get his kicks.

Im an addict, I have an addiction.

I say ill change my ways but all my change has been missing.

Heres another 15 for a gram, put it on instagram, smoke it til its ash.

I dont know who I am.

I used to be the kid who'd cry when his mother smoked a cig.

Nowadays im smoking til my hoodie becomes a wig.

I dont even shower much anymore, my body smells like shit.

But ill do whatever to make sure that I get my fix.

And I hate sobreity, maybe thats why drugs are illegal in this society.

Not because they kill people, but because they kill their mentality.

But there's nobody around who gives a fuck about other peoples vitality.

Until their eyes are opened by this "high-time" anomaly.

The path of life is not a smooth stone walkway. It is a dirt "path", if you could even call it that. Weeds growing in every direction, catching your feet as you try to move on. A path in the middle of the jungle, stranded, and threatened by every life force. It had sudden, unexpected turns and twists, sometimes turning you in the wrong direction. However, little pretty flowers grow at the edges of the worn down path. Beautiful little flowers lighting up your way, always keeping a smile on your face. Finally, you come to the end of the horrid path. A huge valley, scattered with the flowers, welcoming you. The huge, and shining bright sun, high in the sky. This is where you will stay, forever more.

When you were a kid you would always make sure you told your parents you love them. But then you get older and you start to forget to and why its because you get distracted. You get distracted by boys/girls by your friends or even your phone.

Something happens to you as a teen you start to develope hormones that attract you to the oppisite/same sex and makes you just wanna kiss them. In this moment you think about your best friend as maybe more than a friend. You date and catch yourself catching feelings more than you’ve ever felt you feel like you can spend your whole life with them. you never want them to leave you you always wanna be together.

One day you tell him/her you love them and when they say it back you feel butterflies and when he/she kisses you, you see the fireworks people talk about. You know you wanna be with them forever and you would give him/her the world if they asked you too. You think to yourself have I actually found my soulmate you may bicker a little bit but that is fine by you.

Untill one day you see he has a messige from someone named Julia saying “When are you gonna leave her? I’m tired of sneeking around.” But rember you are in love you are his one and only or you were at least you hoped you were. You bring it up he told you he just never did love you he was just lonely.

So is this what love really is, is this how life is, why do people do this to you? I thought love was supposed to last forever.

A man cautiously pushes open the wooden gates, crosses the yard scattered with red leaves and carefully places their shoes on the large stone in front of the wooden patio. Climbing up with bare feet, he enters. The wind-bell tinkles as he slides the door open.

The room is full of scents, of old paper and incense and autumn and green tea. The air is cold, but the floor is warm. An old man with a wispy white beard looks up over his glasses at the nervous-looking man standing in front of him. He motions to the floor-cushion opposite him, embroidered with flowers and clouds and cranes.

“Please take a seat.”

An hour later, after questions and answers, about birthdays and family and hometowns, the man leaves. He is smiling. The wind-bell tinkles once more and the gate opens, then closes.

****

“Tell me my first-birthday-present story, pleeeease…” She would beg, whenever they went to Grandfather’s house in the woods, the swooping wooden house with the yard with stepping-stones and the hanji-lined doors, and the mysterious rooms full of ancient smells. When she did, Grandfather would chuckle and twist the wisp of grey on his chin. “Come over then, and listen carefully.”

“You were born in the spring, in the month of the rising water, two days till the full moon. It was in the middle of Seoul, one of the most propitious spots in the country. Your great-grandfather, my father, had given your mother her name, and when I studied your father’s, it was clear that he had been given a carefully-thought one, too, so I knew that I didn’t have a terribly hard job ahead of me. Mind you, that was lucky, for it is terribly hard to do a good job when the parents have an ill-fortuned name.

“I was still nervous, though, for I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted to give you the perfect birth-gift. Or first-birthday-present, as you call it. So I spent days and days in the study, searching for the perfect character, with the perfect meaning, with the perfect number of strokes, which would go in perfect harmony with your mother’s and father’s names.

“You see, my child, a name is like a shadow; it follows you throughout your life and acts as a fortune. The words we speak carry an energy called qi, and when your name is called, you receive that energy, that qi. A good name carries a good qi, and will lead you through a good life. But if you receive a bad name, one given without careful consideration of the many factors, it will bring a bad qi every time your name is called, and bad fortune will follow you.

“So I thought and thought, and searched through books full of hundreds of thousands of characters, and that is how your name was created. The first character of your name, Jae, which means clear, has the qi of steel, and is harmonious with the earth qi of the second character, In, which means merciful. Together with your family name, Seol, also with the qi of steel, your name allows that the good qi may flow smoothly through your name and your fortune, whenever your name is called, whenever those characters are spoken.

“That was your first-birthday-present, my child. Jae-In. Your name, your shadow, your fortune, that I gave you when you were born, in the month of the rising water.”

****

Through the hanji windows, the old man watches the man leave, looks at the closed gates. He smiles, too, for he knows that feeling. In his heart, he prays that the man may safely deliver the gift to the life it was chosen for. ‘It is a good name,’ he murmurs. ‘It carries a good qi.’

I used to hate my ex for years and years.

And then I hated my next ex for a few years.

I hated yet another one for just a little while.

I hated the girl who bullied me in junior high.

I hated the boy I didn't even know who called me ugly.

I hated the boy who picked on me almost every day and threw a text book at me in class.

I hated the teacher that saw the book hit my back and said nothing.

I hated going to school.

I hated every random person who said a hurtful thing.

I hated waking up.

I hated being me.

Many days, I hated being alive.

I then got very tired.

And I started to think in a way that made me less tired. Because I wanted my energy back. I hated being exhausted more than I hated those other things and people.

I forgave my exes.

I forgave the kids at school.

I forgave the teacher.

I forgave me.

Then I accepted that people are just people, and hate usually is born out of not really knowing somebody or not understanding what make people the way they are. Most people are all right. Even the really broken ones. Because they have a reason that they are broken. The very broken ones usually end up in prison away from us anyways.

I then saw that not only was I less tired, but I didn't hurt anymore and nobody could say words to hurt me. Because that pain was a choice.

I then replaced that hate with acceptance, understanding....and avoidance. Because I also learned that I didn't owe anyone anything either. Not even a hello.

prithee

woe iz me

whar another year crept up quiet while hi prey on bended knee

creaking ligaments, cartilage and boner 

   presaging aging performing calisthenics iffy

yet can still git his minuscule mister softy free

ranging into your pussy.

Barometer housing the market in this manse world! ™ c0p pee rite infringement wood be hun honor to shout. 

prescript: any resemblance between these characters and living persons purely coincidental, yet some basis on fax usurped from this chap to spin out this wheely tread full tired and true discordant vignette.

     Prior to shifting gears to second (among the gritty streets of this urban area known as the city of angels), an automatic reflex found me to rev the engine full throttle in reverse (nearly jamming the gear shift in the process), and steer the wheel (of my old battered 1995 Subaru Legacy) while peering backward all the while toward a waif like woman advertising sex in this most dangerous, rundown gruesome alleyway in a Los Angeles ghetto.

     Amidst the ruins of derelict dilapidated tenements (strewn with the detritus of human flotsam), this aspiring writer stopped his car!

     You (who just barely whispered her name happened to be a street walker dressed in her scantily clad outfit) explained the reason such an abrupt decision took place to slam on the brakes.

     Upon opening the driver side door, she willingly entered and promptly dug her scythe lent fingernails (expressly unsheathed for aphrodisiac generating purposes) and dug deep into the flesh of my bony shoulder blades! 

     No matter hustling (albeit as a first timer) with this receptive client, the popularity of her reputation triggered MOTORAZR phone she carried buzzed nonstop.

     I silently accepted, acquiesced such nail biting tearing of the flesh, expected eventual scarring without regret and felt no discernible pain from this reaction! 

     An out of body experience found me observing how the sharp blood red nail polish matched the trickle of sans droplets doing a sort of corpuscular slalom down the ridges and ruffles of my well-toned upper back muscles before coagulating at the minor crest of a very minimal gluteus maximus.

     Before surrendering to any further compliance sans libidinal longing, a nonverbal signal (from yours truly) indicated sequestering ourselves in one of the numerous boarded up buildings.

     We clasped hands (as if we spent years as a happily married couple), and gingerly stepped over heaps of awful smelling rubbish toward the most inviting long vacant and condemned abode!

     Despite the posted “DO NOT ENTER” warning, we blithely unheeded and nonchalantly tiptoed hither and yon upon identifying the best pick of the shells once lofty habiliments.

     Ghosts of once glorious complex edifices could be envisioned analogous to exquisite fractal patterns.

     Enough daylight still existed to traipse upstairs and locate the most suitable space to exercise primal physical intercourse.

     Once we meandered into what appeared to be the master baiting sleeping chamber, an automatic and immediate animalistic urge goaded us to inch ever closer to each other!

     No matter the action seemed quite ludicrous, the bedroom door got pushed closed and latched.

     Analogous to a pussycat getting satisfactorily rubbed, scratched and stroked, she (my current pelvic partner de jure and temporary synchronistic soul connection) purred, nibbled and licked upon receiving electrifying reciprocal stimulation upon various and sundry areas of that svelte luscious latitude of erotic enticement.

     This introductory forceful embrace allowed us to hold each other close and breathe in the fragrance of the other. 

     Teeth accidentally clacked and clicked (like the tappet brothers of car null talk hammering out a piston) against unfamiliar dentifrice while tongues created some playful spur of the moment cat and mouse chase game.

     An excess of saliva spilled back and forth necessitating an intermittent breakaway similar to basketball players dribbling prior to the next ploy.

     We then began simultaneously to tear wildly at getting first ourselves and then the other completely undressed!

     Upon one of these occasions, I took licentious liberty (perhaps with just a bare audible objection) to kiss brow, cheek and nape of neck of this pleasing prostitute.

     An especial glandular female aroma wafted my nostrils. 

     A spontaneous urge arose to nibble (and taste the salt from such fragrant pheromone laden flesh) and found this tongue (of mine) doing some data mining around upper arms and setting sights toward those engorged and ripe breasts.

     The surface of my hands seemed colder and rougher against the silky smooth base of bosoms and sent a slight shiver down the fine hairs of Sally's star studded spine!

     Lips gravitated toward these swollen mammary glands.

     An infantile pang evoked an atavistic impulse per this older guy to suckle like a babe nursing ala much like those iconic Madonna and child images predominant in churches!

     Akin to a newborn, I applied a gentle suction upon first one than the other nipple and also began to describe circular motions atop those supposedly sensitive aureoles of each tricking teat.

     Optimism existed to draw out that coveted milky white substance that ranks on a par with the most sought after illegal contraband.

     Deep in the throes of aural, carnal, tactile, et cetera exploration, these ears detected approaching footsteps, which set fear running amuck in this anxiety prone literary fellow.

     This internal sensation of doom and gloom got ratcheted up manifold in tandem with an overwhelming panic attack upon discerning that infamous ring tone from the cell phone. 

     You reassured me that the soft patter of footwear upon the rubble heap just another wannabe starlet, who sought out some figurative rock of Gibraltar and aspired to win the accolades either of a casting director, or indie producer!

     The latter figured that my je nais sais quois flair with the english language (perchance such command of lingua franca accurately and amazingly gleaned from a recent personal posting) set in motion an intuitive sense that this guy noir could be (at a minimal) one stepping stone to that elusive sought after ticket to paradise just east of Eden.

     As time permitted, I quickly learned that both women labored as waitresses at the same (unmentionable) upscale restaurant and forged a sisterly bond that insinuated first one that the other to consider moonlighting as street walkers to further their ambition to fame and fortune.

     Although ensconced in the company of deux delicious darlings, a sudden diminution to pursue the antics of manage a trios seemed nada apropos and plus this contemplative, introspective, tentative fellow (of deux score plus fourteen years) considers sexual intercourse the most salient palliative best experienced with the privacy of one woman.

     Plus, the economic challenges (especially the loom threat of an impending economic cliff casting dark forbidding shadows as the world wide web turned along the edge of this errant knight) drew these young nymphs into (what they naively and innocently believed) earning hand over fist money immune to the depredations of venereal disease and/or the indefatigable energy requisite to relinquishing oneself to the indulgences of promiscuity.

     Although anthropological lineage can be traced with a rather jagged line from that hazy humid dog day afternoon, an ordinate amount of energy plus a preponderant exuberant expenditure of crusading conviction found pitched battles with battle axes and crucifixions following pomp and circumstances infusing the exploits with pomp and circumstances of the somewhat lean off green fighting machine.

     In essence, the effort to fight off this ole factory desire to succumb into the vortex of these verdant vestal virgins found me essentially pussyfooting to communicate a desire to bed down with both this lasses.

     Difficult if not well nigh impossible to discern any traceable clue of such depraved motives in the rather cute and furrowed brow, heart and soul of this ape men, who considered these young women on a par with children that happened to be above average.

     This overactive imagination of mine was certainly putting more energy into the illusory corporeal alignments qua sexual relationships (within a hair’s breath away) than I had put into many other reel ones.

     In addition, I also gave you more attention that was by definition, indivisible, undivided, and relishing the safety of the distance between us by opting to be truthful instead of doling out the white lies that have become the crusty jean et tic staples of real life.

   Whew - that was easy as getting STAPLES.

from - - scott matthews holed up in his schwenksville, pennsylvania zip coded 19473 jalopy humbly apologizes for any blasphemy, calumny, effrontery, indecency, racy tawdry villainous whiplashes against your person.

Everyone else seemed so enamored with her right from the start. I admit it, she was charming as hell. From her wild, crimson lips, to the way she’d toss her head back and guffaw as loud as a barn animal, at your joke – or any joke- anyone made. Then she’d poke you in the shoulder with one of her long, manicured fingernails, brightly colored- and ask if you work out every day, because you look so fit. That’d be early in the night when we all drank beer.

Then later, in the quiet when the night turned maudlin and the lights seemed dimmer, we’d break out the wine glasses- red of course. She would lean forward and stare deep into your eyes, those crimson lips pursed, just listening. And suddenly, you were the most sophisticated, interesting person who’d ever walked into town. And the way she smoked cloves wasn’t the way 15 year old drama club students smoked them, but rather the way they hoped they looked when they smoked them.

“I love smoking and hate the smell!” Even her explanation was unpretentious.

She was, what all we young women wanted to be, but she made us all feel like she envied us and we couldn’t imagine why, but we sure as hell wanted to find out. She acted like we were the ones the boys looked at with the glimmer in their eyes when we piled into the bars on Saturday nights.

“You darlings look gorgeous tonight!” and she’d kiss each of us on the head, like we were her little angels.

No-one got more affection than Cheryl. Cheryl was the lucky one. She’d seen an ad online for a roommate and it was crimson, guffawing, charming Morgan who came to the door. She had a way of walking into places and making them hers without being overbearing. It was a mystical quality that ignited feelings of power in our own womanhood. Since then, she’d been accepted into the fold without much vetting.

One night, at MorganandCheryl’s –as it came to be known, we were all drinking Absinthe. Morgan opened a fresh bottle and made us watch the “green fairy”. She said it was part of the ritual. She showed us how to drown the sugar cubes over our glasses placed ceremoniously atop slotted spoons she said she’d got from France. None of them quite dissolved completely and took a bit of stirring. Even still, Morgan was the only one who didn’t make a face when we all toasted.

“Whatsa matter, babies? Don’t like black licorice” She asked in between sips. “I didn’t either before I spent that year in Denmark. You know they put salt on it there? I guess it’s an acquired taste.”

I couldn’t agree more, but we all felt so worldly that none of us complained and instead started sharing stories of travel. Not all of us had been across the pond, so could only share stories about other towns or states. Morgan treated those with no less fascination and glee than Cheryl’s story about Scotland and Linda’s story about Thailand.

The night wore on but the liquor didn’t wear off and we found ourselves listening less to the soft music we had playing and listening more and more to the sounds of the night. The mood of the evening took a mystical turn and we started to talk about spiritual matters. Linda and I expressed staunchly agnostic views. Margot grew up Baptist but didn’t have any specific god in mind, just that she believed in “something”. Morgan talked about different gods and goddesses old and new with the enigmatic glow of an old world shaman, but lacking the piety and conviction of a priest. Cheryl nodded dogmatically, while the rest of us sipped our wine and listened, intrigued.

Morgan then started talking about the oracles of Greek myth, specifically the Pythia – a woman of great power and prestige, who was considered the mouthpiece of Apollo. Then just as quickly, the topic changed to witchcraft and tarot and numerology.

“Once upon a time, I had my own fortune reading service in the country-side.” Morgan pulled softly on her lit clove. She had a wistful look in her eye. “Oh! It’s been years though!”

“Can you still do it?” Cheryl asked.

“Well, I imagine, I could. I could give an example. I’ll need birthdates though.”

Cheryl went first. Her reading was that she was generous and worldly. It also said that she was optimistic about people, but nobody’s fool. Morgan told her that she would be successful in money matters but have trouble in love.

Linda went after. Morgan said she was kind and honest unless it came to matters of business, then could be unscrupulous if threatened.

Mine said that I was intelligent, but callous and while I liked a challenge, could be lazy in day to day life.

Margot declined to have her fortune told. She said she was happy enough to watch.

I think we ended the night talking about music and art.

A few weeks later, Linda, Margot and I got together at my place to drink and talk. After a short time, I managed to veer the conversation towards Cheryl and Morgan. None of us could reach them and Margot and I became startled when the number Morgan had given us no longer worked.

I shared that I had spoken to Cheryl on Wednesday the week before, but she was short with me and I had noticed something tense about her voice, and since that I had only ever reached her voicemail. She hadn’t responded to my emails either.

“Do you guys think there’s something weird about Morgan?”

“Like what? I think she’s awesome.” Offered Margot.

“Well, that numerology thing. She seemed to take it so seriously. I felt like she really wanted me to believe it too. Did either of you feel that way too?”

“So she’s eccentric. I’ve had Christians who really wanted me to believe their crap too, but that didn’t stop me from being friends with them.” Said Linda. “No offense, Mar.”

“Well, has anyone been by Cheryl’s?” I changed the subject. I couldn’t find the words to describe my trepidation and gave up.

“No. I haven’t.” Linda answered.

“I swung by yesterday after work. Nobody answered though.” Margot fidgeted.

“It’s suspicious. It’s not like her, you have to admit.”

“You two are being alarmists.” Linda interjected. “She’s probably just sick or something.”

“She’d still probably answer her door and phone.” I argued.

It was a two against one vote that we go check on her again. And again there was no answer at her door. We tried jiggling the door handles, back and front, then tried every window we could reach. The house was locked up tight.

I turned the flashlight on my phone and peered in through the kitchen window and gasped. In the shadows I could make out that a chair had been overturned and it looked as though some things had been rifled through.

“Look!” I pointed. “Do you believe us now that something’s not right?”

I could see in the wan light that Linda’s brow was now knitted with concern. Margot’s hand was poised over her mouth.

“I think we need to make a police report.”

We were all smoking on the porch when the squad car pulled up to make the welfare check we requested. We were all a little surprised that they made it under an hour.

After taking our statements and walking around the house, it was determined that there was probable cause to enter the apartment.

Cheryl’s landlord was awakened to open the door. He approached us wearing a bathrobe and slippers, muttering under his breath.

We were all made to wait outside the door with a female officer, while her partner went inside to search. The living room and kitchen light went on while we stood nervously on the porch. We kept trying to peak over the woman officer’s head at her annoyance.

I couldn’t tell you what else was said and what happened. Everything else was a blur.

More cars showed up and the area and we were eventually sent home. We weren’t told what they found and when we called the police station every week, we weren’t told anything other than they were looking into it.

Cheryl’s mother and brother kept regular contact with us. I’m not sure what Margot and Linda told them. I barely remember what I told them. Mostly the calls were met with uncomfortable silence and Cheryl’s mother’s quiet sobs.

It was over two months later in the early spring before the thaw when I finally got a phone call from Cheryl’s brother. He asked if he could come by; he was in town. We met at my house after I got off work.

The blood was drained from his face when he related how they called him to identify her. Her fingers and head were missing. They had to take his blood he said, to test the DNA. Hikers had found her, thinking she was a mannequin at first.

There were long pauses of reflection in between every other sentence.

He fumbled in his pocket for a moment before pulling out his hand. There was a glint of metal peaking between his fingers.

He cleared his throat before speaking again. “Anyways, my mom said to give this to you. Cheryl told us a lot about you. We appreciate you being there for her.”

“Was I?” I held the little ring in my hand. It was so small. I could feel the water drip alongside my nose. “I don’t deserve it.”

He leaned forward. “It wasn’t your fault. They said Morgan wasn’t her real name. She was a con artist. They think she’d been active for decades.”

I couldn’t meet his gaze. “Please, from a grieving mother and brother. Just take it.”

When he stood on my stoop to leave, I folded my arms around his neck. I had heard so many stories about him, but none of them came to mind. He wasn’t a stranger. I asked that he call sometime so we could talk about her. His face seemed pinker and he smiled.

I remember all the time spent between Linda, Margot and myself in the months following the discovery of Cheryl’s remains. It’s hard to remember all the words spoken. Those nights were filled with guilty confessions, expressions of shock and horror, talk about sore muscles and insomnia and nightmares, regret and many sobbing sessions. We asked ourselves why we didn’t see it sooner. Maybe if we had done this or said that we could have saved her.

Those months, I wore that tiny ring on my pinkie.

Linda moved to the East coast and Margot got married and I put the ring in the bottom shelf of my jewelry box and didn’t take it out again until a few years later.

It was a Sunday when I was flipping through channel after channel and I saw her face. I paused mid-flip and stared. I picked up the phone and told Margot to change to channel 4. I needed a witness. She started to speak and I only turned up the television, not responding, then she was silent too.

A reporter with platinum hair and pink lipstick told me that Morgan’s real name was Claire MacNeil. She had been apprehended South of Miami. The tv cut to footage of a gray haired woman being escorted by two stern policemen. She wasn’t laughing.

I wondered how she felt about being filmed without that bright red lipstick.

And that was it.

The cameras returned to that platinum reporter and she changed the subject to something else that I don’t remember now.

Margot was silent on the other end.

Finally, I asked her, “What do we do?”

She looks preppy, with her long hair and trendy outfits. She has a flock of boys trailing like love-sick puppies. She likes 'Girls' and other trendy shows. That's what she wants you to believe. She loves 'GoT', 'Star Wars' etc. She knows Valyrian and Sindarin. She's a secretly proud nerd.