The trip with Daniel was supposed to be a simple one. We’d pay to climb the mountain, and our guide would help take us to the top. Simple. If I’d known what was really in store for us, I might never have gone.

It was our second day on the mountain when the avalanche happened. We saw it coming and managed to get underneath a rocky outcropping that protected us from most of it. Our guide was not as lucky, and instead was crushed under the snow when part of the outcropping collapsed underneath the force of the snow. He disappeared with a short scream, obliterated by the white onslaught raining down the mountain. And with that, we were trapped, three walls of rock and one of snow. We were on the less traveled side of the mountain because we’d wanted a challenge, so it was unlikely that anyone would find us. Even after they started looking a few days or a week from now when we hadn’t come back, it would be a miracle if they found us at all, let alone before we’d starved or frozen.

Space was not much of an issue; we had plenty in our icy prison. But supplies were something of a problem. The guide was the one with the food. All we really had was basic supplies, and a hot top with a little propane tank. Daniel thought it would’ve been fun to cook something on top of the mountain. Instead, we sat across from each other in this space we would share for potentially the rest of our lives, cold and miserable.

“Hey Danny,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“You remember that time when we were kids, and we made that shitty little igloo in my backyard?”

I did. Daniel and I had been in each other’s lives for as long as I could remember. We’d grown up together, best friends. We only took a break from each other during college, when he went away while I stayed in town and got a job.

“Yeah, I remember that. It ended up collapsing on us.”

“Hopefully the one we’re in right now is made of tougher stuff,” he said with a chuckle.

Daniel always could find the good in the bad. He could always cheer you up in a shit situation. He was just that kind of guy. The kind to crack jokes when you were at your worst, make you laugh even when you didn’t want to. Make you smile even when the only thing you thought possible was a frown. He was just a genuinely great guy, and everyone saw it in him. What he saw in me though, I didn’t know. I’d always been ungainly and unpopular. But he never left my side.

“Hey Daniel,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you come back?”

He scrunched up his face. As though the question had offended him.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You could’ve been anything, gone anywhere. But you came back to our shitty town. Why?”

And it was true. Daniel had always excelled academically, and always been gifted athletically. He was just a good ol’ homegrown American boy. When he went to college, it was a full ride. After that, he went to medical school and became a doctor, a surgeon. Then, he came back to our hometown. The hometown I’d never left.

He seemed to ponder for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

“I just really missed it. I missed the people. I missed my family,” he said. “You can only get so far out there without the people you love.”

I leaned forward and said –

“Bullshit.”

He seemed taken aback by this, the soft smile disappearing from his face.

“You had the whole world to explore, you could be making a million a year, you could be driving exotic cars, but you came back to our hellhole for family? Family you could’ve visited every year at Christmas? I’m not buying it.”

The small cave became quiet with my outburst, even the crackling of the snow seeming to silence itself. He wrapped his arms around his knees as he brought them to his chest. After a few minutes, I really began to feel bad. I shouldn’t have said that. My life was full of things I shouldn’t have said. Unlike Daniel, I was dumb. I had little common sense, and I’d been working shitty minimum-wage jobs since I was sixteen. I was twenty-six now. A decade of mediocrity. I was only on this trip now because he'd paid for everything.

“It was for you, Danny.”

Daniel’s voice pulled me out of my self-pity. I looked at him and we locked eyes. He was serious.

“Wha-”

“I moved back because I missed you, Danny,” he said, cutting me off. “Life just wasn’t the same without you man.”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“What are you talking about Daniel?”

He sighed, his breath freezing over in the air. He looked resigned.

“I missed you. I just couldn’t find anyone like you out there, and I tried. I wanted to have someone with me, someone like you. But there was no one. They just couldn’t fill your shoes man.”

I was in shock. No one had ever said something like that to me before. No one had ever told me I was really worth much, let alone that I was irreplaceable.

“Daniel, where is this coming from?”

He shrugged. “You’re my best friend dude. Always have been, always will be. I love you, bro.”

“I love you too man”, I said, holding back tears. “But I still don’t get it, there’s nothing special about me.”

“That’s not true Danny, there’s always been something special about you. You’ve always looked at life in a way I never could. Even in your darkest hour, you didn’t give up. You kept going.”

He was talking about when I was addicted to heroin. It started shortly after I heard he’d gotten into med school. I looked at my life and didn’t see anything worth living, so I tried to escape. I did it off and on for years, getting clean and relapsing. But when Daniel came back to town and found out, he sent me to a really nice clinic that actually helped me. He paid for everything, and to repay him I’d stayed sober ever since. It’d been two years now since I’d touched the stuff. But I still didn’t understand.

“You always saw the art in life, the beauty. You looked at nature like it was a gallery, not a terrarium. You never cared about understanding, you could just exist. I could never do that.”

With that, I saw tears in his eyes as well. I saw pain. He was telling me something he’d never told anyone, I could tell. This was something he’d been living with for a while.

“I wanted to hate you sometimes,” he said. “Because you seemed so happy just to be here. But I could never bring myself to it. I just wanted to be like you so badly, Danny. So badly.”

We were both crying now, the tears stung my cheeks, the cold turning them into icy rivulets of sadness. He was more composed, but I was sobbing. I couldn’t hold it back. I’d always wished the opposite, that I could just be more like him. I’d always wanted my parents to be proud of me like his were, for people to like me the way they did him, for girls to talk to me so easily. I just wanted to be better. And this whole time he wanted to be, what? Dumber? So stupid that the weight of life could be lifted off of his shoulders. What a weight, what a horrible burden he carried, I thought bitterly. To be so loved.

“Fuck you, Daniel,” I said, venom in my voice.

Now, he was the shocked one. His mouth opened in surprise.

“Fuck you. You think you’d be better off as me? You think being some dumb, heroin-addicted loser who barely got out of high school would be better than what you are? A fucking doctor! That’s what you are, you’re a fucking doctor, and everyone loves you.

What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His mouth shut tensely, and he choked back his tears. Once again the quiet reigned supreme in our prison cell. After what felt like an eternity, in actuality probably just a few minutes, he whispered something.

“What?” I said.

Again, he said something softly. So softly it couldn’t pierce the sound of silence.

“I can’t hear you, Daniel.”

“I said I don’t know!” he roared.

His suddenly fierce demeanor caught me off guard, and my anger was quickly forgotten.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me Danny! But something must be because I hate my life! Every day I wish I hadn’t woken up. Every night when I go to sleep I hope it’s for the last time! Do you know how many times I’ve fantasized?! Do you know how much I wish I had the balls to just blow my brains out?! But I can’t, Danny! I can’t fucking do it!”

Now I was fearful. Daniel was standing, shouting at me as I curled tighter into myself.

I felt like a child who’d once again said something stupid. I spoke before I thought about the implications. He took a step towards me.

“I guess I’m getting what I want, huh Danny?! I guess it’s finally ALL gonna happen for me! Everything I ever wanted!”

I was terrified and grabbed the pick next to me. Daniel saw this, and a look of realization and self-conscious horror came across his face. He backed off and sat down once again. I clutched the pick to my chest, trembling in fear rather than cold.

We sat there, him looking forlorn and dead inside, and me, shaking. The temperature was dropping, and soon I was shaking with the cold.

“Hey, Danny.”

“Yeah, Daniel?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Daniel.”

“Can you take that pick, and put it right in my temple?”

His request startled me at first, but after a moment of thought it didn’t seem outlandish, given his recent revelation. But I didn’t have the guts. We both knew it.

“It won't hurt me,” He said calmly. “One good swing, that’s all it’ll take.”

My hands were sweating, writhing about the pick in nervousness.

“Please, Danny. I don’t want to freeze to death.”

My eyes widened, and I felt nauseous at his request. There was no way I could. I couldn’t murder my best friend.

“Daniel, I know we got a little heated, but we don’t need to do anything like that. We could still get rescued!”

“I don’t want it to come to that,” he said calmly. “I don’t want to make it out of here.”

“Daniel,” I said, pleadingly. “Daniel please don’t ask that of me. I can’t do it.”

He looked up into my teary eyes, and I could see the defeat in his.

“Okay, Danny,” he conceded. “But know this, I won’t make it out of this life alive, and I’d rather it be by your hand than mine. So please, reconsider doing me this mercy.”

With that, he laid down and rolled over to face away from me, and I was alone. I sat there, wondering what he meant by that. His life was wonderful! He had so much to live for, why wouldn’t he want it? The longer I sat there, the colder I got, and the more confused. Eventually, I crawled over to Daniel, and on my knees I asked him –

“Why?”

“Why what, Danny?”

“Why don’t you want to live?”

He was silent.

“I can’t do this if I don’t know why, Daniel.”

Silence.

“You’ve got so much to live for, you’ve got such a great life. Why end it?”

More silence. And then –

“Because none of it means anything. It’s all a pointless charade. It’s all just a chore at this point. The only thing I want anymore in this life is you, and I can’t have just that. So I don’t want any of it.”

I thought for a moment.

“What do you mean, all you want is me?”

He sighed.

“I told you, Danny, I love you, man.”

I sat behind him for a moment. Then I raised the pick into the air. My hand was shaking violently, and so I gripped it with both. Tears streamed down my face as I tried desperately to do what he wanted, to give him the only real thing he’d ever asked of me.

“Danny?”

“Y-yeah Daniel?” I stuttered, my speech impeded by my heaving chest.

“Thank you.”

I froze, my hands stilling themselves. And then I swung.

My aim was true, and with a horrible squelching sound the pick sank itself into his head. He jerked, then lay still. Blood should’ve been rushing from his head, I thought, but instead, it flowed slowly. It was pushed out by ambient pressure rather than a heartbeat. It was an almost peaceful scene. I sank back onto my heels and looked at what I’d done. It took a few seconds, but the realization soon washed over me, and I began to weep once more. Now that I’d done it, I was once more jealous of him. I’d never thought to get out, to end it. And now, here I was, trapped with the body of the person I loved the most in the world.

I began removing my clothes, and as I did the cold cut me deeply, quickly reaching into my bones. If he was gone, I wanted to follow suit. I just hoped freezing to death wasn’t going to be long or painful. Soon, though, I stopped trembling. I was confused, and tired, very tired. I laid down next to Daniel, holding him tightly, the pick still in his head.

“Hey, Daniel?”

“Yeah, Danny?”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that you hurt for so long.”

“It’s okay, Danny. It’s alright.”

Heart dented

Agonal hiccups

Reverb laden shivers

Give stereophonic birth pangs

Beware the insolent monster

Who won’t even stalk

My frazzled frame

Daddy watches the shuddering collision

Damaged satellite

Cognitive runoff

Tragic fossils

Dug up for a facetious laugh.

The avalanche fallout erases reality’s wobbly stand.

My loose eyeball is dried ruscus

From 1987’s merciless withering.

Lucky me.

The recent years of ups and downs had inevitably led to this day, but it didn’t make the hurt any easier to comprehend. After the wake concluded, my family gathered around the casket together to have a last look at our matriarch before leaving the funeral home; the funeral mass and burial would be the next morning. We wiped away tears and went home to spend the longest night of our lives awaiting the final goodbye.

When my family arrived at the church the next morning, the funeral director announced that the casket was open in a small room to the side of the chapel if we wanted to take a moment to say goodbyes privately before her casket was closed forever. We decided to give each other space to go into the room one by one so we each had a last moment on our own with her.

Dad went in first, and he was crying when he emerged from the room. My sisters and I spent some time consoling him before Anne went in. A similar scene transpired when Anne reappeared, and we spent a few moments in a group embrace. Liz went in next, and was in there for quite a while. When I entered the room, I found her kneeling before the casket crying; I had to gently nudge her up and out of the room. Liz closed the door behind her as she left; I was now alone for my turn to say goodbye.

I didn’t rush home when Anne called me to tell me that Mom only had a few days left to live. I had a wonderful conversation with Mom several months prior to her death and it felt like we had said goodbye to one another in that call; there was a beautiful feeling of peace that came over me after I hung up. She knew how much I loved and missed her, I knew how much she loved and missed me and that she was proud of me. I wanted that to be the last moment between us; I didn’t feel the need to see her take her last breath.

As I stood there staring at her in her casket, sure, that was my mom, but it didn’t really look like her. My first reaction was boy, I bet you’re pissed off! since she didn’t look altogether fantastic. Her chin was sunken into her neck, her lipstick was a strange color, her blush a little overdone. She hated being stared at, and as a matter of fact, she included in her Will that we better not be sitting around staring at her in life as her health declined or in death. Mom had the last laugh, though; after a week of someone being by her side constantly, either keeping her comfortable or praying a rosary, she died when no one was in the room with her. It made me chuckle to think that in that moment, she said to us all I meant what I said- don’t stare at me and let me go in peace!

I put my hands on the edge of the casket and leaned in to kiss her forehead. As I started to lean down, her right eye popped open. What the fuck?! I stumbled backwards, breathless. I shook it off and assumed that the glue used to close the eyes during embalming had melted in the humidity. I walked back to the casket, and now both of her eyes were open staring directly at me. I froze; one eye I could understand, but now both of them?! Her eyes were not their usual brilliant blue, but rather a murky gray. As I went to place my hand on her clasped hands that encased her rosary beads, her left hand grabbed mine with great force. I tried to recoil, but she was too fast and her grip became tighter the more I fought her. She started to growl from the left side of her mouth that had also somehow bested the glue meant to keep her lips together.

Her body started heaving, like she was trying to drag me into the casket with her. The bottom of the casket flew open with a tremendous explosion and she started wildly kicking her legs. Mom, stop it, please! She now had a grip on both of my arms with both of her hands and I realized she was using the weight of my body to pull herself out of the casket. I started screaming for help, but no one heard me; I was left alone to fight with my mom.

I shook free from her grasp and fell backwards as her lifeless body crashed to the ground with a resounding crack. She was silent. I sat gaped in horror and wheezing, staring at her body crumpled on the ground. I had to get her back into her casket before someone came into the room.

Is it safe to move? I slowly pulled myself to my knees and with bated breath started to cautiously crawl in her direction.

Closer… closer…

When I was within arms reach again, she shot to her knees and tackled me. Her mouth now fully open, she was roaring with anger. I could tell she was trying to speak, but I wasn’t able to make out anything but garbled noise. She was clawing at me with a rage that I had never encountered, my strength waning the more powerful she became. We fought until I was about to give up, but a surge of energy allowed me to shake her off of me and I was finally free to run.

I ran out into the narthex to find people milling around, talking and hugging one another. I turned around and Mom was right behind me, chasing me closely. She kept grunting and growling, her roars echoing throughout the entire sanctuary. Mom, stop it, please! No one throughout the church noticed what was going on; everyone carried on their conversations, found their seat for the funeral, knelt silently in prayer. Dad was in the front pew, staring at the altar, oblivious to everything happening around him. I was running past people who have known me and my family for years and not one person cared to recognize that my mom was… alive and chasing me?

I zigzagged through the pews, trying to shake her balance and lose her, but she followed along without fail, her screeching becoming more bellowing the more I ran. Each time I changed directions, she flew up to the beams of the church, swinging herself from beam to beam, trying to get ahead of me. I burst through the front doors of the church out to the parking lot, passing the hearse that was supposed to transport her to the cemetery. I ran along the perimeter of the church and found a cubby hole to hide in. Mom ran past me towards the forest, growling harder, and I thought I heard her say the word goodbye.

Goodbye.

Is that why she was chasing me? Because I didn’t go home to say goodbye to her in person before she died? Or maybe she was upset because she didn’t get to say goodbye to me? Goddammit.

I started to get choked up, but shrugged it off; I didn’t have time to cry right now because I had to get help to find Mom and get her back into her casket before the funeral mass started. I poked my head out of the cubby hole to see if I could see Mom; she was nowhere in sight, so I took off towards the front of the church. I threw the church doors open and ran straight to Anne and Liz, out of breath and terrified, trying to explain to them what was happening.

Mom….outside… chasing me… zombie… empty casket… too strong… help…

They looked at me like I had gone completely mad and told me that was impossible. I recounted the events to them: Mom had been attacking me, chasing me all throughout the church and outside into the parking lot, how did they not see this?! She ran into the forest, we have to go find her before the mass starts!

Anne said, You just came from the room her casket is in, Aaron.

No, I didn’t- I just ran through the front doors of the church, you saw me!

In an effort to calm me down, we spent a few moments in a group embrace and then I walked with Liz to the room where the casket was, the entirety of the walk my trying to convince her that Mom wasn’t going to be in there, asking why she didn't believe me. She didn’t notice that I was speaking to her or even that I was walking with her. Liz walked into the room but I waited outside. I realized that she had been in there for a while, so I entered the room and-

(gasp) That’s not possible…

All of the air left the room. Mom was peaceful in her casket. Not a hair out of place, her outfit as pristine as the first time I looked at her, her brooch perfectly placed and not at all askew; eyes and lips perfectly sealed.

I don’t understand. My emotions started to intensify the longer I stood there; I felt crippled.

Goodbye.

Liz was kneeling before the casket crying; I had to gently nudge her up and out of the room. Liz closed the door behind her as she left; I was now alone for my turn to say goodbye.

I put my hands on the edge of the casket and leaned in to kiss her forehead, hesitating for a brief moment; my lips met her forehead. After that gentle kiss, I said Goodbye, Mom through flowing tears.

Aaron… Aaron… AARON!

Liz finally shook me out of the haze I was in as I was staring at Mom. How long had I been in this room? What happened while I was in here? Liz finally said-

Did you hear that? They announced that it’s time to close the casket. The nightmare is over.

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

For both of us.

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

And I did so willingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I said softly, “there isn’t.”

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

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

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

I was the villain.

Because I had made myself one.

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

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

Blackness, then stars. Colors Henry couldn’t comprehend danced around him. A pain shot through his left leg, from ankle to hip crease, as consuming as the cosmos. Slow your thoughts, allow sensations to pass through you, breathe through the pain. The stars formed a canopy to cradle him. There had never been so many colors. Each one carried a sound. Blue was A minor: A requiem for nothing. He laughed. Blue was A minor and his pain a symphony.

If he couldn’t get the car to start he’d just hitch a ride. What was the worst that could happen? He’d get serial killed? So what? It’s not like he had a lot left to live for. He pulled off his flannel. He stood in his tank and combat shorts, using his battered flannel to wipe the sweat from his brow. He’d eaten the chocolate about an hour and a half prior. Still, mushroom dosage was an imprecise science.

Henry had known the name of the neighboring town before the shrooms kicked in. He must be pretty far from town now. And the way the trees were breathing indicated that it was going to be a hell of a ride, even if he found a ride. He hadn’t seen a car in a couple of. Hours? He had water in the car, Henry reminded himself. Damnit. He must want to live. Otherwise he’d forget the water. He wanted to forget anything to do with his human body, but the persistent pain in his leg tethered him. How had he been injured?

Sunflowers sprung up like bandits. They towered over him. Were the sunflowers talking about him? A community of elders determining his fate? The sunflowers hadn’t been there earlier. Had they? One of the sunflowers bent toward him, in confidence. Henry knew he ought to pay attention. The stars swirled.

“I didn’t know sunflowers were so active at night. I thought you only came out during the day. You’re sunflowers. It’s in your name.”

“Nothing is in a name. Names are meaningless,” the sunflower whispered.

Henry slowly made a 360. He saw no mountains. Where were the mountains? He’d hiked up a pretty steep mountain slope. He’d even fallen, reinjuring his leg. Reinjuring? What was the original injury? The stars winked out then blinked twice before rebooting. Life in the simulation. One never really knew what to expect. Disorder. Shifting landscapes and timelines. Too many colors, too little time to adapt between reboots.

On the bright side, his leg no longer hurt. Maybe it was the psilocybin. Maybe it was the reboot. He might die before he figured it out. Hell, maybe he was already dead. Although, somehow, this time something seemed. Different.

A cactus to Henry’s left confirmed, “Yes, that’s correct. I wasn’t here before. How are you in the desert? Where are the mountains? The sunflowers? It doesn’t matter. It’ll reboot again before you do.”

Henry squinted at the typed words on the prescription bottle, but they were swimming. He shoved it back into the pocket of the army jacket he didn’t remember putting on. He hadn’t owned a military jacket in years. The contents of his car flashed through his mind once again: heaps of clothes, bottles of water, weapons, pictures of his daughter. Wait. He could remember the license plate number, but not the make and model of his car.

Before he could give it more consideration, a figure appeared on the horizon. The cactus was no longer there. Just as well, it hadn’t been very helpful. The approaching figure was bipedal. It moved like a human. Henry held up a hand and waved awkwardly. The figure didn’t return the gesture, it merely persisted in its forward motion.

Henry relaxed into his Tai Chi posture, standing straight with his tailbone and chin slightly tucked, a microbend in his knees. Sarge would call him into activity duty any moment. Gunfire in the distance. An explosion. He'd be behind enemy lines within a few hours.

“Better off practicing hand to hand drills while you wait,” Sarge grunted.

Henry knew he meant Krav Maga or Muay Thai, but he preferred the meditative quality of Tai Chi.

“You’re too soft, you’ll never make it out alive,” Sarge taunted.

Henry glanced down at the prescription bottle again, inexplicably in hand. The typed words no longer swam, but appeared to be petroglyphs.

“He overdosed you. You think that was an accident?” Sarge asked.

“It’s the simulation, not the psilocybin,” the cactus smirked.

An urgent tug at his sleeve, the horizon figure was upon him. His nose was crooked and flat. Broken too many times. The horizonman’s skin was burnt sienna, and he was wearing a makeshift turban tied Romani style. Glitch or psilocybin? Henry hated the dessert. God he was thirsty.

“Man up,” Sarge barked.

Horizonman rolled his eyes, echoing Henry’s sentiment: Sarge could be an absolute prick. Horizonman wordlessly handed Henry a canteen. After the briefest of contemplations, Henry obliged, taking the smallest sip his thirst would permit. Horizonman nodded, touching Henry’s elbow, indicating he drink more. The water was impossibly fresh and cool. The man nodded. The cactus laughed.

Irritated, Henry turned his attention to Horizonman, “You got a name?”

The man shrugged, “Whatever name you give me.”

Fine. Be as obtuse as the cactus.

“What happened to you?”

Henry laughed, “What hasn’t happened? Abuse, accidents, war, friendly fire, unfriendly fire, drug deals gone wrong, drug deals gone right. The usual. Why?”

“Because you’re losing a lot of blood. I mean, look,” with an exaggerated gesture.

“Dang. That’s messed up. Why don’t I feel anything?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

Blank stare.

“You’re bleeding out, man.”

Blank stare.

“You’re dying.”

“We’re all dying, every second.”

#

A familiar sound. From another timeline. Roaring; squealing. Bright white lights, humming, buzzing, frantic motion. People shouting urgently. Was he behind enemy lines? Maybe his copter had been hit? Or his parachute hadn’t deployed?

“Hey? Stay with me. Do you know your name?”

Henry attempted to rattle off his name, rank, and serial number, but that only caused the hot liquid in his throat to bubble and froth.

“Listen, you’ve lost a lot of blood. You need a transfusion. Your leg has multiple fractures, but we need to take care of your head wound first. We’re taking you to the OR now.”

“Doctor, I think it’s a bullet wound,” from the attending nurse.

“It is.”

All eyes turned to Horizonman, “I shot him. 40 caliber, Glock 22, standard issue. One shot; I grazed his temple. He’s lucky, I was shooting to kill. He ran off, took a nasty tumble down the cliff onto the road and got hit by a car. The driver absconded before I made it down the slope, but I got the plate: Alpha Charlie 719-28 Bravo Delta.”

Complete silence. They rushed Henry into the OR, but the nurse who’d identified Henry’s injury as a gunshot wound lingered.

“Why bring him in? If you were shooting to kill?”

Horizonman shrugged, “I admired his moxy.”

“We’re going to need to get a statement. We’ll need you to wait here until the police arrive.

What’s your name?”

“Names are meaningless. But he called me Sarge.”

#

Detective Nawa threw the file on Sargeant Buford’s desk. Buford picked up the folder and opened it. Atop a pile of documents, a picture of a severe looking man in military attire stared at him with dead eyes.

“Sergeant Kaktis. What am I looking at here?” He asked as he rummaged through the paperwork.

Before he could read the details, Nawa summed up, “He was dishonorably discharged three years ago for the unlawful assault of one of the rangers, Souffleur, in his squad. Huge scandal.”

Buford held up a paper almost entirely blacklined with redactions, “He attacked one of his own men? ” scratching his head, “There’s bound to be more to the story. What else do we know?”

“Not much. Yet. But take a look at this,” Nawa replied, pulling up a photo on his phone,

“This is Ranger Souffleur.”

Buford cocked his head, “Is that our mountain man?”

“That’s right. And the man who brought him in, identified only as Sarge, evidently touched the glass door on his way out. CSI lifted dozens of prints,” Nawa paused to amp the suspense.

“Don’t tell me we actually have a suspect?”

“Suspect. Or possible witnesses. Someone we urgently need to locate, in either case. Guess who two of the prints belonged to.”

“Sarge Kaktis,” Buford concluded, “Well, looks like we’re headed back to Sisters of Mercy. Any word on the vic’s status? Or sign of our alleged hit and run vehicle?”

“Nothing yet - on either. No match on the plate numbers, and we’re still trying to locate next of kin. It appears both of Souffleur’s parents are deceased. No siblings, but there’s an estranged wife and daughter out there somewhere. Matter of time.”

“Right, let’s head to Sisters, see if we can trace a path back to the mountain. I’d also like to have a chat with the attending surgeon, see if the vic’s injuries track with a hit and run. Maybe our ranger will wake up soon and be able to give a statement.”

Nawa’s phone rang: Sisters of Mercy.

“Detective Nawa. Yes. Yes,” Heavy sigh, “Ok. Thanks for letting us know. Really? OK. Well, we’re headed that way now.”

Nawa looked perplexed, “He didn’t make it. But it wasn’t the head injury. The doctor thought we’d want to discuss the toxicology report. Apparently our ranger had an entire apothecary in his system, but none of the drugs they found were his prescribed antipsychotics. They also found some suspicious injuries. His words.”

“Suspicious injuries? Alright then, let’s grab a coffee on the way. It’s gonna be a long one.”

He gazed back down at the picture of Kaktis, “What the hell happened out there, Sergeant?”

John, a typical American guy in his mid-30s, was overly confident in his DIY skills. Whenever something broke in the house, he’d always announce, “I can fix that!” His wife, Susan, would usually roll her eyes and wait for the inevitable: within a few hours, the house would turn into a disaster zone, and John, flailing around with tools, would insist that he was “almost done.”

Today’s project? The washing machine. Seemed like a simple enough task—unless you were John.

“I’m just going to fix it up real quick,” he told Susan cheerfully, grabbing his toolbox.

“You’ll call a professional if things go wrong, right?” she asked hopefully, knowing full well that conversations like this usually ended in chaos.

“A professional? For me? Susan, you forget who the engineer in this house is!” he declared proudly, though his engineering experience mostly came down to assembling IKEA furniture... without reading the instructions.

The moment John opened up the washing machine panel, he felt like an explorer venturing into unknown territory. Before him lay a labyrinth of tubes, wires, and parts that looked like alien technology. Truthfully, half of it, he didn’t even know existed.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he muttered, pulling out an oversized wrench. John was convinced that any repair job always started with a wrench. Always.

The first sign of impending disaster came when John unscrewed the wrong bolt. Instead of removing a small panel, he accidentally disconnected a pipe, and a small stream of water began to trickle out of the machine.

“Oops, just a tiny leak! I’ve got it under control!” John called out, already ankle-deep in water.

From the kitchen, Susan peeked over at the unfolding situation and muttered under her breath,

“And why do I always believe he’ll manage this time?”

Five minutes later, the sound from the laundry room could best be described as “a shipwreck.” John was frantically twisting the water valve, trying to shut off the flow, but instead of reducing the pressure, he turned the valve off completely, causing a geyser of water to shoot out like something out of a disaster movie.

“John!” Susan shouted, hopping onto a stool to avoid getting her feet wet in the rapidly forming indoor lake.

“I’m almost done, sweetheart!” John shouted back, now waist-deep in water, one hand desperately pressing on the pipe, the other holding a bolt between his teeth.

“You always say that!” Susan yelled, but at this point, she didn’t even bother arguing. It was pointless.

Suddenly, John noticed something seriously alarming: the washing machine began to shake. As if the ghost of all past laundry cycles had come back to haunt it. The machine growled, and in the next second, a flood of soap bubbles erupted from it, filling the room. Now, not only was John soaking wet, but he was also covered in foam.

“Are you making soap bubbles now too?” Susan laughed as John’s arm emerged from the foam, still trying to close the machine’s lid.

But the machine had decided it wasn’t done yet. It continued spewing out foam, water, and—wait—a few socks from last week’s missing laundry.

“Maybe we should call a professional?” Susan suggested again, watching John hopelessly wrestle with the chaos.

“A professional?!” John, now moving like a sprinter, ran to the power switch and finally turned the machine off. But it was too late. The laundry room now resembled a swimming pool full of bubbles. “I fixed it! Just one small problem… Where’s our cat?”

At that moment, the cat’s head emerged from under a mountain of foam, looking like a spiky hedgehog made of soap. He glared at John with a look that said he understood everything about John’s “handyman skills” and slowly padded out of the room, leaving wet paw prints behind him.

John stood there, dripping wet, soap bubbles slowly sliding off his face, while Susan, now laughing uncontrollably, wiped away tears from her eyes. The cat, meanwhile, slinked off into the living room to recover from his unexpected bubble bath, leaving John to face the consequences of his latest DIY disaster.

John, however, wasn’t one to give up so easily.

“Okay, that didn’t go as planned,” he muttered, brushing the remaining bubbles from his head. “But I’m not done yet. I just need a different tool. The right tool.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “John, the only tool you need right now is a phone to call the plumber.”

“No way,” John insisted, rummaging through his tool box. “This is just a minor setback. I’ve got this.”

With newfound determination, John pulled out a rubber mallet, as if this would somehow resolve all his problems. He gave the washing machine a tentative tap. Nothing happened. Encouraged, he gave it another, slightly harder whack.

“John, what are you doing?” Susan asked, her laughter fading into genuine concern.

“Just… recalibrating!” he replied confidently, even though the washing machine clearly didn’t need “recalibrating.” It needed a miracle.

Susan shook her head, now preparing for the next wave of chaos. “Recalibrating, right. So, when’s the last time you ‘recalibrated’ something successfully?”

“Remember that time I fixed the dishwasher?” John said, puffing out his chest.

“Oh, you mean the time we had to replace half the kitchen floor after it flooded?”

John blinked, momentarily thrown off, but quickly recovered. “Well, yes, but that was just bad luck! This time, I’ve got everything under control.”

Just as he said that, the washing machine made a low groaning noise—a sound that no household appliance should ever make. Before either of them could react, there was a loud bang, and the door of the machine flew open, sending a wave of water and soap crashing across the floor.

John was now completely drenched from head to toe, standing in a sea of bubbles, his rubber mallet still in hand.

Susan couldn’t hold back her laughter anymore. “Control, huh?”

John looked down at the foam-covered floor, then up at Susan, who was trying to stay upright on her stool. “I might’ve… underestimated the situation.”

“Might’ve?” Susan cackled. “John, this is like Tsunami 2.0 in here! I’m surprised we’re not floating!”

John sighed, finally accepting defeat. “Okay, maybe it’s time to call a professional.”

Susan hopped off the stool, shaking her head with a smile. “I’ll go grab the phone. Let’s just hope the plumber doesn’t bring a lifeboat.”

As Susan left the room, John looked back at the washing machine. He wasn’t sure whether it was the glint of soap bubbles or his imagination, but he could swear the machine was mocking him.

"Alright, alright," he grumbled. "You win this round, but I’ll be back."

Meanwhile, the cat, now dry but still looking like it had just escaped a war zone, peeked around the corner, as if to check whether the coast was clear. Satisfied that John was no longer wielding his tools like a madman, it cautiously approached Susan, likely plotting its own revenge for the impromptu bath.

Just as Susan dialed the plumber, she heard John muttering to himself in the laundry room.

“What was that?” she called.

“Nothing!” John yelled back, though he was already eyeing the dishwasher. Surely there was something he could fix there. He was, after all, a man of ambition.

Susan turned back to the phone. “Hello, yes? I need a plumber. Urgently.”

By the time the plumber arrived, John had managed to half-dry the laundry room—well, sort of. The floor was still damp, and the washing machine looked like it had been through a hurricane, but at least the flood had been stopped. Susan greeted the plumber at the door, trying to suppress her amusement.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”

As the plumber entered the laundry room, his eyes widened. He surveyed the scene: soap bubbles clung to the walls, puddles of water gleamed on the floor, and in the middle of it all stood John, holding a bucket, as if that had been his grand solution all along.

The plumber, trying to keep a straight face, cleared his throat. “So… what seems to be the problem?”

John, desperate to salvage some dignity, quickly chimed in. “It’s just a small issue with the washing machine. I think the water valve’s acting up.”

The plumber nodded, though it was clear he didn’t buy John’s story. He crouched down, expertly inspecting the washing machine, which by now looked like it had survived an earthquake. After a few minutes, he stood up and looked at John.

“Well, I can fix it, but…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Next time, maybe give us a call before things get this far.”

Susan, unable to hold back anymore, burst out laughing. Even John, standing there in his soaked socks, couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I’ll let the professionals handle it next time.”

But of course, everyone knew that wasn’t true.

That evening, after the plumber had fixed the washing machine and left, Susan and John sat together in the living room, sipping tea. The house was finally quiet, and the chaos of the day seemed like a distant memory. The cat had forgiven John, or at least tolerated him again, and was curled up on the couch, blissfully unaware of future catastrophes.

“You know,” Susan said with a grin, “you should really write a book about all your ‘fix-it’ adventures.”

John rolled his eyes. “Very funny. But you know, I’m not that bad. I almost fixed it.”

“Almost doesn’t count, John,” she teased, nudging him playfully.

He sighed, taking a sip of his tea. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll stick to smaller projects. Like changing light bulbs.”

“Let’s just hope you don’t turn that into an emergency too,” Susan laughed.

But despite the teasing, there was something comforting in the familiarity of it all. John might have been the clumsiest handyman on the planet, but he always tried his best, and Susan loved him for it—disasters and all.

Just as they settled into the cozy evening, John’s phone buzzed with a notification. He glanced at it, his eyes lighting up.

“Hey, look at this!” he said excitedly, showing Susan the screen. “There’s a sale on power tools this weekend!”

Susan froze, her smile slowly fading.

“John, no.”

But John was already scrolling through the options. “What? Come on, think of all the things I could fix around here! The possibilities are endless!”

Susan sighed, leaning back on the couch. She knew how this story would go, and she had a feeling the next chapter in “Operation: Fix-it” was right around the corner.

She just hoped it wouldn’t involve the dishwasher.

The End (Or is it?) :-D

Victoria Lunar

“Never go back to a place where you have been happy. Until you do it remains alive for you. If you go back it will be destroyed.” - Agatha Christie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the general consensus against flying, he looked forward to the “me time”; watching movies, eating, and sleeping while being attended to. Not today.

He had not eaten a single meal, and was looking forward to meeting his mates, after almost four decades. He asked for an orange juice, adjusted the headphones, and pulled the blanket up to his neck.

Spinning the clock back in his mind, he smiled. It had been a daily ritual of sorts at the local chai-wallah, the owner known simply as 'Uncle'. His mob of teenagers would leave the place either when ‘Uncle’ closed for the day, or when their banter was exhausted. Usually, it was the former.

At the time, it seemed like they would grow old together, in the same time and place. Even when their career paths diverged, they continued the soirée unabated. Jabber of playing Cricket turned to discussing the game, there being no time left to play from the pursuit of happiness, a la Economics.

Daily catch-ups turned to weeklies until the span stretched to months and geographies. Videoconferencing provided a fun alternative but the novelty wore off. Promises to sync again diluted and broke. After reviving connections on socials, he had suggested a meetup and was almost in tears when the mob agreed en masse.

After landing, and navigating the usual drills at the airport, he hailed a cab, and settled back to enjoy the nostalgia rushing past as the driver made his way to the destination, replete with honking, cursing, and breaking traffic rules. He would catch up with his buddies before heading home to see his family.

When he alighted at the rendezvous spot, he had to stretch for a bit. The ride had taken its toll on his lower back and it was something he didn't miss from the old days when a rough ride was part of everyday life.

His friends, now balding and graying, not unlike himself, were as welcoming as he could remember. They hugged him and complimented him on his physique; quite the contrast from their sagging chests and growing bellies.

“Foreign countries keep you fit, yaar. Everyone is into exercise and fitness!” One of his mates teased him.

“Arrey, I ask you what is the need to struggle with exercise at this age? Who's going to a Mr. India contest, huh? Enjoy life!” Another shared his philosophy.

He just laughed along because he was happy to be back in their company, and at Uncle's.

“Hey buggers,” he finally asked, “Where's the chai?”

“You still remember, no? Bugger’s not changed a bit that way!”

“Of course I remember.” He laughed. “Now, let's order a round or five.”

“No more Uncle's chai, man. He was bought over by that big American cafe chain!”

“What? No.”

“Ya! Hey, but they make a good latte, okay?”

Exiting the pale grey coffin mouth

Heavy in October’s quiet morning moan

Sing deluged seawater epics

Over leafy burning phantoms

Yellowing pilgrim rage

Her sun slivered eyelashes

Bat blood blistered castaways

Burning rose tipped alms

Demure flame

Atop mascara mountains

Her thundersquall boots

Chained to heated gravity

Disturbed ballet

Leaping volumes

Out the black frosted heel

Keeping sacred sleep

Where untamed silhouettes

Spear naked openings

Sashaying swords to ghost husk trees

Choral flower battles

Reedy hymnal dreams

And sound is mute chambered gold

By her spirited marble steps

That kiss moorland halo

To such a sun swaddled beautiful death

Wrapped diamond cold

But pressed fathoms deep

Under cathedral skies

Crushed velvet twinkles

Her wild dance

Eternal snow

Bittersweet lodgings

Ashes and afterglow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She relaxed and laid back on the slide.

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

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

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

——————————————————————————-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shitty day,” Danny said.

“Yup.”

“Can’t believe she’s really gone.”

“Me neither.”

“What are you thinking about, Jame?”

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

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

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

“Too late for that.”

“I’m serious, man.”

“Okay, okay!” He put his hands up.

“I want to kill Brooke’s dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are we going to do this?”

“I have no fucking idea.”

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

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

——————————————————————————————

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

Could I do it?

Could I get away with it?

And could I come up with a plan?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Why?”

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

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

“I’ll pull the trigger.”

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

“Not a soul.”

We both paused, and then finally Danny said.

“Then let’s do it.”

I smiled.

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

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

——————————————————————————————

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

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

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

“Pop the trunk.” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“No,” he answered with a sad smile.

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

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

“One goddamn second.”

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

He dropped quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think so too.”

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

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

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

I am going to keep this one simple and straight to the point. I live in a small country in Asia, and since the day I was born, I have seen tortures of women and until a certain age, I never realized that this was unfair. Since the moment that my eyes were opened, I asked myself every day:

”Why do we have to suffer this much?”

And this question kept evolving and changed its shape, meaning and direction every day.

“Why do especially we have to suffer?”

”Why doesn’t anyone care that we suffer?”

”When did we start to suffer?”

”Who will do something for us to not suffer?”

And I cannot seem to find a sensible answer. Every news, every title shocks my brain and alter everything in me. And the comments. Comments that come from men who never had to bother thinking about their privileges. They have never had to question their bodies, they have never had to cover their faces, they have never had to sit at homes at night to keep themselves safe, they have never had to accuse themselves when they get abused, and they have never had to suffer from abuse as much as one of us did.

I do not really know if any of this makes sense. I only hope that one day every one of us gets to know what being free means.