″Hey″ I heard a soft voice squeak behind me. I turned around and saw a girl. She couldn’t be more than 5; and she looked lost,fear evident in her eyes. She looked around,shivering when her eyes locked onto something. I looked in her direction and saw a burly looking man obviously scanning the room for her. She immediatly looked away and jumped and held onto me. I understood what was going on immediatly and took her in my hold,whispering comforting words as she quivered in my arms. ″Shhh, it’s ok.″ I told her after the man was gone. She looked up at me with her big doe eyes and smiled,whispering ″ Thank you. Can you please take me home?″. I looked at this helpless child and i said with my most reassuring smile ″Of course″. I took her into my car and asked her where her home was. She whispered out the directions and soon we were there. I helped her out of the car and bent down to hug her. And,the last thing I remembered was a cold knife plunging into my back before I died in her arms.

Claire got home that night exhausted, she couldn't wait to get upstairs and fall straight into bed, hopefully John would be there this time...

she walked slowly upstairs and cracked the door open, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw John and shut the door as she walked across the room. Stopping just short of the bed Claire smiled giving John a kiss on the forehead before getting in beside him. Claire rested her head on his chest and looked up at him, he looked so peiceful . She watched him for a few moments, taking in the way he breathed so steadily. In.... out....in....out. "I love you so much". Claire whispered giving him another kiss. "I'm so glad you're here, everything's gonna be ok now isn't it"? "We're gonna be together forever, nothing's ever gonna come between us ever again". She kissed him a third time then sat upright. "im so sorry it had to be like this John, but you'll thank me when... when you know".... she takes a steadying breath then slow reaches for John's neck, she closes her eyes as her hands tightened around him. She continued to squeeze until she was sure she could no longer feel his puls then careful removed her hands. "I'm sorry". She repeated. "I just needed everything to go back to normal, I just needed"- she broke off looking at John's bruised and swollen neck, a tear rolled down her face but she quickly wiped away. "My turn, I'll be there ina sec ok baby"? She gave him a final kiss before opening the bottom draw and digging out the knife she'd put there earlier. She then laid her head back down on John's chest and moved his arms so she was wrapped in them. "You always kept me safe didn't you"? She recalled "I love you". She told him before closing her eyes, gripping the knife tighter and plunging it right through her chest.

The strong odours of hairdye and cheap perfume lingered in the bathroom for days after Gladys had gone. I used to like choosing the makeup she would wear for the day, the shades and brands, the different brushes; but now I can’t walk down the cosmetics aisle without reliving that night.

Standing at the door watching my sister, I surveyed the whole room, taking in everything subconciously. The air of excitement and careless abandon. The tube of bright red lipstick standing open by the sink and the light reflecting on dangling earrings. The drops of moisture on the glass after Gladys had showered and the soapy warmth radiating from her skin. The quick flash of her phone camera snapping a photo in the mirror right before she left. The brush of her hand on my cheek as she went out the door.

Her purple hair.

I should have called Mum. I should have told her Gladys was leaving the house, leaving me alone, to go and meet up with her new boyfriend. I should have told her about the purple hairdye and the earrings. But I didn’t. I lay awake in bed that night after my big sister had gone, the quiet and the dark seeping to the back of my throat, suffocating me; my heart pounding because I didn’t want Mum to know. What if her work shift finished early and she came home and found the lipstick and Gladys was discovered? I rolled out of bed and went to return the little tube to its drawer quickly. I loved Gladys. I wanted to be on her good side even more than on Mum’s. So I was silent ... I didn’t tell on her. Maybe if I had called the police, it would have been alright. Maybe if I had gone next door and told Mrs Aster about Gladys, somebody would have found her in time. But I didn’t. I went back to bed and fell asleep.

*****

Someone found her sneakers down at the playground.

Funny that she’d bother getting all dressed up but would wear those old battered sneakers instead of the pretty heels Mum bought for her. That was just Gladys, I guess; so attentive to little details and blissfully ignorant of the important ones. These days I keep the shoes up on my bedroom shelf, like she’s coming back for them. Like she never really left.

A policeman tried to talk to me in the morning, speaking with a gentle voice and asking simple, childish questions as I sat in a stiff grey chair in his office with lowered eyes, pressing my knees together so tightly it hurt. I was still suffocating, as though the dark and silence had fixed itself in me and formed an immovable lump in my throat; I tried to tell him it was my fault, all my fault, that I knew I should have called Mum, should have persuaded Gladys to stay home, should have told someone ... but I couldn’t speak. I choked on my own words. Staring at the sneakers until my vision blurred, I tried to recall the fragrance of perfume in the bathroom and the touch of Gladys’ hand as she went out the door ... the expression on her face, the kind of eyeshadow she used, anything at all! The thoughts and images blended together in my head to form one word, filling my mind. It was in front of my eyes. It beat in a steady rhythm with my heart. It rang in my ears.

Purple.

light glittering idly past

thick glass in the shape of my hands; glass,

crawling up past my skin, splintering with pain where

it and i unevenly end and begin

these fingers are sometimes cavities that hardly move--hand,

much the same--empty of themselves and

empty of me, in all of my

shimmering blinding stillness

sometimes i think

sometimes i wonder

if my empty fingers cry out a

possibility of the future of the rest of me

fingers sometimes almost as real as skin,

see my bones bending gently within

web of tendons and nerves, bodies of muscle;

all drowned in my blood

sometimes these fingers move,

and when they do, i move to

cup your cheek in my hand,

try not to wince when you do, as my hand is far too cold for you

other times, when these fingers refuse to take orders from my mind of minds,

you hold my hand in your gloved one (again, i am far too cold)

and you read and sing me to sleep when i begin to cry

because i don’t recall feeling you and i miss what i don’t quite understand

i wish, sometimes, that i was

better

for you--

warm and alive and well and

i miss you, i miss you,

even when you are so close, even when you are so near,

because it’s killing me to have the means

to touch your hand or your face, yet not be able to feel

I cannot remember a time in which I was ‘joyful’ - whether this is because of my ‘pessimistic’ additude, my current emotional state, or some other reason, I can’t remember for the life of me.

Joyful; feeling, expressing, or causing great pleasure and happiness.

What does it mean to feel, express, or cause great pleasure? I'm not sure I understand.

On the other hand, I can remember times in which I was happy. I remember being happy when playing on the playground in second or third grade; I remember being happy when walking with a friend out to the same playground in fourth grade, and singing along to songs in which we didn’t know the names to.

I remember sitting in my aunt’s bed, late at night, when she was asleep and I was not - reading books like it was going out of style, or I’d never see another printed word again. I remember being happy then. I remember being happy yesterday, as my uncle (the husband of my aforementioned aunt) told me goodbye. Said my name. A flicker of happiness amidst my apathetically opressed anxieties at the couple’s arrival.

I also remember being happy when talking with the clouds. I remember being happy when I looked over at my friend across the middle school auditorium before I was to stand up and speak a million bajillion words - most of which I did not know how to pronounce on my own - in front of people who’d fought valiantly for my country.

I remember being happy as I baked cookies with my best friend. I remember being happy when having Bible Study with two of my friends and discussing God’s Word with them. I remember being happy when talking or discussing various things with friends of mine on Prose, such as users @coldfront, @TeaRise (I hope you don’t mind my calling you my friend; I think of you as one - though if you would prefer, I can remove you from this list), @DaisyMae, and many others who I’d rather not call my friends without asking them first. My apologies.

I remember being happy when baking with my cousin in the kitchen of my new house. I remember being happy singing in the car with my aunt and cousins. I remember being happy when making jewelery with my great-aunt. I remember being happy when sitting quietly in a car, laughing with my family.

I remember being happy - I don’t exactly remember being joyful. But I think that these happinesses are all right, considerably better than somber regret and idly sitting within my guilt; I think happiness is enough for me. Enough for today. Joy, perhaps, will find me - or maybe I’ve been joyful this entire time and I only need to alter my perception of what it really means to be joyous. Whatever the terms and my perceptions of them, I think it’s okay if you can’t remember being joyful, so long as you find some bit of happiness within your days.

Whether it is cooking with your spouse or eating in a restraunt with friends while you make silly jokes; whether it is making memories with people, online or offline, or smelling the books in your local library; whether it is cuddling with a pet, or drawing on the city bus home, or looking out over the city lights around you, absolutely filled with peace. I hope that you can find some bit of happy amidst your lives.

Best of luck.

You’re a pretty energetic child. You should really know by now that Mum is aware you’re lying when you tell her you’ve brushed your teeth while your little green toothbrush sits nice and dry in the bathroom ... one day you’ll realise that lies only cause confusion and it’s not worth fibbing to your own mother. And green will still be your favourite colour.

You like to write stories in that little notepad with the pink cover, don’t you? That’s right; you’ll still have it in the years to come. It’s more precious than you know. You’ll write better stories one day, and your spelling will improve. It takes time. Who knows? You’re probably on your way to becoming a real author, kiddo (I’m still not sure about that one).

Eventually you’ll realise that the world is bigger than you, that Michael Jackson wasn’t always the cute little boy you hear in your treasured Jackson 5 album, and that, to your disappointment, you can’t marry your brother. Sure, he’s the best boy in the world, but it’s just not how it works. And I know this will be a shock to you ... but he’s going to be very close to death one day. You’re going to stand in that hospital ward waving to him while a pane of glass separates you. You’re going to sit on the edge of his bed watching his chest rise and fall mechanically as he breathes with the support of a machine, his eyes closed; alive and yet not quite living. And you’re going to see him come home. Everything will be alright again.

But.... Well, there’s a bigger shock coming for you. This is one you don’t think about too much. He’s going to grow up, go to university, and come home with a girl on his mind.

Of course, he still loves you. It’s just that he loves her too.

It won’t be as bad as you think.

You’re going to become a musician, could you have guessed? I know you hate those piano lessons. But you’ll find solace in those black and white keys someday, and you’ll have a guitar with a big black case just like you’ve always dreamed of. You’ll also realise that the guitar is more important than the case.

Now, there’s one more thing left to tell you. You will have friends, and you will lose them. Somehow the memories that mean everything to you never meant a thing to them. They will forget, and you will hold on. But God is your friend, your ally, and though you will fall, He will always have your hand in His.

(Did I mention that there’s going to be a worldwide pandemic and you’re nearly going to run out of ... actually, never mind. You’ll find out.)

Sincerely you,

From the future.

Filling our lungs with

origami butterflies

as your lips touch mine.

having our souls

intertwine like thoughts strung

by power lines.

sending volts of passion

through our bodies filled with water

eletricuting our nerevs

and sending those butterflies

afleur.

creating staggered breaths

and dialated eyes

only we,

with creators of waves,

can create.

Eyes squeezed shut.

Imploring unconsciousness

to seize my veins.

Temporarily, of course.

Just long enough

to avoid the utter albatross

of thinking.

For--

thinking leads to questions

and I don't

like questions.

I don't like the "whys"

when I know

I won't like the answer.

So just.

Shut off.

Block out the

pain.

Yes, it's

inevitable.

But I'll pretend it's not.