Most people who run away from their lives try to relocate in the Bahamas, not Mars. But, as my daddy told me, I’ve always been dramatic.

I’m not stupid. This entire trip, from the first moment I thought to volunteer for the Space Explorer 27 when I was eighteen with frizzy hair, a dirty mouth, and a caffeine addiction, has always been an escape.

So here I sit, my hands sweaty in my gloves, waiting to board. It smells like gasoline and desperation.

“Are you okay?” a girl with pink hair in the seat beside me asks. Her words force me from my thoughts. She’s wearing too much eyeshadow, and I wonder if she knows there isn’t a makeup refill station where we’re going.

“I’m fine,” I reply, smacking on a smile like a plastic glove. She, on the other hand, is pale and grips the sides of her chair.

“I’m not.”

Obviously, I want to say. But I don’t say anything. I don’t tell her what I’m thinking at all. Apparently, my vendetta against falsehood does not extend beyond the boundaries of my mind. Quiet, I run my thumb over my knuckles. We wait seated and uninformed and terrified in a line; me and the rest of us explorers. There’s a man who’s kid died last year. There’s a woman who never married. There’s an old man who talks with a constant lisp and a man younger than me who checks his cell phone when he gets nervous. Then there’s the pink-haired bubble gum girl. And then there’s me. These are the Explorers.

That’s what they call us.

Daring adventurers. Valiant heroes. Braving the darkness of eternity.

I know the truth.

We aren’t sacrificing by leaving the planet. I can see the question in everyone’s eyes when they see us. What sort of person leaves their planet forever? I’m not a scientist. None of us are. This isn’t the first batch of people to shoot off. We are Explorers 27.

But we’re not just explorers. We’re runaways.

At least I’m honest, though.

Self- honesty is the only thing I’ve got going for me. Not making an excuse for my behavior is my self-inflicted punishment. I will spend every waking moment rawly aware of exactly what I am doing and what I have done.

I shudder, and my throat is as dry as a sidewalk in the summer. Achingly dry. I remember skidding my knees on the ground as a kid on such a summer. My palms slammed into the concrete. Shouting? No, I didn’t shout. That was my mom. I was this little thing crumpled on the pavement like a discarded newspaper clipping. My blood dripped up my arms as I hugged those knees to my chest and whispered bad words Daddy taught me, and Mommy didn’t want me to say.

Shaky, little me stood and blinked away watery vision. Dust rose behind the retreating back of a blue pickup truck. Daddy’s truck.

I used to chew bubble gum in that truck. Me and Dad when he was trying to quit smoking. Together we blew bubbles. We’d roll down the windows and scream Green Day to the wind.

After that day on the sidewalk, I did not see the truck until I was seventeen. I spotted him, and I remember thinking he looked old. Arms crossed. Gritty. Leaning against that stubbornly running pickup. I made permanent nail marks in my textbook. He said he missed me. He had a place in Brooklyn. I could leave with him. Right now. Forget stupid kids who didn’t understand anything. Forget my pathetic attempts to finish school and get a job. Forget mom and her jerk boyfriends.

Forget all that and come home with Daddy. Daddy misses you. Daddy hasn’t been around for years.

And so I forgot. For a bit.

Does that make me a horrible person? This, right now, is not the first time I’ve run away. Not by a long shot. Distance, space, miles from the things I can’t handle, that is comfortable.

Traveling with Dad was good for a while if I didn’t think too hard. It was almost like him leaving never happened. “Let’s fly, Cherry-pop.” He winked and murdered the speed limit as if we were invincible.

Right then. Just at that moment, I swear we were.

I’m not sure what he wanted out of me, really. But I figured out the jist of it eventually.

I put space between us.

I did it again.

And again.

Back to Mom. Off to school. Off too… I don’t even remember at this point.

And now I’m here. In this waiting room. On the other side of the doors, there’s a contained crowd with questions, and the shuttle; my home from now on. There is no further to go after this. I’ll never see their faces again; my mom’s screaming for Dad to come back, or my dad’s sweaty, red one as he stumbled, drunk, into his apartment and cast me a Cheshire grin. All gone.

Space would be comforting like it always was, I said to myself. A cushion. A buffer. My problems are impossibly insignificant in comparison to the size of the universe.

The door opens soundlessly and a rat-like man who still stutters around girls even though he has to be at least thirty-five pokes his head in. “It’s time, folks.”

I’m moving in a disjointed dream state, numb. One moment waiting we’re, the next, we’re on the walkway in the hot sun. The suit is scratchy on my skin. Mom is in the crowd. I don’t look at her but I can practically feel her gaze. Is she crying? Should I care? Do I care? Yes, I care. The next moment, I note my feet are stepping over the border into the shuttle. Booted. Armored against elements I was not made to exist in.

Why is Mom even hear, I lament to myself? Wasn’t she the one who told me to let her live her life? So I am, I note bitterly. Giving her space. I think, perhaps, this isn’t what she had in mind. Maybe that’s why she’s here.

It is cool inside. All of us adventurers are going to breathe this same air forever now. Inhale, exhale.

One after another, we file to our seats. The door still stands open. In this part of the shuttle, there are a number of seats, each with a window. Sitting down now is the hardest thing I have ever done.

But there I am, staring blankly out the window at the runway and the sun beating down on the concrete. The ground is hot just like was that summer. Except, this time, I am the one riding away.

Screwing my eyes shut, I grip the armrests. When I open my eyes, and my gaze flicks back outside, my heart suddenly bubbles into my throat.

Because there he is.

On the edge of the crowd, he stands to wave his arms almost frantically. He is not deluded like the rest of everyone. He knows we are not adventurers. We’re runaways. He knows. Even from this distance, I can see the raw terror on his face. He doesn’t just look old. He is broken. Tired. Finished. Like that old truck that finally gave out. I stare at him in shock. He opens his mouth, hands cupped, and shouts something I can’t hear. But it doesn’t matter. I’m back to being seventeen again.

We can make ourselves a bit of space, yeah? You and me against the world, Cherry-pop.

All the oxygen rushes out of me to be replaced by waves of aching loneliness. Hurt. Hope? Anger.

My lip quivers. With a rush of fury that surprises even me, I bite down hard on my lip.

I could leave. Just like he did. He’ll know what it’s like. Every stinking day after this one. My victory. His punishment. The piece I never got. I get a rush of vicious pleasure, and the shuttle charges up. Sweet victory. Sweet, sweet…

I clench my jaw. Who am I kidding? That isn’t victory, and it isn’t sweet. With each exhale, I am a little bit lighter. A little bit emptier.

It’s not too late.

I can run out there now. Back to him and smell the bubblegum in his pocket as he puts me together again.

I breathe in. I could stop. I could change this. Right now.

For a moment like an eternity, I hang on the edge, holding his desperate gaze. He wants me to come back, and he can’t come closer because of crowd control. But he tries. He tries.

He’s scrambling forward and falls. Hard, on his hands and knees on the hot concrete. But Dad is back on his feet in an instant, waving his hands again. They’re red. Red hands. Red knees.

Want some bubblegum?

Feet off the dashboard, kid.

Get us some space…

Daddy misses you.

There is Pink again, watching me. “You sure you’re okay?”

I pin her with my gaze like she’s a bug on a wall.

But my energy leaves me all at once, and I slump. This is a victory. This is revenge. This is justice. This is what he deserved.

I look her in the eye. Honesty. That is my curse. My punishment. My words echo dully in my chest and clink against my ribs.

“No, I’m not okay.”

I don’t think I ever will be.

~

Title: Space Between Us

Genre: short story

Age range: Young adult

Word count: 1577

Author name: Timerie Blair

Why your project is a good fit: This is just an example of my writing ability. I have several other short stories and a novel written.

Hook: Most people who run away from their lives try to relocate in the Bahamas, not Mars. But, as my daddy told me, I’ve always been dramatic.

Synopsis: A young woman contemplates her life choices as she takes the final step in her continual escape from her family. She is going to leave on an exploratory ship to Mars, never to return, and her family is desperate to convince her to stay.

Target audience: Teenagers who enjoy sci-fi

Your bio: My name is Timerie Blair and I love writing and reading and creating art and I want to make a difference in the world.

Platform: Tumblr Blog owner and Inkitt.com contest winner. I won first place in their horror short story contest Nevermore with my short story Anomaly. I have also o twice in local library short story contests.

Education: Currently attending college for Graphic Design and planning on continuing to finish with an English degree two years from now.

Experience: I have written thousands of pages of writing, non-fictional and fictional and have won several contests. I have a finished novel.

Personality/writing style: I tend to write in first person (but not always) and have a quick, modern style of writing that has been described as similar to Veronica Roth's writing style. I am a quiet individual who enjoys her time alone with a cup of tea and a notebook.

Likes/Hobbies: Writing, reading, drawing, painting, playing piano, listening to musicals, going on picnics. 

Hometown: Columbus Ohio

The eloquence of tears is brutal in its own way

Like a mistress of the night,

A lover,

Who promises nothing and delivers as much,

And yet,

When you find yourself at the end,

Of a road long and wearisome,

She welcomes you into her frigid arms,

And she is sparkling with jagged edges

You greet her like record player which has reached its finale,

It spins and clicks and can sing no more,

A tape recorder,

Ticks,

And ticks,

You hold her to fill your empty sound,

In the void about you,

And you are alone together,

Empty,

It feels easier to traverse the land of nod.

Addict to worry,

Anxiety’s spouse and Insomnia’s devotee,

In a fog you carry in your head,

While smiling through the clouds, you squint and stumble,

And your lover has fled into the recesses of recollection,

Tears are a relief when living in the desert,

And sobs are sweet music to those who speak no more,

When all that is left is to stare into yourself,

And think not a single thought at all,

There are no joyful thoughts and no painful thinks,

Just quiet,

Dry

Heavy

And always forever, Quiet.

Perhaps, you consider,

This is the epitome.

“Name, date of birth and expiration hour?”

I’ve been asked thousands of times, and the answer slips through my lips without any particular consideration.

“Anomaly. Birth Date: 05 25 ___.”

The clerk nods and raises an eyebrow. Most people raise an eyebrow when they hear my ’name.' I wasn’t supposed to make it past initiation because I was too small. I’m shorter than average in a world where the tall are superior. The more inches, the more wealth, intellectually and physically. My mere four and a half feet is far lacking. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been marked with an expiration date.

The clerk is a thin, lengthy thing with large blue eyes and a skinny smile. I’m reminded vaguely of stretched taffy. “Expiration?” she prompts.

Reluctantly, I fold down my collar, and she scans the tattooed barcode on my neck. “Expiration date: 6 AM 07 15___” she murmurs. “Funny. That’s my granddad's birthday.”

I don’t know quite what to say to that. I just want her to finish scanning and let me into the cafeteria. “Okay,” I eventually reply.

But the clerk isn’t listening. She hums a song I’ve never heard as she checks my bar-code on the computer. “It looks like everything is in order. You are scheduled a once a day meal plan?”

“Yes.”

“Good heavens, no wonder you’re so short. How are you supposed to be graduated before expiration if you hardly ever eat?”

I shrug because there isn’t an answer to that question. The clerk isn’t looking for a response anyhow. She presses a button, and I walk through, quiet and small as usual.

The food is bland. The people around are just as tasteless and pale as my vaguely burrito-shaped meal. I devour my food anyhow as I watch my fellow entries. Most of us vary on the short side. We’re all a part of the program. It’s meant to grow us up, quite literally.

I’m not growing up. I’ve been here three years now, and I look exactly the same as I did when I arrived. Pale. Stick thin. And very, very tiny. My long hair is pulled into a messy sort of braid down my back, and if I was allowed to go in the sun, I might have freckles to boast of. As it is, I’m a blank slate.

My expiration date is a week away. Funny how the clerk didn’t notice that. No one ever does, though. We’re a part of the Program, and if we fail, we aren’t worth thinking about.

If I grow eight inches by next week, I’ll graduate instead of expire. My tattooed barcode will be burned from my neck, and I’ll be set free as a useful component of society. I sigh to myself and poke my food with my finger.

I’m not going to make it.

It should disturb me, I think, that I am so calm about this simple fact. I’m too small, and where I live, height determines value. I’m hardly a person at this size. I should be mightily disturbed, but instead, I feel numb, empty. If I try hard enough, I can dig up vague notions of fear. I think it’s the drugs, dulling my emotions. They give you more and more drugs the closer you get to the expiration date. I suppose it’s to keep us calm.

It seems to be working because my thought process confuses me.

I get up lethargically, and a few lifeless faces turn to look at me with dead eyes. Do I look like that, I wonder? But then the thought slips away, and I deposit my disposable ill-ease in the trash along with my disposable tray.

I don’t recall how I got there, but suddenly I’m walking down the hallway, fluorescent lights illuminating my way. I blink up at the harsh bright and the light splinters into colors. I pause and stare, entranced. Maybe when the time comes, I’ll ask to see the sky just one last time. I’d love to see a real rainbow again, to feel sunlight on my face and rain on my tongue.

I don’t remember what snow feels like. The smell of wet dirt evades me. Perhaps at one point, I was someone who knew this, but not anymore. I am as empty as I can be, stripped of my identity as well as my soul.

Didn’t I use to have a sense of humor? I used to be sarcastic, I think. Or maybe that was my brother. When I was a somebody, I had a brother.

He was tall. Always taller than me. I remember telling him he wasn’t allowed to have a birthday until I could catch up. We’d measure, back to back. I only reached his ribs. He had a white grin, impish. A quick hug. Twittering fingers. Tapping feet. I always wanted to be like him. He’d play his guitar, and I’d watch from around the corner.

Or maybe it was the piano.

My breath hitches. I don’t remember. I should remember. It’s important. It was important.

Then I sigh, and my fear slips away, dripping to the floor like a melting candle. I feel like melting with it. My brother isn’t important any longer. I’m not a someone anymore. I’m Anomaly.

I stretch the word out like a piece of gum and continue stumbling along. Annnnoooommmaaaally. My dorm number is 24. Or 42. Something like that.

I reach the door and fall inside. They must have upped the drugs in my food because I can feel the fire rushing through my veins this time. It’s supposed to make me stronger. It’s supposed to stretch me, pull me into the right shape. I guess I’m not pliable.

My hammock is soft and gentle and just the right shape. I curl up, my knees in my chest, and pull my hair down so that it covers me like a shield. If anything, the drugs make my hair grow. It nips my ankles when I wear it down, and it’s heavy. Maybe I should cut it. But I don’t have any scissors. They don’t let us keep sharp objects because they don’t want us to hurt ourselves. Only the officials can use scissors. No official would bother cutting my hair. I’ve only got a week left. What would be the point?

I think at some time I get up from my hammock because the next thing I know a bell sounds, and I find myself sitting at my desk. There’s a blank space on the wall in front of my desk where I used to have a mirror. I can’t recall if they took it but I assume they did. I used to be angry that the program kept me here. Why was I so mad? What was all the fuss about?

I think I smashed the mirror. Yes, I smashed the mirror. I remember the drops of blood. I remember they made me clean it up.

The clanging alarm brings me to myself, and I stand. It’s an assembly. Probably someone is graduating. Or expiring. I don’t know what time it is, but the lights were out in the hall. I can assume its night. Someone flicked on the lights so that we could find our way to the assembly hall. People expire at all hours, although usually, they try to keep expiration hours at times that are convenient.

I turn the door knob and join the river of shuffling, yawning, short people. A few people give me glances laced with concern. Do I look that bad? Then again, I can hardly keep my head up. My hair is in my eyes, and I don’t have the energy to brush it out of the way. I continue looking through my veil. I imagine that it separates me from reality; that I’m looking through a screen and watching someone else’s life. But I’m not someone else. I’m Anomaly. I wasn’t supposed to survive all the way to my expiration date. The drugs, they said, would be too much of a strain on my system. It didn’t stop them, however, from pumping me full of them.

Isn’t that funny? I try to laugh. But I’m not happy. I’m not sad. I’m choking. Numb. Drowned.

A sense of indignation fills my chest and for a second I want to scream and burst into tears and run in circles. But it passes.

Soon I’m standing in the assembly hall. I sway with the mood of the crowd and watch unblinkingly. A shining young man stands on a stage. Officials in white coats smile approvingly at him. Oh good. Not an expiration, a graduation. Then again, you can’t tell the difference until the very end. Two doors. Left or right. He could be deluded into thinking he’s safe, held high and curled up in their palm. Some of the more gullible of us embrace the officials before they lead them to the door on the left.

Everyone agrees that the left door means expiration, but there isn’t really a way to be sure. Maybe if I were closer, I could see their faces as the entered. Are they afraid or full of joy?

Either way, this boy seems to think he’s safe, and I can see why. The steroids appear to have done their job for once. He’s strong. He’s tall. I can see his muscles underneath his shirt and even before the officials examine him, I know that he’s going to make it. Good for you, ol’ boy.

He’s grinning when they lead him away. He waves before the door shut, and I wonder if it is the last thing he will ever do. I doubt it. That wave was the end of the beginning for him.

The ceremony was simple, and soon everyone is on their way back to their dorms. I sway as I walk, like a sailor on a ship. Except this is dry land and everything is moving so fast that I can’t stop it even for a single instant.

I don’t realize I’m on the floor until my knees crack against the tiles. Wait, what? No!

I can’t give out now. I’ve gotten this far. Only eight more inches.

It might as well be a million. Several words of profanity slip past my quivering lips and my numb hands don’t have enough strength to pull me to my feet. I’m stuck. On the ground.

Everyone has left me behind. They didn’t see me fall. The lights are out now. I fell in the dark. I’m too small. My eyes useless, my body uncooperative, I sit cross-legged against the metal wall and for the first time in a long time, I get a moment of stark clarity.

I gasp in sudden agony and fear and curl in on myself. My hair falls over me again, and I gulp back the metallic taste of tears in my throat. I’m going to expire. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t big enough. Did I not try as hard as I should have? What did I do wrong?

I’m so caught up in my pain that I don’t hear here until she’s feet away. A short gasp. Jingling keys. A bouncing light. Flashlight?

“Oh, you poor girl.”

What?

I lift my head up and stare into the light. No one’s called me a girl in a long time. I’m Anomaly. That’s it. Who would make such a mistake? I squint at her and recognize a uniform.

A clerk.

My eyes travel up to her face, and I blink slowly. It’s the same clerk who scanned me into the cafeteria earlier. Her bright blue eyes brim with concern. I don’t understand. Why is she worried?

She should be worried about people. I’m not a person. I’m too small.

But the clerk is concerned all the same. Very slowly, as if I am glass, she kneels down and places her flashlight on the floor. It rolls but she doesn’t try to fetch it. “Hey,” she murmurs. “Let me help you to your dorm. Can I help you?”

No, I should say. You shouldn’t.

But my mouth doesn’t form those words. I nod jerkily instead, and a look of relief fills her features. Carefully, she reaches forward and helps me to my feet. I shiver at her touch, and she pauses. “Is… this alright?”

“Yeah,” I croak. “I just... haven’t been touched in a while.”

The clerk blinks long lashes, and I can see her thoughts tumbling like leaves on a blustery day. She’s wondering. She’s wondering like an anomaly wonders, not like a person. It’s dangerous, and I applaud her for her bravery. “What’s your dorm number?” she asks after a moment.

“24.”

“Good. Not too far.”

I don’t remember the walk there. She murmured softly in my ear, and I lost myself in her quiet, small voice. She had a beautiful voice, even in speech. I bet she can sing like an angel.

We reach the dorm, and she flicks on the light. Her mouth forms a little ‘O’ at the size. It’s large closet, really, with a hammock I can curl up in. There’s a small desk as well, and that’s it. Some people have pictures on their walls but if I ever did they’re gone now.

“Just sit down, alright?”

I nod and collapse gratefully into the chair. The drugs in my system still rage, attempting to grow up something that just won’t grow, and it takes all my effort to meet the clerk’s eyes. When I do, they’re shocked and maybe even a little afraid. I don’t think she realized. She’s just a clerk, and she’s been taught that I’m Anomaly, not to be bothered with or carefully looked at. Poor thing.

For a moment, we’re quiet. I can see her struggling, twitching, fighting what she’s always known.

“How…” she starts after a moment. “How can I help you?”

My breath catches in my lungs, and I don't respond for several seconds, so surprised am I.

“Can I make you more comfortable?”

I gulp. No one’s thought about my comfort in a long time. I don’t know what to say.

I make a decision quickly. “Would you cut my hair?” Is that too much to ask? I’m not sure.

The clerk lets out a sad sort of laugh, the kind that I used to excel in when I still could feel sorry. “Yeah. Yeah, I can. Actually…” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a pair of scissors. “I have some scissors with me. I can’t guarantee it will look fabulous, but I can get rid of some of that weight.”

I attempt a smile, and she cocks her head when she returns the expression. A moment later, I’m sitting straight, and she’s behind me. I hear the scissors, snip, snip, snip, and my hair falls in Auburn ribbons to the floor. The weight slowly lifts, and I can hold my head up without hair in my eyes. She gives me bangs, and I feel the soft edges of my mane trailing across my neck. She’s cut it shoulder-length.

Finally, the clerk lets out a satisfied hum. She sweeps up my hair and digs in her bag again. “I know I have it somewhere,” she mutters. “Ah, here we go.”

Quickly, she circles my chair and puts a hand-held mirror in my grasp. I struggle to lift it and with a concerned purse of her lips, the clerk wraps her hand around mine. Together we hold the mirror up, and I stare into the glass.

She’s given me a stylish, dare I say pretty haircut, and if one doesn’t look carefully, you can almost miss the dark circles under my eyes and the blue shade of my lips. A sudden bubble of emotion fills my throat, and I don’t say anything for a long time.

“Well?” the clerk finally prompts. She looks almost nervous, biting her lip. “Do you like it?”

I blink, bringing myself back. “Thank you,” I whisper. “It’s good.”

The clerk’s face lights up, and it’s almost blinding as if I’ve given her the biggest compliment on the planet. “Yeah? I’m… I’m glad.”

I clock my head, wondering why she cares.

“Here,” she says. Her movements are quick now, but still gentle. “Let me get you into bed.” Softly, she lifts me up and helps me to my cradle. I curl up in the hammock, knees to the chin and stare at her with wide green eyes. I want to ask her why she's so kind, but I’m too tired. She pats my hand and for a brief moment, I glimpse anguish sweep across her features like a rotten storm, but she tucks the feeling away and smiles. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

I shrug. “Not your fault.”

“No.”

I must have drifted off because when I wake again, it’s dark except for a flashlight that she left for me. I grip it in my hand and make shadow puppets on the wall. Before darkness overwhelms me, I realize I never asked the clerk her name. She is the kindest person I’ve met in years, and I don’t think I will ever see her again.

I don’t think I’ll see anything again.

I’m not going to make it to my expiration date.

But that’s alright. I’m ready to go. I’m scared. But that’s a good thing. I’d rather feel scared than not feel anything at all.

As I settle in deeper, I wonder what would have happened if I’d met her sooner. Would we have been friends? Could we have laughed together, cried together, loved together?

I’ll never know. She is my final grace, and I cherish the feeling of gentle hands for as long as I can. In my dark hammock, I close my eyes. I turn off the flashlight. I take a deep breath.

And I let go.

Writing is like bleeding but less melodramatic.

Less messy, too.

I can feel it at my fingertips, all the words that don't quite fit in my mouth. I stumble and fumbled and pop and I hope it isn't just me. If this was the beginning of a book I'll never write, it would be about a girl with words bouncing around in her head. Like I swallowed a beehive.

I've got this itch at the base of my ribs. Maybe I should open my mouth and let those words buzz about in the air.

We'd just end up getting stung.

My most spoken words: "I read somewhere that..."

But does writing and reading dilute those raw truths or sharpen them?

That feels quite important to know. Reading is rather like looking through a paper veil, and, the better the words, the thinner the veil into the colorful world beyond. Is the truth better with or without the veil?

Or maybe this isn't even worth thinking about, and I'm just crazy. As a kid, I believed that if I thought hard enough, I could make things happen. Superstition, I guess. Eyes screwed shut, whispering meaningless nothings to make my favorite episode play on the scratchy TV with antennas. Sitting on the carpet watching dust particles in the air. Just think hard enough to make them drift in circles. Focus on the ball and make it roll. Throw the plastic coin and make it chocolate. Talk to the bird and make it coo. Concentrate.

But thoughts don't have any power. They don't do anything but take up space and gather dust on the bookshelf. Got to blow off the cover. Open my mouth.

Uncap my pen.

I have a favorite pen I managed to keep all semester. Black ink. Flows beautifully and makes my handwriting look halfway alright.

How ironic. A writer and an artist with embarrassingly filthy handwriting. Can't even blame it on my being left handed because my brother isn't, and he's just as bad.

But I digress.

While an eloquent speaker may lay a spell on the audience, it is the writer who will lay an enchantment on generations upon generations. Writing and speaking are at least equal with this in mind.

So maybe it doesn't matter if I don't speak like I wish I could.

Because I can write.

And that is more than enough.

As it turns out, a peanut butter sandwich cannot fix every problem. Then again, what can?

What do you want for your last meal, Mia, hmm?

Something great and giant and way more expensive than anything they want to give you because if you're going to die you might as well make it difficult.

Or.

A peanut butter sandwich.

Like auntie used to make you when you were little and tiny and quiet and alone. When you came home from school and rushed to the bathroom to clean off the mud they shoved you in. When you moved from house to house and hid from your sister's boyfriends and when you hated to go outside in case someone was waiting for you.

I chew the sandwich.

The guards wouldn't cut off the crusts like auntie did. Or, at least, I assume they won't because there is no way in heaven or hell I am asking them for something that will look so pathetic and prissy.

I'm eating my ruddy crusts.

As I swallow, I wonder if I'll ever actually digest this meal. Or will it sit there in my stomach forever. I wrinkle my nose, take another bite, and continue to stare daggers at the guard while wondering if something is wrong with me to be thinking thoughts like that.

I wish I could say that dying as an innocent is easier than dying guilty, but its not. Sure, it is strengthening to know that I do not deserve this, but in another way, it makes it worse. If I'd actually done something wrong, then perhaps I could accept this. Instead, its just unfair.

Who am I kidding? It is terrifying either way.

Terrifying in a hands numb, knees weak, I can't believe I haven't thrown up this sandwich sort of way.

I've known this was coming for a long time. It sits heavy in my gut like stones. Like fire. Like a wound.

In a few hours Mia will no longer exist.

I will no longer exist.

Or at least not like this.

Not on this world.

All I'm leaving behind is a few newspaper columns about a murder. That, and the crumbs on this plate. How is that natural? How is it possible to just... stop?

And everyone will go on without me. Forget about me.

One peanut butter sandwich and one skinny kid less is nothing.

I can't fix this.

"Time."

I take my last gulp, stand, and stare at him until the guard is forced to walk over to me and look me in the eye as he grabs my elbow. I am mixed. I want him to feel guilty. Breath-takingly, overwhelmingly guilty. And I don't.

Guilt is too heavy a weight to place on the innocent.

We walk down the hall, florescent lights guiding us in their flickering, stone-faced way. One step and another and another and the hall grows long and short and long again. No idea where the end is.

Until I'm on top of it.

I don't realize I'm crying until I catch my reflection in the glass door the swings open and shut. I stare at this mutilated, broken, skinny me and wonder how the heck I got into this mess.

I can't fix this.

Deeper into the room. It smells like sanitizer and bitter metal and the floor clicks beneath my feet. I sit. I wait.

Maybe someday.

Maybe someday this will be different. Someday this won't happen to anyone else. Someday.

They approach. I'm not ready but I say nothing.

I can't fix this. I run a nervous tongue over my chapped lips.

I can't fix this but maybe...

Maybe someone... someone elsewhere can. I latch onto the thought.

Someday someone will stop this. Where I'm going, elsewhere, it will not be like this. It will never be like this and soon it will end here too.

I shut my eyes.

Someday.

Writing is like bleeding but less melodramatic.

Less messy, too.

I can feel it at my fingertips, all the words that don't quite fit in my mouth. I stumble and fumbled and pop and I hope it isn't just me. If this was the beginning of a book I'll never write, it would be about a girl with words bouncing around in her head. Like I swallowed a beehive.

I've got this itch at the base of my ribs. Maybe I should open my mouth and let those words buzz about in the air.

We'd just end up getting stung. It's better this way.

My most spoken words: "I read somewhere that..."

But does writing and reading dilute those raw truths or sharpen them?

That feels quite important to know. Reading is rather like looking through a paper veil, and, the better the words, the thinner the veil into the colorful world beyond. Is the truth better with or without the veil?

Or maybe this isn't even worth thinking about, and I'm just crazy. As a kid, I believed that if I thought hard enough, I could make things happen. Superstition, I guess. Eyes screwed shut, whispering meaningless nothings to make my favorite episode play on the scratchy TV with antennas. Sitting on the carpet watching dust particles in the air. Just think hard enough to make them drift in circles. Focus on the ball and make it roll. Throw the plastic coin and make it chocolate. Talk to the bird and make it coo. Concentrate.

But thoughts don't have any power. They don't do anything but take up space and gather dust on the bookshelf. Got to blow off the cover. Open my mouth.

Uncap my pen.

I have a favorite pen I managed to keep all semester. Black ink. Flows beautifully and makes my handwriting look halfway alright.

How ironic. A writer and an artist with embarrassingly filthy handwriting. Can't even blame it on my being left handed because my brother isn't, and he's just as bad.

But I digress.

While an eloquent speaker may lay a spell on the audience, it is the writer who will lay an enchantment on generations upon generations. Writing and speaking are at least equal with this in mind.

So maybe it doesn't matter if I don't speak like I wish I could.

Because I can write.

And that is more than enough.

It was quiet. Swift. A black cloak and a top hat. An honest gentleman. He smiled at me and took my arm and tipped his hat. A soft, pleasant laugh. On he spoke of the stars and beyond, and I nodded. Over the inky river, we peered. The city lights reflect an upside down city. Chilly, the wind whipped my dress, and he dangled his legs over the ledge. Feet swing. Don't worry.

I told him I'm not.

Sit down and the metal is rusted and rough and cold beneath me.

Deep breath. Hand in mine.

Jump.

"Hold the door, will you?"

She gave me a look that could have fried an egg. Then, with a sickeningly sweet smile, she waited until I was inches away before shutting it in my face.

Describing Alicia Gray as a meany-head was not going to cut it. I muttered choice curse words that would have my grandmother rolling in her grave and struggled to grabble the doorknob whilst holding the box full of junk and things and stuff that used to occupy my office.

An office that Miss Jerk Face In all Capitols was all so willing to occupy now that I was fired. 

Well...

Technically, I quit.

Technically, I also managed to speak faster than my boss so that I could get out on my own terms. It's important to have control of your life, you know?

It's really not my fault the woman, my red-headed customer, mumbled as she barked for a glass of wine in this inconsiderate hovel of an insurance company. I swear on the grave of said grandmother that I quite clearly heard, "I'm a rude and irritating person who really needs a nice wake-up call to the real world where the universe doesn't surround me."

Funny how things sound when you mumble.

And, I mean, seriously? Who asks for wine while talking about insurance? What is this, England?

No. Wait, they do tea.

Is it Ireland where they're supposed to drink a lot?

I don't know. Whatever. She sounded Cockney anyway.

I bumped out of the insurance company into the bright shining sun and oh, did it feel so good. California sun had never been better and life never clearer.

I was free! Free to hunt dragons and fight crime and watch the final season of Lost!

I shifted the cardboard box in my grip and cast a former inmate a smile that was supposed to be witheringly cheery. She blinked at me, looking simply prehistoric. I think people started to petrify when they worked in that building for too long.

I passed by a company car that I could no longer use.

Going to have to get a bus...

I grinned. No matter! That car was an ugly son of a gun anyway!

I shall be victorious! The victorious commuter! The valiant traveler of public transport! All will be well in the world!

"Are you even listening?"

I suddenly jump out of my thoughts at the sound of my red-headed customer's nasal voice.

She still wants some wine; wine I don't have because this is a ruddy insurance company, not the White House.

Maybe I should actually put her in her place rather that just...

I smile serenely and lay my hands flat on my desk. "I'm sorry, I was up rather late last night. Now, did you say house or car insurance?"