Staring down at her shackled hands, the shame sets her cheeks ablaze. Is the air heavy with malice? Or is that simply her imagination. Always, she had soft landings, until now. Handcuffed to the table, left to wonder what comes next. Your mind retraces your steps at times like this. How, exactly, did I end-up here. Working backwards through the hours, days, weeks, months, years of her life. Was it just inevitable? Or a series of foolish decisions? Or an emptiness, a yearning, that brought her here.

She splayed her fingers across the wood grain. Is it just painted aluminum? Are there clues here, on this table, about what comes next? If there are, is she equipped to see them?

Her entire body tensed as the door creaked open. She squeezed her eyes closed. She heard laughter down a hallway. Was it menacing laughter? Her mind, in the moment...so muddled, so frenzied...she was afraid to open her eyes. She focused on the sounds, the creaking door, the soft latch as it closed. The click as it locked. Footsteps, breathing...hers? theirs?

The touch on her hand made her jump and her eyes flew open reflexively.

"Don't be afraid." he said with a smile.

I love them.

Abhor their misuse.

Yet, adore poetic license.

At times

I believed

Mastering words

Would result

In the mastery

Of my mind

Alas

My mind is still

90% mystery

Perhaps

That means

I have only 10%

Mastery of words

Seems a little low

But who am I to know?

Here I am

Folding my depression

Into a neat little packet

And tucking it away

For Monday morning

Don't forget to smile.

My body is heavy as I drag it, even to sit up to type.

Drag it to my car. Drag it through work. Through emotions I'm sure I'd feel,

A mimic replicating, yet in my own flesh still.

Hopefully someone calls for a priest, or a torture, or something to make me feel like I'm myself again,

I stare at the screen- nail marks my own on my cheeks burning in the light.

I do not know how to write. Yet is has always been the only thing I've ever known.

What shall I say? What topic shall I choose?

Tapering from a medicine I've known all my sentient life?

Emotional abuse from the one I've trusted beyond all for years?

Sadness that I cannot sell my novel?

Apathy at my lack of trying?

It is not burnout. Perhaps I am jaded. Perhaps cynicism. It will wear off like a scab eventually. Until then, I have no creativity. No art. No words. Nothing important or anything to care for.

Man, am I the greatest author to exist. Wordless and mouthy like the most infamous.

I have found love a dozen times.

In a best friend, laden with familiar expectation and abuse.

In someone so traumatized they found coalescence in taking my youth.

In forcing my consent. In finding this very poetic account, spreading it among their own blood like a joke.

In sleeping amongst wolves, and claiming to be a shepherd.

I have found love, but never where it has meant to be.

A love broken and beaten and dried and shredded until its something to throw-

not in celebration, just as an add-in. Just as something. Filler.

And I have grinned and beared it.

Until I couldn't.

And then I was the villain.

A villain made of bone and little much else.

I felt like what was left inside an iron lung. A waking corpse.

Only feeling. No escape.

And once I found it- it was selfish, and cruel.

But what shall I do with bone? Clipper a clacking calcium song?

No. I will grow.

My mother always had her birthday-

the one thing my father remembered, due to his children's tentative reminders.

Her stocking was always half full, and most years she was the one to fill it.

She only did it halfway, herself, too, feeling undeserving, thanking Santa for the sake of our happiness.

Belittled by a man with a wandering eye, a cabinet filled with vases that hadn't housed flowers in twenty years.

I remedy it now. I give her an oversized stocking overflowing with love and gratitude,

flowers on every holiday, treats just because.

Some women fear their daughters will make fun of their own mother at their fathers behest,

but I am nothing like my father. I am my mother's mirror image- one that will never insult, or spout insecurity.

Thank you.

For being there for me

At my best

And worst

Times.

For allowing me

To emote

Even when

I feel

Less than

Human.

For holding me

For waking me

For surprising me

For nurturing me

For changing me

For loving me.

For providing me

A link

To my past

And future

Self

And

All humanity.

For teaching me

How to be heard

And

How to know

Who

Can hear me.

For connecting me

When

I need

It most

When

I need

To connect

With a ghost

When

I need

To be found

While I'm lost.

Thank you

For letting Mee

Lose myself.

Today

I will try

To see

The music

In everyone

Can I please

go hide

in a dark hole and not do anything

can I please

go cry

where no one will hear

can I go scream to the roof tops

and revel in the rain

can I feel alive again, someday

Can I hear again

the echoing cacophony of crows in the spring

or the deafening cicadas that lull me to sleep?

Can I hear you sing to me,

just one last time

I want to hear your voice,

intertwine with mine

I want to live

to feel

to breath

to do all this things

so I'm asking you, please

won't you let me feel alive

for one last time

PROLOGUE

Adam Lambert exhaled a weary sigh as he tossed the monkey wrench to the dirt, followed closely by the car jack. “I knew something like this would happen,” he muttered as the spare tire thudded against the ground.

“Come on, Adam. This is all part of the experience,” Connie said through the open window of their Honda, her tone light despite the sweltering heat.

“It’s hot as fresh dog shit, Mom. Turn the engine back on,” Marcie grumbled from the back seat.

“Marcie, watch your mouth,” Adam shot back, unable to suppress a short laugh.

“It’s true, though,” Marcie sighed, leaning her head against the seat in exasperation.

“Just hang tight. We’ll be out of here soon.” Adam positioned the jack under the car and started cranking it up, sweat dripping down his temple in the unforgiving New Mexico sun.

“Adam, maybe it’s the heat, but I don’t feel very good,” Connie said, her voice tight and strained. Adam barely registered her words; a strange sensation had begun to gnaw at him too.

Within moments, he had the car lifted, and the blown tire was off. When he threw it aside, he blinked in surprise it flew much farther than expected. He reached for the spare and slid it into place, pausing as he half-tightened the first bolt. His eyes flicked back to the old tire that by his estimation was thirty feet from the car, a smirk forming. Impressive, he thought.

As he twisted the second bolt with the wrench, a sudden, loud crack shattered the air. The bolt exploded, and Adam fell backward onto his ass, momentarily startled.

“What was that?” Connie’s voice reached him, sounding distorted, like a radio signal breaking up.

“I don’t know... The bolt just burst,” Adam replied, staring at the damaged spare in disbelief. A hole gaped in the rim where the wrench had torn through.

Marcie leaned out the window, eyes wide with confusion.

Pushing himself up, Adam rushed to the driver’s side, expecting to see Connie’s shared shock. But when he looked at her, the world seemed to tilt. Her skin was slipping, melting like candle wax.

“Connie!” he shouted, panic tightening his chest. He dashed around the car, dust flying as he skidded to her side. His breath caught in his chest, her arm, once draped out the window, now lay limp on the dirt, stretched and warped like warm taffy.

Marcie’s eyes darted to her father, reading the horror in his face. A shiver of dread passed through her. She glanced at her hands, where tiny, flickering flames danced across her fingertips. Her scream pierced the thick air, and in an instant, her body erupted into a searing blaze.

Adam watched, frozen, as Marcie stumbled away from the car before collapsing, rolling in futile attempts to douse the flames. Her screams faded, replaced by a silence that echoed in his ears.

Connie’s voice, a feeble, desperate whisper, reached him. “Help... me...”

How? The question circled in his mind, paralyzing him. With a roar of frustration, he slammed his palm against the hood, leaving a crater-like dent. His eyes locked on Marcie’s lifeless, smoldering form. He moved toward her and dropped to his knees, the heat inexplicably absent as he cradled her head against his chest. As the flames licked his shirt, he felt nothing, only the hollow ache of a world upended.

IN 2028 THE FRACKSTONE GROUP BROKE GROUND IN TIERRA AMARILLO, NEW MEXICO.

IN 2033 THEY FOUND THE UNEXPECTED.

IN 2037 THE WALL BETWEEN MEXICO AND THE UNITED STATES BECOMES AN AFTERTHOUGHT.

WITH THE INABILITY TO STABILIZE THE HOT ZONE THE GOVERNMENT ATTEMPTS TO QUARANTINE THE AREA.

THEY ARE UNSUCCESSFUL.

WITH DETERORATION OF THE ENFORCEMENT OF LAW IN TIERRA AMARILLO, THE CITY IS REFERRED TO AS THE NEW WEST.

THE POLITICAL GOAL SHIFTS AS THE FEDERAL ARMY NOW FOCUSES ON RESTRICTING ANYONE FROM ENTERING. AND GOD FORBID SOMETHING SHOULD MAKE IT OUT...

Chapter 1

The black checker was lifted and moved to the opposite side of the board, neatly capturing the last red piece. Patricia King had just beaten her grandfather for the sixth game in a row. She glanced at her watch—half past nine. The sun had set hours ago, and the weariness of the day settled heavily on her.

“Well, I think that about wraps it up for today,” she said, her voice soft as she looked into her grandfather’s misty eyes.

“Hold on, Missy. What’s the score? Who’s ahead?” His voice was raspy but carried a sweetness that had always been difficult for her to describe.

Patricia met his gaze, the familiar pang of guilt rising in her chest. She had spoken this lie to him many times in recent months. “It’s tied up,” she said, the words slipping out easily.

For a moment, her grandfather studied her with a look that suggested he knew the truth. Then, a sly smile crept across his lips. “I think we ought to play one more, don’t ya think? Can't rest on a tie.”

Another glance at her watch told her it was getting late. She had a long day ahead of her, but the gentle pleading in his eyes made it impossible to refuse. Sighing, she reset the board.

Chapter 2

As she drove home, Patricia’s thoughts lingered on her grandfather’s condition. Alzheimer’s was taking him from her piece by piece, and the slow, inevitable mental decline of the only family she had left haunted her.

He had been a strong man in his youth, but life had not been kind. His mother had died giving birth, and his father had taken his own life soon after. His first marriage had ended in heartbreak. After being drafted into World War II, he came home to find his wife gone, unable to withstand the loneliness. The second marriage to Amelia had been no better, though not for lack of love. Darnell Wilson, the local drunk, had recklessly stolen their happiness when he ran a red light, taking Amelia’s life in an instant.

Then there was Patricia, his only granddaughter, a product of rape and raised by a mother who had never stood a chance after the attack. After Patricia’s birth, her mother had been committed, eventually overdosing on painkillers in a desperate end to her own suffering.

Angel’s Arms Convalescence Home had done its best for her grandfather, but Patricia had made a promise to herself: if things didn’t work out with her job in the coming year, she would sacrifice her career, leave it behind and bring him back to her home to care for him, no matter what it cost.

October 15th

You talk in your sleep. Did you know that? Last night it was about the fire again. You never told anyone what really happened in that basement. Don't worry - your secret is safe with me. For now.

I like watching you make coffee in the morning. Two sugars, splash of cream. Always waiting exactly four minutes - watching that timer tick down on your phone like it's some kind of ritual. Like it will keep the memories away. It won't.

You should really fix that bedroom window. The one that sticks when it rains. Sometimes it opens on its own at night. Sometimes I have to close it for you.

October 18th

Your mother called again. You always turn your phone face-down when she calls, like you can make her disappear. But we both know the real reason you won't talk to her. Does she still ask about that summer? About what happened to Claire?

The bruise on your shoulder - the one you think you got from bumping into the door frame? That wasn't the door. You thrash a lot in your sleep now. I have to be more careful when I get close.

I left you a gift today. You haven't found it yet. It's in that shoe box you never open, the one shoved under your bed. The one with the photos you pretend don't exist. I put it right next to them.

October 23rd

I dug up your old diary today. The real one. Six feet deep, right next to Whiskers. Remember how you told everyone he ran away? Such a convincing little liar you were.

Still are.

You wrote about the shadows you used to see in your closet. The ones that moved when you were alone. Smart girl - you knew they were real. You just stopped looking.

We've met before, you know. Many times. You were too young to remember the first time. I made sure of that.

October 24th - 3:17 AM

You're sleeping now. Peaceful, finally. The pills help, don't they? But they can't keep me out.

I'm sitting in that chair in the corner of your room. The one that belonged to your grandmother. Did you know she died in it? The nursing home lied about that too.

I should leave. The sun will be up soon. But first, I need you to understand something: I'm not writing these words to scare you. I'm writing them because soon you'll become exactly like me. It's already starting. Haven't you noticed the gaps in your memory? The hours you can't account for?

Look at your hands when you wake up. Really look at them. That's not dirt under your fingernails.

Soon you won't need to sleep at all.