Teeth gnashed,

pearly white against crisp and blackened skin that flaked off like overcooked turkey in the oven.

Long strands of sinew shriveled up against taught muscle where red under flesh spent time cooking to a perfected pink.

I stared at the work I'd done.

The bone and flesh thing with melted out eyes, and a hollowed nose.

"You actually burned him alive," a voice said behind me. I could almost picture their brows popping up, like they were legitimately surprised before I snorted at the comment.

It sounded ridiculous. "He deserved it," I said coldly. And it had... satisfied my more innate curiosities.

Had I been any younger, I might have been horrified at the act. I had never imagined in my wildest dreams being a murderous bitch, but- here I was, doing just that.

A wilder part of me, that my former self would have never believed, was giddy over it. Giddy over the prospect of my now-husband, then neighbor being the one who goaded me into such behaviors because it seemed to make him feel hot all over just watching me absolutely gut someone.

"Kat-"

The gasped breath with my name on their lips had me yanking my head. I turned back to stare at my little sister, and for a moment, a tiny part of me sparked to life, worried that she'd be terrified of me, but just as quick as the fear jumped forward, it also spurned out its spark and died. "What?"

"W-What the hell?"

"Vampire are scum," I told her very calmly, tipping my head to the side as I regarded the corpse carefully. The disinterest in my eyes probably wasn't missed by her. "Don't feel bad for him. I did him a mercy to save him from Red torching his ass at degree probably hotter than some gas station fuel. Come on." I nodded, yanking my head at her. "He had an accomplice and we can't let him get too far."

I made a mistake.

I thought it was a joke.

I laughed it off.

Yet a lump came in my throat.

I saw your face.

I knew that I was wrong.

I change the subject.

Then it came through a song.

I apologize for what I said.

I really meant no harm.

I tried to soften the blow,

But it came through my arm.

I am not perfect .

I don't intend to be.

I plan to be human.

But mistakes consume me.

I hope you can accept my apology,

I consider it a lesson learnt.

I hope the love that we share,

Stay alive and never get burnt.

and then you just walked out like it meant nothing, she says, fingers tight around the coffee mug, knuckles white against the ceramic. steam rises between them. outside the kitchen window snow falls in big wet clumps that dont stick.

meant nothing? jesus mae i came back didnt i? im here now trying to explain. he runs his palm over the scratched formica tabletop, tracing old rings from hot cups, memories of other mornings, other arguments.

three weeks later. her voice drops lower. three weeks of silence.

i needed time to think.

think about what exactly? what was so complicated that you needed three weeks of complete radio silence to figure out? the mug makes a sharp sound against the table as she sets it down too hard. coffee sloshes over the rim, spreads across the formica like a stain blooming.

he watches the coffee creep toward the edge of the table. reaches for a dish towel hanging from the oven handle. she pulls it away first, wipes up the spill with short angry strokes.

i was trying to figure out if i could be what you needed. his voice softens. if i could give you the life you deserve.

dont. she crumples the wet towel in her fist. dont try to make this noble.

im not. im trying to be honest.

now? now youre trying honesty?

silence fills the kitchen. the refrigerator hums. snow builds up on the window ledge outside.

remember that summer at the lake? he says finally. that night we built a fire on the beach?

she closes her eyes. dont.

the wind kept shifting, blowing smoke in our faces. but we stayed. kept feeding it branches, kept it burning until sunrise. he leans forward, elbows on the table. thats what we have mae. its messy sometimes, gets in our eyes, makes us turn away. but underneath its still burning. always burning.

we were twenty-two. her eyes open, fix on him. and its not burning anymore cole. its burnt.

no. no, listen. his hands move through the air between them, trying to shape what he means. its like... its like this old truck engine i rebuilt last month. looked like scrap, all rusted out, seized up. but the bones were good. just needed someone willing to dig in, clean it up, replace the worn parts. now it runs better than new.

she pushes back from the table. chair legs scrape against linoleum. im not an engine cole. im not something you can fix up in your garage when you finally feel like it.

thats not what i meant.

then what did you mean? explain it to me. explain how leaving for three weeks with no word, no call, no text, was somehow about saving us? about keeping something burning?

he stares down at his hands. grease still dark under his fingernails despite scrubbing. i got scared.

of what?

of not being enough. of being exactly who you said i was - someone who breaks things he cant fix.

she stands, carries her mug to the sink. looks out at the snow. you dont break things cole. you just stop tending them. let them run down, run cold. then you convince yourself theres something noble in trying to resurrect them. she turns back to him. but some things cant be brought back. some things are just finished.

we're not finished. he pushes up from the table, takes a step toward her. mae please. i know i fucked up. know i hurt you. but dont tell me what we have is dead. dont tell me that fire went out.

it didn't go out cole. her voice is quiet now, almost gentle. you weren't there to see it happen. but it didn't just die - it burned through everything we built. burned until there was nothing left but ashes. and now youre kneeling in those ashes, trying to convince me you can still see flames.

he stops. the space between them feels vast suddenly, uncrossable. outside the snow falls harder, whites out the world beyond the window.

i love you, he says. words naked, unadorned with metaphor now.

i know. she puts her mug in the sink, runs water. but love isn't always enough. sometimes it just illuminates what's broken.

the water runs. he watches her back, the familiar curve of her spine beneath her sweater. remembers other mornings in this kitchen, her body warm against his, coffee going cold on the counter. remembers the weight of her head on his chest that night on the beach, sparks rising into darkness, their whole future spread out before them like stars.

what if... his voice catches. he starts again. what if i could prove it's not too late? what if i could show you?

she turns off the water. dries her hands on the dish towel, still damp with spilled coffee. you already have. she meets his eyes. you showed me when you walked out that door three weeks ago. showed me again every day you didn't call. and youre showing me now, with these stories about fires and engines, trying to romanticize what's already gone instead of facing what's real.

this is real. he gestures between them. us, here, trying to figure this out. that's real.

no cole. she shakes her head. this is epilogue. this is you trying to rewrite an ending that's already written. she moves past him, heads for the hallway. stops in the doorway. i loved our fire too. loved watching it burn. but i was also there to see it burn through. and i won't pretend i still see flames just because you've finally decided to come looking for them.

he stands alone in the kitchen. listens to her footsteps on the stairs. outside the snow falls, erasing tracks, covering everything in clean white silence. the refrigerator hums. somewhere under the sink a pipe drips, marking time. he looks down at his hands - mechanic's hands, used to fixing what's broken. but she's right. some things can't be brought back once they're gone. some fires leave nothing behind but ashes, no matter how hard you search for remaining sparks.

he turns off the kitchen light. walks to the front door in darkness. opens it to swirling snow and biting wind. steps out into white silence, pulling the door closed behind him. leaves no footprints that won't be covered, no trace that he was ever there at all.

Whatever I was

is being erased

and written over

with rage and anger,

bitterness and resentment,

all love has become hatred,

all hope has become vengeance,

all that I was

has become death.

As I experience

These last days

Of childhood

With my youngest

I reflect

On all these moments

I missed

With the older two

As I tended

To the baby

His needs

His growth

His learning

As they

With one foot in childhood

And the other in the adult world

Stepped away

Without me noticing

Until one day

I looked up

And Abacus was a man

And Samurai was a woman

And all the child was left behind

In my box of memories

I regret that

Lack of attention

As surely

They felt ignored

I’m sorry.

The first thing I remember is darkness, glowing faintly red. Back then, I was an amphibian, a human being who could breathe in my mother’s amniotic waters. I remember the light, the fear—and then a slap.

Yesterday, outside my five-story apartment building—a typical one for the country now “unspeakable,” the supposed threat to all humanity—I overheard a conversation between some local guys. One of them said,

“Where everyone sees a problem, I see opportunities.”

A perfect motto for the years when I lived my early life. The 1990s in Russia, a country that had just shed its red uniform. A ruined, violated land where gangsters and oligarchs tore apart the remnants of the motherland.

From a young age, I knew three rules for survival. My grandmother, who had been a radio operator during the Great Patriotic War, taught me these:

Never get into a car with strangers.

Be home by four.

Never open the door to anyone.

And I also remember my mother’s breath.

The rest of my memories are scattered. Here I am, pushing a stranger’s stroller with a little boy through my small ghetto. Mothers stroll with their children, the streets are still green, untouched by the ever-present dust from the steppes. It’s different now.

Then, it’s like a void: nothing until my grandfather picks me up in his arms. That memory is vivid. He had grown up in a village and drank heavily. My father said my grandmother died from the stress he caused when my dad was 16. But I only learned this when I turned 20.

At that moment, I was just a baby. My grandfather held me, smiling. In his kitchen, there was an aluminum basin where he soaked apples for winter. My mother told me he passed away two days later.

It’s strange that I remember this—I was only one year old. I think my childhood ended when I first learned about death.

I remember that moment. I was three, and my mom was putting me down for a nap. She lay beside me, wrapping her arms around me. Her voice was soft and soothing, almost like silk. She was half-asleep, and I stared at the golden curtains swaying gently in the breeze. That glow—it still comes back to me when I need to feel happy.

Because happiness is a choice. Even then, I understood that.

I heard our neighbor—a hunched old woman named Zhenya—open her door. Suddenly, I asked my mom,

“Why does Grandma Zhenya look so different from you or me?”

Half-asleep, she murmured,

“She’s old. She’ll pass away soon.”

“What does ‘pass away’ mean?” I asked.

Mom opened her eyes and answered gently,

“Sweetheart, we all leave one day and never come back.”

I lay there with my eyes wide open while Mom drifted off to sleep. And then I burst into tears, sobbing loudly:

“Mom, I don’t want to die! I don’t want you to die!”

Mom hugged me tightly and said it wouldn’t happen for a very long time, and that she’d always be there for me.

Now I’m 34, and my mom is 68, but I still hope that what she said is true.

My childhood was a good one—good enough, considering how bad things were outside, on the streets. My parents worked in the theater, and I would climb around the stage, hide among the props, and watch adult performances.

But that’s another story, and I wouldn’t want to bore you.

What surprises me most is that this is the first time I’ve written about myself.

The more innate passions,

I'm not a kink-whore,

but I love a good dirty talk when it's hinting a factored galore.

Check out the gallery,

The pictures are painted just right.

After dark, plus 18.

Whatever makes it feel right.

Call it closeted.

I don't fucking care.

I just like the expression,

the connection of relationships.

Their touch and feel, not the dispair.

I'm in love with love,

in fever with passion, and

I guess that's not much of a fan faire.

It's a lull,

a dichotomy to my true character.

I like the restraint of my usual day to day affairs.

I am not pressed to be lusterous,

but I like the allure.

It's the opposite of me,

and I suppose opposites attract.

I can't really say if that tit for tat is really a fact.

I bite my tongue as I read the wall of text on my phone.

Lies, lies- oh, good, a refreshing break of convoluted ideals!

I swallow against nothing, feeling the torrent of torture settle like grit,

a film on my teeth, a twinge of pain in eyelashes constantly covered with makeup.

I wonder where she thinks she gets off- but I realize it is stupid to wonder over someone with wandering eyes and ever shifting responsibility.

She dedicates songs to me I listened to in wracking sobs because of her,

tells me I manipulate all those I love into loving me, tells me I am mean and cruel,

and tops it with the crowning of the most mentally ill of our shared kind.

She knew it would land- the final blow. It is why she said it, and then tried in vain to take it back. Tells me I am good, only surrounded by enablers. That I am kind, just not to her.

I laugh. I empty my stomach contents into art. I burn it in hopes she feels the matte of ash on her fingertips- fingers that touched anyone but me. Tastes the smoke in her mouth along the spit of those she left me for.

I hollow. I rebuild. I swallow, I brush my teeth, I wash my face. All in vain to dispose of the corpse she left me with.

Dear Diary,

“No AI.” “Only truly creative types allowed.” “AI is a fraud.”

I encountered all three hurtful statements today. Can you believe that people would deliberately target me with painful insults?

It began with a blanket email I received this morning from my so-called friend. He asked me and three other guys if one of us would consider being his best man for his upcoming wedding. He added that his bestie had to deliver a humorous speech about our relationship, but added, “Make it from the heart. No AI.” How dare he? Why did he feel the need to humiliate me in this email string?

Later, I read the guidelines for a writing contest I wanted to enter. This one said, “Only truly creative types allowed. No machine-generated entries.” I can see good uses for such artificial writing such as helping with computer tasks and writing boilerplate language, but not for a writing contest. Your own writing ability must shine through. But why did they have to zing me by adding “no AI”?

But the most spiteful reference came in the evening when I saw that a Facebook friend posted that I am a fraud!

Have a good night, my diary. I won’t.

Sincerely,

Andrew Irwin