The woman in her early twenties drove into the parking lot in front of the prison and parked her car. She had been counting the days until he would finally be released. The guard watched her exit her car and walk into the middle of the lot. She walked with short footsteps and raised shoulders, her hair covering the sides of her face seeming to try to shield her from the prison. She stopped as the young man walked out of the prison complex, approaching her with his shoulders relaxed and arms open.

As he walked out toward her, the guard took note of his body: he was about six feet tall. He always had a thin frame. But he had grown broader shoulders over the four years he was imprisoned. Despite the scars all over his body, seemed very healthy compared to the other prisoners nonetheless. His curly hair had also grown much longer over the four years, now possessed by an elastic band in a ponytail behind his head. He seemed to have a good genetic makeup.

The guard, on the other hand, was an older, middle-aged man. The young man’s chest poked out through his shirt; the guard’s stomach poked out instead. The guard’s arms were thick like the man’s, but more with fat than with muscle. At about the same height, the two seemed drastically different in weight and, as a result of the ugly bruise on the guard’s arm, drastically different in health as well. The guard always envied the man’s body while he was in prison and he envied it now as he walked as though he was free. He was often a target.

The woman in her early twenties awaited him in the lot, and he smiled as he approached her with an almost triumphant walk. When he finally stood directly in front of her, the guard could see that he almost dwarfed her in size. His denim jeans matched her denim jacket. Her black leggings complemented his black t-shirt, cloaked by his brown leather jacket.

Their eyes met and she smiled. At first sight after four years, his hair was longer, he was more muscular, he was visibly older, and nonetheless he seemed the same as he did just before he went to prison. Then she looked at his face and something seemed to have changed. His face had a scar on it and it seemed as though he got it recently.

“Are you doing alright?” she asked him.

“I’ve been okay, but I’m glad to be out now.”

“What happened to your face?”

“I let the beard grow a little,” he grinned.

“You and that damn beard,” she smiled. “You always talked about trying to grow one.”

“Yeah, thank God,” he laughed a little.

“Same old Anthony,” she smirked, and then the smirk fell off both of their faces. “I was talking about the scars all over your face.”

He blinked, fighting back a tear. “What do you mean?”

He knew what she meant. And she knew that he knew.

“You know what I mean. Where did all these scars come from?”

At that precise moment Anthony remembered something. Or he didnt remember it; he actually didnt know. Only an image appeared in his mind. Warmth on his hand on his thumb and his knuckles. And he was clenching a toothbrush with a sharp end. And a boy’s young face with an expression of absolute fear and horror and panic. His face had a huge scar too. And the pointed end of a shiv plunged into his heart and blood profusely trickled down Anthony’s arm. A boy he did not know. A boy he thinks he killed.

“Mya,” he trembled, “You have no idea what I went through while I was in there.”

She shushed him. “It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it right now.”

He nodded his head and looked into her eyes.

The guard watched them both. Something seemed different.

Anthony told Mya that something did happen while he was in there and Mya listened and he joked that he had to endure the unbearable pain of wearing such an ugly orange jumpsuit. He smiled and she smirked, raising an eyebrow at him. “You really have to joke with me right now?” she sniped back at him.

“Same old Anthony, remember?”

They shared a brief chuckle. Then she took him by the hand and her hands were soft and comfortable to touch. Anthony felt a sort of home in her fingers. She slid her hand up his arm and around the back of his neck, freeing her other hand to meet it there while his hands found their way to her hips and his gaze found its way right into hers. Mya secured her body within his arms and rested her head on his bosom for a minute and looked up into his eyes. She saw that look she had waited for awaiting her on his face. That same naughty look in his eyes; that same naughty bite on his lip.

The guard felt a stinging pain on his forearm. Just beside his elbow, he had a dark rash that seemed to eat away at the skin around it. It had a grey crust around it that occasionally chipped and peeled off and spread the rash further up and down his arm. It was a disgusting nuisance, and he looked into the lot at Anthony. A small butterfly floated in front of him and landed on the gold ring on his finger. He brought it in front of his face and raised an eyebrow at it. Right then, its monarch orange wings turned pale gold. And he whispered at it under his breath. You are now under my command. And with that, he cast the creature back outward into the lot.

He directed it at Anthony.

The creature flapped its wings, hurrying at its target. Anthony never noticed it fly by. It sped to the middle of the lot and flew directly in-between the girl and the target and landed directly on the target’s nose. Anthony blinked. The creature was there, right in the middle of his face. It gazed into his eyes and slowed the flap of its wings to trance its victim.

Mya lifted a finger and tucked it right underneath the creature and picked it up off of Anthony’s face. She instead turned it in front of her own face and the butterfly looked at her instead. Anthony smirked at her. She smirked at the creature. And the creature’s wings returned to their orange color.

Anthony’s eyes, however, turned a little yellow.

The guard’s bruise bit at him once again, chipping away a little bit more as the newly liberated butterfly gently crept away from the two. But that always works. How did it not work this time? The guard fought back the expression of panic on his face because he isn’t weak. The guard looked at the girl again.

He wondered if she was a Resistor.

“You always did love butterflies,” Anthony grinned.

Mya smiled, but then he leaned back in toward her and she put her hands on his shoulders and held him away from her.

“Anthony,” she whispered, “we shouldn’t.” He let go of her hips.

He wasn’t confused. Not anymore, anyway.

“You’re completely over me, huh?”

“Anthony—”

“No, it’s fine. You did tell me you needed space. I guess after four years you—”

“Let me finish what I was saying.”

Anthony nodded his head and digressed.

“Anthony, I want us to be together again. But it’s been so long. I need time to re-teach myself to be in love with you.”

“Why?”

“Things have changed since you went to prison. Just give me some time; I’ll explain.”

He wanted to be angry with her. He wanted to cuss at her and express how sad he was when she said she didnt love him and how angry and confused he was when she texted him that she didnt know whether she made the right decision in leaving him. Now they just had a romantic moment just like back then and she cut it off out of nowhere and he didnt like that. He hated it when she did that but he didnt want to hurt her feelings.

“Okay,” he said, “I trust you.” And they left for Mya’s car.

The guard remained concerned as his bruise continued to eat at his skin. He caught the butterfly in his hand again, this time encasing it in his closed fist. He knew that Anthony’s eyes had turned yellow again. That meant he might still have a chance. Now trembling before him, the butterfly feared for its winged freedom as the guard opened his hands to corrupt it once more. The wings returned to their pale gold complexion and the guard sent it after Anthony just as they approached the car. Mya watched the creature, now curious about its preoccupation with Anthony. The butterfly danced around his head once again, this time whispering one simple command into his ear:

Kill the girl.

Be there a poison more vile

Than that which tastes like honey?

Be there a poison more vile

More toxic to the tongue

And yet

More pleasant to the palate?

Be there a poison more vile

Than that which tastes like honey?

To tell a tale we might have known all the while

Some could call it funny

Be there a mind more gullible

Than that of a man's blind hope?

Be there a poison more vile

More malicious in its hunt for such eagerness

And yet

More comforting to a man of such need?

Be there a mind more gullible

Than that of a man's blind hope?

To tell a tale of a man called loveable

Some could call him a dope

Be there a glass more sharp

Than the glass which holds the poison?

A poison, again, so vile

In the most jagged-edgèd glass

And yet

Neglects to lacerate the lips?

Be there a glass more sharp

Than the glass which holds the poison?

To tell a tale of a broken heart

Some could call annoying

Be there a life more crippling

Than a life dedicated?

More obsessive with every passing thought

And yet

The object of such obsession

Fails to return a compulsion to a poor man?

A man who drinks from a jagged-edgèd glass; be there one more sharp?

A man with a lover's mind; be there one more gullible?

A man who chose to drink a honey-flavored poison; be there one more vile?

A honeylike poison called lust.

Do you know what belonging means? You can look in a dictionary or thesaurus if you would like, but I'm referring to how the word works. Any definition you find in any dictionary may suffice for you, I want you to tell me how I can tell when I belong to a certain group of people. Take a second, a minute, an hour, or whatever amount of time you want to answer that question.

How can I tell when I belong to a certain group of people?

...

Was it difficult? Did it require some deep thought? It's weird, right? In simpler terms, you know what it is and you can tell when you feel it, but you can't put it into words.

Am I close at all to what you're thinking?

Consider how hard it is to define for anybody. Some would consider belonging to be understanding the cultural aspects of the group in question; for example, you understand how the culture your parents brought you up in and have been living in, so therefore you belong with your family in a way. Or maybe you understand how your group of friends works; therefore, you belong to this group of friends, right?

Now think about that in an entirely different sphere: Irish immigration to the pre-Civil War United States. Americans back then understood how the Irish operated: they were Catholics, beer-drinkers, and blue-collar laborers most of the time. Conversely, the Irish understood that most Americans were Protestants who, in a substantial part, supported their American Temperance Movement.

But think logically. Does this mean that the Irish and the Americans belonged together?

If you ask American Nativists, people back then who were largely anti-immigration and strictly Protestant, you may hear responses that don't quite coincide with this definition of belonging.

But at least there is another way to look at this, right?

Some may claim that belonging is the state of feeling a mutual emotional connection to a group of people. This is defensible as well; for example, two partners within a relationship would share a mutual emotional connection and therefore belong together.

But what happens when it isn't mutual? Think of it. You know for a fact that humans are capable of pretending and displaying false emotions; that's essentially how acting works. How am I supposed to tell whether this emotional connection I have to this person shared between us as opposed to simply given by me to this other person?

Conclusively, here's the question of wisdom: How can I tell when I'm belonging?

Role model

Open bottle

Open arms

Lucky charms

Lucky to have you

I wanna be a dad, too

I wanna make you proud

I wanna say it loud

We don't always see eye-to-eye

You've made me laugh, you've made me cry

But one thing's for sure

You were my dad, nothing less, nothing more

And through everything good and bad

I'm still blessed to have you as my dad

In a world of people with various tastes, cultures, beliefs and personal preferences, one individual in particular looked around at a world and saw groups. People linking themselves together based on a shared love of something -- spicy food-lovers, Jews, and modest clothes-wearers all found somebody to whom they related. And then there's me.

I'm just your friendly neighborhood social pariah.

Santa, Father Christmas, Kris Kringle, Papa Noel...whatever you choose to call this holly, jolly joy-bringer, you can't deny that Santa and all of his gift-bringing glory are a definite part of what makes America so great.

Consider all that Santa has done for us. Santa's naughty-and-nice list has kept kids in check for the year (at least for the month of December) and his little "appearances" that he makes in seemingly every mall in the country always make kids' faces genuinely light up with excitement. Santa just makes people happy; odds are, if you grew up in the States, you have that beloved memory of Santa bringing you gifts every Christmas morning.

Imagine you're an eight-year-old and it's Christmas Eve. You're laying in your bed asleep, dreaming of whether you'll finally get that toy you wanted. You simply can't wait for the man of the hour to show up whenever he does, fly onto your rooftop, slide down your chimney and drop off all of your gifts. And don't forget, he'll also be coming for the cookies and milk you left on the table right in front of your extra-decorated light up Christmas tree, adorned with all the bells and whistles you picked out. Close your eyes for about ten seconds.

Remember that? Remember how you always felt? That little warm euphoria for the man?

So does every little American kid.

Honestly, Santa Claus is a hero in his own way. Now just imagine America without Santa Claus. How are we supposed to spend the month of December? What makes December fun like every other month? February has Valentine's Day. March has St. Patrick's. May has Mother's Day. July has fireworks. October has Halloween. Every month has something to make it special. That's what Santa is. He's the guy who makes December special.

But more importantly, he always made you special too. Remember those little lists you made with your little hands way back whenever? Santa always seemed to have you in mind. Those gifts under your tree with your name on them? Remember those? And (typically) whatever was in one of those boxes corresponded to something on your little list. Santa was always the guy who gets you what you ask for (assuming you could find that thing at Target.)

Santa has been making little American kids so happy for decades -- probably even a century or two. And regardless of how important Santa may be to you personally right now, every little American kid should believe in somebody like that. They deserve it too. You sure did.