Ping

The steel elevator doors slide open slowly, revealing a red carpeted floor and a large mirror. The lone man inside is standing in the corner, his coat collar flipped up to bid away the November chill. The woman in the lobby beside you pushes her baby carriage forwards and into the elevator, making space for you to enter. The man does not acknowledge her. You wonder briefly why the woman has her child out at such a late hour. The woman gives you an impatient look and you realize they are waiting on you. You step inside as the doors slowly slide closed, sealing off the rest of the world. The woman presses a button; number 3. You reach out and illuminate your own floor; 14. The man in the corner hasn't pressed one, and you wonder if he rides the elevator all night for amusement. Perhaps he has a miserable wife upstairs and sometimes he just needs a break, perhaps he simply forgot his wallet and had to go back up, anything is plausible after midnight.

Ping

The elevator reaches the third floor and the woman positions her carriage at the door as it inches open.

“Goodnight.” You call politely as she drags the stroller out into the hall. She says nothing in response, just ambles down the blue carpeted hallway as the doors roll to a close again. It's just you and the man in the trench coat. He stares at the ground quite intently, but doesn't seem to be looking at anything in particular.

“Lucky number 13, huh?” He asks suddenly, without raising his head.

“14.” You correct. He laughs a slow and throaty laugh, the kind of laugh that sends chills up your spine.

“Just 'cause they don't call it the thirteenth floor, don't mean it ain't.” He said softly. You nod once in acknowledgment, but he's still staring at the floor.

“Guess so.” You say instead. You look down to where he's starring, the rust coloured carpet looks old and stained--salt, coffee, other indistinguishable substances... Suddenly you wish the elevator would hurry up; it seems to have almost stopped moving. The man starts clicking his teeth together softly and suddenly you feel very warm. Too warm. It's like the walls are closing in on you. You stare up at the fluorescent glowing numbers that tell you the elevator has reached floor 6. You turn and try to occupy yourself with your own reflection in the mirror. Your eyes are ringed with dark circles and you wish you were in bed sleeping, even though you know it’s an impossible desire. The last time you had a proper sleep must have been months ago now; the insomnia has plagued you since September. As you're staring at your sunken eyes you notice a flash of movement in the reflection, you startle as you notice the man has taken his attention off the floor and is now watching you instead. As you lock eyes in the mirror you get a good look at his face. His eyes are dark, like the muddy colour water gets when you mix too many paint brushes together. His jaw is lined with stubble, the scruffy kind that wasn't intentional. But by the looks of his expensive jacket and wrist watch you know it isn't for lack of resources. He isn't a happy looking man, there are crinkled lines next to his eyes and when he catches you staring his lip turns up in a half sneer that makes you cringe. You draw your eyes away quickly and stare at the buttons on the wall. The warmth hasn't gone away and you reach your hand up to rub at your cheeks, which feel burning hot to the touch. Your doctor warned you this would happen, but if you acknowledge that you were victim to this condition then you felt you couldn't control it.

You can still remember that fateful night in September. How could you forget? The way the knife glinted off the moonlight before being driven down into the man's flesh. The cry of anguish before he was silenced with another blow. You remember standing, just barely hidden in the shadows, not knowing what to do, frozen in panic. You watched the knife bury itself in the innocent for a third time, before being returned to the pocket of the murderer. You watched him kick the now lifeless body from the streets and walk towards you. You froze with your back against the cool brick wall and nothing more than a dull pocket knife and house keys to protect yourself. Your breathing came in shallow ragged strides, even as you try to keep quiet. You felt your jaw seize up and your eyes were frozen on the man in the darkness. But he didn't see you. At least you don't think he did; it was dark and all you saw was the tattoo that glinted on his forearm as he strode past. The initials JM in ink on his pale skin were the only thing you had to tell the cops that night. The only part of the nightmare that is consistent. The only letters you have been able to see clearly since. Floor 10. The elevator was crawling. Or perhaps it was your over active imagination and sleep deprivation that made it so. You shuffle your feet against the ragged carpet and suddenly have the urge to lay down. The air seems heavy and you just want to sleep. Behind you you hear the man start to chuckle. Just a slow, quiet laugh that seems to fill the elevator and echo off every wall. Your heart starts to beat very fast and a tightness spreads across your chest. The panic seems to calm you though, in a way that sleep hasn't been able to. Then you catch a movement in your peripherals and glance at the mirror, heart leaping into your throat so fast you feel as if you might pass out. The man has moved closer to you, his breath is hot on your neck and you can smell his stench of cigarettes and pine. You don't feel surprise as the cold blade slides up under your jacket and grazes your skin, you feel strangely at ease. It digs in deeper and the man in the mirror smiles at you, showing a row of crooked yellow teeth. His eyes aren't just muddy, they are empty.

The elevator approaches the twelfth floor and you know what comes next. He pulls the blade away from your body and you watch, transfixed as the reflection threatens it above you. His sleeve falls back and you wait for what you knew was there, as the fluorescent lights illuminate the black ink on his forearm. The knife that had haunted your mind for months is here again, and this time it's going to put you to peace at last. A small cry escapes your lips as the blade penetrates the skin. You fall to the ground and let your blood mingle with the other indistinguishable stains on the dark carpet.

Ping

The elevator rolls to a stop and the doors slide open to let in a cold rush of air that you can hardly feel. The man sniffs once, as if to observe his work and steps over you to let himself out. The cold steel doors give a tired grinding sound as they slide closed for the last time, locking up murder, anguish and secrets inside. Your eyes drift closed and you slide into the first restful sleep you've had in so long.

May 24/14

A swirling, a nagging, a hazard alarm ringing in the back of your mind at all times.

Don't upset it,

don't provoke it,

settle it.

Terrified of public restrooms,

A cough can make your heart race,

You watch movies with your finger on pause,

and drunken parties are a minefeild.

Babies spewing, cats upheaving, the twisting in your gut.

Long car rides, airplane flights or having too much to drink.

A common flu, uncooked food, or prolonged exposure to the heat.

Fear that you'll never catch a bug,

Fear you can't sooth the ones you love.

Fear that in avoiding it,

you'll avoid life alltogether.

You can keep waiting for it,

You can keep obssessing about it,

But you can't outrun it.

And it makes you sick.

It had begun like any other Sunday morning, the smell of fresh coffee wafted from the kitchen and the sound of dishes escalated the stairs to my sleep drunk ears. Mom would be standing over the stove, watching an egg fry while Dad was probably at the head of the table, glasses perched on his nose, reading Sports Illustrated. Everything was normal.

Except for the tugging in my brain that was telling me something was very wrong. Groggily I opened my eyes and surveyed the blurry room for my glasses. My head ached and I really just wanted a shower. As I lifted the lenses to my eyes the room snapped into focus, and that was when I saw it.

Out my bedroom window, past the tall oak tree that homed a nest of crows, the late morning sun shone blood red. I blinked a few times, rubbed my eyes for good measure, and looked again, but the sky was still draped in a curtain of scarlet.

The pounding in my head got louder and I made my way to the bathroom just as a wave of nausea nearly pushed me to my knees. I cranked the faucet until the water was nearly scalding and tried to drown out the pain in my temples.

A hurricane? An eclipse? My brain whirled with questions as the steam wrapped around my limbs and pulled at the oxygen in my brain. A solar flare? Light headed and hungry I stepped from the shower and into the foggy bathroom. The end of the world?

I rolled my eyes at the thought, but the twisting in my stomach got stronger.

Wrapping a towel around my waist I reached for my tooth brush and suddenly stopped short. The towel fell to the floor.

There in the steam covering the mirror were two lines. They could have been anything. But I knew they weren’t:

7

Seven. It was a seven. I knew without a doubt what that meant. And I had to tell someone.

“Mom. Dad. Something’s wrong.”

“Good morning honey,”

“Haven’t you noticed the sky?”

“Such a pretty sunrise, no?”

“It’s nearly noon.”

“Oh. Well either way it’s beautiful.”

The next morning was the same. Same red sky, same twisting in my gut, same oblivious parents. I awoke to the sound of screaming coming from my open window. Bolting awake I snatched my glasses off the night table and peered through the reddened haze and into the old oak tree. It was a crow, shrieking an ungodly sound. Around the base of the tree I could make out small blackened shapes, my blood turned cold as I realized they must be her chicks. All of them; dead.

“Mom, Dad, something’s wrong, the crows--”

“I know...such a pity isn’t it?”

Outside I collected the small corpses in a garbage bag and left it next to the road for collection. The mother continued to let out her heartbroken screams into the blood soaked sky. As I stared up at her a chill drifted down my spine, for there in the crook of the branch she stood upon, the leaves curled inwards, forming a perfect six .

The next day, I called animal control. The crows had flocked, and there was an entire murder perched on my front lawn. They had torn the garbage bag open and there were feathers scattered like death omens on my front porch.

“I need you to send someone, I have crows gathering outside my house. There are more everytime I check.”

“That is very strange... but I’m sure they will move on in their own time.”

“No, something’s wrong.”

“Call us back if they’re still there tomorrow.” Then she hung up. I called back but it went straight to an automated voice; “If you would like to leave a message, press five now.”

No one was listening to me and the world was about to end. What do you do with four days? How do you prepare? The sky had begun to cast a tinged light, not dissimilar to a heat lamp, across the town. The crows had neither moved nor stopped their haunting caws, but animal control seemed unperturbed by the situation. The pounding in my head had not let up, and I hadn’t been able to eat since Sunday. School seemed a welcome distraction, until fourth period when the fire alarm let out it’s piercing scream and forced everyone from the safety of the brick walls. Fire trucks arrived on scene and scanned the building for what seemed like hours. They emerged claiming the building was safe, however they could not find the source of the alarm. School was cancelled. Fourth period was over.

I woke at what seemed like the early hours of the morning, expecting to see 3am illuminated on my alarm clock, and was instead horrified to realize it was past ten. The sky was no longer a scarlet aura, it was a dark abyss. The sun never rose at all. Outside I heard nothing, the crows had stopped crying. Maybe they were all dead now too.

I pulled the covers back up over my head and prayed for sleep to come to me. Suddenly, into the painstakingly quiet air a shotgun wrang out. Three clean shots.

I don’t know what time I awoke the next day; the power had gone out. A “city wide black out, a weather phenomenon, an uncalled for solar eclipse” they were calling it.

Everything’s fine, no need to worry. They were saying. I could hear the pitter-patter of something falling against my window panes as I huddled in the warmth of my bed. Hail. It was hailing in September. There were two gentle knocks on my bedroom door. Two voices on the other side begging me to let them in. But there were two locks bolted across my door and two chairs barachading me inside my safe room. I couldn’t feel the hunger anymore, and the pounding in my head had finally let up, all I wanted was to be alone.

I knew it was morning when the hail stopped. I sat up slowly and craned my neck towards the window, straining to make out anything in the darkness. And then there it was, a light in the distance. Maybe it was the sun, finally re emerging from its untimely death, or maybe it was the starvation finally causing me to hallucinate.

I stared, captivated, at the approaching light-- it was the only sight on the horizon, seemingly the only sight in the world. It was then that I realized what I was staring at wasn’t the sun rising to save us from this peril, but a flame tearing across the desolate tundra, engulfing everything it came upon.

The house seemed eerily quiet, no parents, no crows, no shotguns. I unlatched my bedroom door and stumbled down the stairs to find my mom sitting, alone, in the dark of the kitchen.

“Something’s wrong.” She said.

I said nothing, just moved close enough to hold on to her. Together we left the house and joined the crowds that had gathered on the street. The light was brighter now, close enough that we could see the looks of panic illuminated on the faces of those around us.

No one screamed. No one ran. Everyone just stood and waited for the fire to swallow us whole. And then our ashes would collide and meld and we would all just be One.

#finalcountdown #october #challenge #prose

From the moment you open your eyes it’s there like a quiet demon lurking in the shadows, whispering hushed words into what could have been a peaceful morning. The twisting starts in your stomach, you are grinding your teeth without noticing and your heartbeat has already risen in the two minutes since you awoken. There is no rolling over to embrace the sleep you were torn from. There is no chance at laying still before slowly rising to greet your day; you’re up and your brain is already moving at light speed. A million tasks stretch out like a road map without destination and you hear words overlapping themselves in your head like the voices of a hundred suppressed worries that are fighting for acknowledgement.

Your body aches in attempts to play catch up with a brain that has left it behind in its leap to pursue the day. You lace your shoes, fingers itching for something to do, brain whispering don’t leave the house, heart beating too fast to keep time. You wait at the door, listen, wonder, think. You pace once, twice, three times. Pick up your keys-- put them back down. Check the door, once, twice, three times.

The demon isn’t so quiet now. The hushed words have turned to screams piling up in the back of your throat until they feel as though they will choke you from the inside out. You tell him to shut up. You demand he lay low. You clench down, nails biting flesh, tell him to leave you alone. You unlock the door.

One foot in front of the other until you’re running. Feet pounding on the concrete until the wind in your ears deafens the demon and drowns out the voices. The thoughts are gone and all you can hear is the reminder to breathe. One foot in front of the other. You think maybe you’ve finally outrun him, that he’s gone for good this time. Hesitantly you stop running. The voices are quiet, the demon is silent.

It seems easy to forget anything was wrong this morning, as though the monsters at your door were purely figments of your imagination or the remnants of a dream still clinging to your subconscious. Your heart beat is keeping time with your thoughts and the world doesn’t seem as grey anymore. But just as quickly as it leaves it can come back. The demon can rise from his dark corner with renewed strength and fasten its gnarly claws on your mind, bringing the haunting voices of regret, fear and insecurity with him.

You unlace your shoes, fingers shaking with too much to do, brain whispering you can’t run now, heart beating too fast to keep time. Your own voice is yelling to be heard over the chorus of noise within. Shouting reminders to breathe, to stay calm, to ignore the demon’s lies. You pace once, twice, three times. Sit down--stand back up. Inside it feels like a stampede, noise so loud you can’t remember what silence is. Outside the world is unaware that anything is different. Still and quiet and blind.

The demon has you gagged and bound, bruised and scarred, but your skin wears nothing but the shadows of your torture. You can run but you can’t hide. You can lock your doors but he’s still inside. No one to save you, because there’s nothing there. Just a quiet demon lurking in the shadows, whispering hushed words into what could have been a peaceful life.

-Jan/23

When someone asks me “So, what’s your story?” My follow up question is, “Do you really want to know?”

I have lived my life--brief in the greater scale of things, but long enough to grow accustomed to a certain way of thinking--believing that my story revolved around a pivotal point in my past. That, should I ever have need to write one, my memoir would begin describing the childhood moments that had come to define who I am. In new friendships I was awaiting the moment I could insert my past into conversation because I never felt at ease until I did--like I was carrying a secret. And in old friendships I felt as though I could never really escape the labels I had procured. I put so much focus on how my history has moulded and scarred me that I don’t know how to identify without it.

I am a middle child. A child of divorce and of loss. I was labeled with severe social anxiety at the tender age of six. I watched the painful process of illness when I was no more than eleven, and by twelve I had developed a faceless, nameless list of grief counsellors, social workers, lawyers and doctors. Because I hardly spoke, they forgot that I could hear. Every hushed conversation, every word between the lines, I let every painful remark or lack of confidence ink itself on my heart over the last decade, reaffirming my belief about who I am or all I will amount to be because of where I came from and how it affected me.

So whenever someone asks me “so, what’s your story?” My mind starts drawing out a timeline between the ages of 3 and 12-- believing that everything afterwards was a direct result of the events of my younger years. Sure, I wouldn’t be who I am today without the experiences I had, but my obstacles are not a direct correlation to my successes. My past is not who I am, it is not an explanation for the things I do, it is not a limitation for where I am going, and it is not a secret.

“So, what’s your story?” My story is on going. In fact, my story has barely scratched the first page. Consider the past as a prologue; it may stake a claim on some parts of my memoir, but it hardly deserves its own climax.

My story isn’t a tale of overcoming some great obstacle, nor is it about re-defining my labels. It’s about letting go. It’s about moving forward. It’s about new opportunities and new relationships and not being tainted by what I left behind.

I am not my past.

And I have many more stories to tell.

-Sept-Sept-Sept-Sept-Sept6

Dear friend

You know when the sun rises in the morning and you roll out of bed with sleep in your eyes and morning breath you can't wait to rid yourself of? That feeling of uncleanliness that appeared seemingly out of nowhere while you were sleeping, dead to the world, and dreaming of happier places?

That's how I felt this morning when I sat up and finally pulled the curtain on my life; that the taste of that bad breath had devoured my essence and left me breathing out toxic air that tainted everything.

Your sweet scent alludes me and I can't quite remember how you looked with tousled morning hair and half closed eyes. Standing at your window, back to me, silken robe draped around your slender shoulders. It's almost as if you had never stood here at all.

I brushed my teeth then. Twice. With your toothbrush.

Now I'm writing you this letter to tell you how I fucked up. Because if I had just stepped back from the window as you undressed, had I just let you slip away into the shadows, you never would have turned and caught my eye as I looked on.

Oh friend, how I wish I had averted my eyes. I wouldn't have had to do what I did then.

Now I'm standing here, where you stood then, holding that silk robe between my fingers and tasting the bad breath on my lips.

Always,

And goodbye.