a feeling drags the body down, deep into the abyss of darkness. retreat into thyself, into the abyss of the soul. sit there, legs hanging off the bed, eyes locked onto nothing, mind running too fast or saying the same thing slowly.

the mind wants tears to come, but the body has no more to give. eyes dry, mouth screaming, gaping hole aching in thy chest, the body shuts down, wanting to do no more.

the legs and feet move slowly, like a turtle, trudging against the hard floor, to the room where so much has happened. reaching for the handle, cold and smooth against thy palm.

the silver surface on the wall reflects the world’s view, red face, empty eyes, messy hair.

hands fumble for the familiar sharpness, mind knowing that this moment could always be the last.

back against the wall, body sliding down to sit on the floor, cold tile embracing the legs.

the blade pricks the skin, blood blossoming like flowers in the spring, running down the skin of the wrist, like a river coursing over rocks and dripping onto the white tile

eyes look up, familiar white looking back, pain erupting, spreading up the arm like a wildfire.

smoke dances on the edges of vision, the haziness fogging the mind.

relief is felt, but the sick mind cries for more pain, more relief, for what else could make this aching hole better?

the door with the cold, smooth handle bursts open, and a figure appears. the tears the sick body couldn't produce are made by the figure.

the blade is taken from the sick body and thrown in the bin where all rubble goes.

blood still babbles like the creek, but a cloth, like a large stone, stops the river from flowing.

help in the form of a screaming van and kind, sad eyes is called.

the smoke has overtaken the vision, now the mind sees nothing but black, and the body, unresponsive, refuses to move.

the body is taken to the clean place that smells like cleaning products and is taken to be poked and prodded right away.

the body, still as unresponsive as the mind, is pumped with blood from a stranger, the clean people hoping to fix what was lost by the sick mind.

finally, hours later, the body, and the mind, wake up.

the tears that couldn't be produced earlier, are produced now, but in confusion.

the sick mind wanted to die, yet the others wouldn't let it.

why the sick mind asks, why are you trying so hard to keep me alive?

but then, an outside figure tells them that they are loved, and other figures do care about them.

the mind doesn't understand at first but then, they get it a little bit. maybe others do care for them. maybe they are loved.

and they realize, maybe things aren't the best right now, and maybe they won't be alright tomorrow, but it will be ok in the future.

and then the mind realizes life is like a semicolon, it's okay to pause for a minute to recover and take a break to think, but, life has to continue eventually;

I am starting to write my sequel. Like my previous book, I am not going to start posting chapters until I am completely done with it. However, Like my last book I am going to post teaser chapters for you to read while I am finishing up my book. I would like to thank all the people tagged below for liking one or more chapters from my previous book. For anyone who did not read my previous book you can find it in the link below.

https://theprose.com/book/2163/nia

Her head presses against cool glass, stomach still turning. She doesn’t know why, but one of his favorite games is scaring them. Too many drinks and too late in the night, he pulled the three girls from the party. He woke her violent from her already restless sleep. Too many drinks and a loud, showy repeat of a previous fight. All eyes on him. And him, voice blasting across the party. And mama pulls at his wrist, but he can’t even feel her there. He’s all name calling and feet stomping. Broken bottles and cards strewn across the floor. And she’s all forced laughs, begging, and pleading. Because nothing is wrong. And none of them have ever seen a storm. And nothing is wrong. And he yanks them all past the whispers and pushes them into the car. And too many people watch from the driveway as the car screeches away into the night. Too many drinks, and too cold a night, and he purposefully throws the car in dizzying, lurching circles. Snowbanks dislodge and explode outside her window as the tires tread them, too quick. And she mustn’t cry. Her mama is crying. Her sister is crying. But she mustn’t cry. If she doesn’t cry, the storm will never come. And so she lets the glass ease her turning stomach. And when he asks if she thinks it’s funny, she stares straight into his eyes, silent, wordless. And he laughs like they’re party to a private joke. And she rests her head back against the glass. And she watches the snow rise and fall again like it’s been given a second chance to hit the ground. And she thinks how life is always just repeating. Pounding, angry snowfalls turning to dirty piles, too heavy to hold. And her mama is crying. And her sister is crying. And he’s still shouting and laughing. Great, joyous cries whooping into the bright, white night. And a little prick of her fear slips away as she realizes there’s no stopping the storms. And she can’t help but to laugh at the joke as well.

An old man hobbled

Down a street

Light in his mind

But heavy on his feet

He can’t remember his past;

It’s just as well

He stepped up a kerb

Stumbled, almost fell

He was a sportsman

In his day

Fast and furious

Those who knew him say

An old man hobbled

Down a street

Smiling kindly

To those he would meet

His family love him

Does he know?

He loves them back

But does it show?

An old man hobbled

Down a street

A ready smile

He won’t admit defeat.

And I smiled, too.

My day complete

As an old man hobbled

Down a street.

The room was hollow, dripping with despair, no light to spare. Peace was present, but only behind the apricot fur of the six month old poodle, sleeping without a care in front of the fireplace. Burning oak was no comfort to the man, the woman. Wet cheeks and grief, fear, kept them cold.

“You tell me mother. How am I to explain to a five year old that he is never going to see his mother again?” He held his head in his hands, his crew cut left him without any hair to pull. They had not been home more than an hour when the hospital called to say her heart had stopped.

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Mother! He’s a boy, a boy who probably up until yesterday in his subconscious could still remember suckling her breast. All of that gone now, replaced with what mother? Blood? Twisted metal? Sirens? How can you be so callous about her death, so cruel?”

“Wait a minute, how can I be so cruel? Wasn’t Shana the cruel one when she drove drunk with Graeme in the car. Every day he looks in the mirror, his scar will remind him of what she did to him. She scarred him in more ways than one! It’s unforgivable! She can rot in hell for all I care.”

Wind gusting from the west startled them all with what sounded like a knock on the door, and Booker, only trying to do his job awoke with a bark, his signature, four shorts one long.

“Mother what good does the blame game do now, and will you shut that thing up?”

“Thing! Jake! He’s a puppy! And puppies are known to bark! Com’ear Bookie. Good boy.” Booker jumped up on Nana’s lap and nuzzled in. Her anger and his body warmed her just enough. She pet him from head to tail, tickling him like a concert pianist touching piano keys and talked softly to him. “He doesn’t mean it Bookie. He’s just sad and mad is all.”

“I’m sorry mother. My nerves are shot. I didn’t plan on my wife drinking and driving and I certainly didn’t plan on her early demise. I’m gonna need your help, ya know. A lot of help.”

“I know baby. We’ll get through this together. It’ll be okay someday, you’ll see. I promise. Whatever you need for Graeme, Bookie and I will be here as much as you need us. I’ll move in for awhile until life resumes back to normal, as normal as normal can be.”

The next morning, Jake sat in the same rocker Graeme had been nursed in, watching him sleep with anticipation until he woke up. As soon as Graeme’s eyes opened, Jake leaped into the bed wrapping up his son like a shell to its oyster. If he whispered the words, maybe it would soften the blow? Saying what he had to say softly was all the strength he could muster, anyway. “Graeme, Momma has gone to heaven. She won’t be coming home from the hospital.”

Graeme frowned, with a downturned bottom lip and looked at him blankly for about a half a minute. What he said, said more than what he didn’t say, “Is Nana still here? Where’s Bookie?”

“I think I hear them in the kitchen. Nana’s probably fixing some pancakes.”

“I want to play with Bookie.” And it was then that Jake realized the best medicine for his son’s grief was already in his house. Graeme raced down the stairs like it was Christmas morning to join Booker. Nana too, but mainly Booker. Oh, there would be therapists and guidance counselors and the seen and unseen scars, but there is something to be said about the healing effects of a boy’s best friend.

“Nana. Nana! Where are Bookie’s little balls? He likes the green one best right?”

“They’re in my bag Graeme. I’ll go get them. Yes he loves the green one best.” Mother and son looked towards each other lifting eyebrows and shoulders silently signaling to roll with Graeme’s wishes.

Nana stopped flipping flaps and got the balls out of her bag, little balls that were just the right size for a fifteen pound mini poodle’ s mouth.

“What’s that word you said Nana? He’s abses?”

“Obsessed Graeme. Obsessed. Bookie is obsessed with his green ball and will play all day fetching it, if we let him.”

“That’s what I want to do today. Play ball with Bookie all day, okay?” Sure thing son, said Jake, holding back his tears. “Right after breakfast and after I change your bandage my brave boy, okay?”

“Okay Dad. Anyway, I am abses with Nana’s pancakes, too!” And the three of them were able to let out just a little bit of a chuckle, before big bites of fluffy jacks.

And so it was, the days went on, the scar began to heal and every day Nana and Booker were there for Graeme. Since she had trained other poodles over the years, Nana was in the process of teaching Booker to sit, give paw, roll over and more, but her favorite trick was the cha cha cha. Holding a treat over Booker’s head, she’d make a zig zag motion to a cha cha beat, and he’d stand up and dance for her everytime. But Nana never took credit. She’d practice each day with Booker when Graeme was at school, and when he got in the house, it was always Graeme that believed he was the dog whisperer, positively giddy at feeling accomplished as Bookers trainer.

“God boy Booker, do you want a treat?” Rollover, lay down, cha cha cha, and one day became the next until he came off the bus with his head down and a frown they had rarely seen since his mother passed away. When he got in the house and he didn’t seem interested in seeing Booker, that’s when Nana really became concerned. “What’s wrong Buddy? Do you feel sick?”

“No.” Blopping down on the floor, defeated. “Graeme you know you can talk to me about anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you.”

After some hesitation and more prompting from Nana, Graeme finally conceded and said, “Okay. It’s Johnny at school. He said on the bus that I have an ugly Frankenstein face, and I think he is right. All the kids laughed when he said it, and he got in trouble, and had to sit next to the bus driver, but that didn’t make me feel better. And I think all the other kids have mommy’s, because I see them waiting at the bus stop and I don’t have mine, and sometimes that makes me very sad and very mad about what happened.”

Oh, honey, it’s all going to be okay, someday Graeme. I promise. It’s not true that you look like Frankenstein. You are a handsome boy and anyway as time goes on that scar will fade. And it’s true and it’s very very sad that you have no mommy, but I’m here for you and Booker’s here for you. You don’t want to make him sad too, do you? Why don’t we get the green ball and take Booker over to the park?”

“I don’t want to. I feel too sad and mad and now Booker probably won’t like me anymore, either.”

“Oh, that’s not true. Booker loves you,” and as if on cue, Booker leaped across the room and into Graeme’s lap, with a whole lot of puppy dog kisses. As if the conversation never happened, Graeme said, “Where’s the green ball Nana, let’s go.”

When they were walking back from the park, Nana had an idea. “Hey Graeme. What if I call your teacher and see if we can set up a show and tell with Booker and you can show off all the tricks you have taught him.”

“Can we Nana. Can we?”

“I can’t promise, but I’ll call the school tomorrow and ask.”

The school principal was happy to grant Nana and Booker access to the school. The show and tell was all set for Friday afternoon and Grant was so excited he woke up before the crack of dawn, practicing tricks with Booker before Nana could get the coffee pot on. He was happy to get on the bus, but unhappy about having to wait till 1 pm, because in his mind, there was an eternity between 8:30 am and 1 pm, the scheduled event time. In school, he must have stared at the clock every minute, his mind trying to push the minute hand without success. And then finally after eternity less a minute, it was 12:59 and a knock rang the class’s attention. Mrs. Schultz stood before the class, clapped three times, then put her pointer over her mouth with one hand, and with the other she raised her arm high, the signal for the children to pay attention in silence. And then she announced.

“Children we have a special guest today. Graeme’s grandmother is here with his dog for show and tell. I want everyone to sit quietly in your circle spot.” Graeme was so happy that his teacher said his dog and not Nana’s dog. Nana always said that too, and he inwardly embraced her kindness, her generosity, and her promise.

Mrs. Schultz opened the door, and in came Booker on the leash with Nana close behind. She waved at all the kids and they waved back and then Mrs Schultz said, “Graeme, I understand that you have taught Booker a bunch of tricks and you would like to demonstrate what you have taught Booker to the class. Is that right?”

Graeme came forward and said, “Yes, Mrs. Schultz.” And with that Nana passed him the baggie they had packed before he left for school filled with Booker’s assorted treats. She gave him the leash and he took over without hesitation proving that practice makes perfect. One after another, with total concentration, Graeme perfectly executed all of Booker’s tricks in front of his classmates, with a grand finale of a very long cha cha cha, across the classroom floor. There were so many oh’s and ah’s from the dance that Graeme snapped back out of the zone, looking towards his teacher and then towards Nana, not needing to hear that he had done a good job. All the kids clapped a long round of applause and then Nana asked Graeme if he wanted her to sign him out early, or if he wanted to go home on the bus. “I think I’ll go home on the bus Nana.”

And he stepped onto the bus confidently, the star of the day, each and everyone of his classmates, even Johnny, asking questions on the bus about Booker. “That was so cool.” And, “I wish I had a dog.” And, “How did you teach him all those tricks?” And more. Long after that day, eventually Nana did start sleeping at her house again, but without Booker. Booker had found his way into a little boys heart, and down at the foot of his bed each night as they both slept peacefully. It wouldn’t be fair to say Graeme forgot about the love of his mother, but when lost, love has a way of finding us again. In Graeme’s case, it was found behind the apricot fur, gifted by Nana in more ways than one.

I wake up on time for school. I wasn't early like the previous day. I get ready and Katy is actually less annoying. Nia's mother prepared breakfast and I had time this morning to sit down and eat it. She made a fried egg and toast with a glass of orange juice. I could certainly get used to some home cooking. By this time I pretty much knew the drill, once I get out the door Lidia and I walk to school together and talk mostly about boys.

The school is a bit more excited today than the previous few days I was here and I am pretty much sure the cause is because of the dance that is planned for tonight. The girls talk of nothing else than who they were going with and what they were wearing. The guys talk about, well I don't know what the guys talk about because I was stuck listening to what the girls are talking about.

The entire day is a complete waste of time as far as I am concerned. The entire day is filled with dance related drama and I suffer through it the best I can. Lidia is alternating between being okay and breaking down and I do my best to try and prop up her self-worth. The dance is being held in the main gym and the whole village shows up for it. There are decorations everywhere. There is finger food and refreshments and there is more than enough parents to make sure that the conduct by the students is appropriate. The one thing I noticed about this place is that the parents paid a lot of attention to what was going on. They didn't seem self-absorbed in their own lives.

Lidia and I sit in some chairs sipping on punch. I would expect the punch to be spiked but somehow I'm thinking that's not going to be happening here. Lidia didn't really want to come and she is feeling sorry for herself.

A guy named Brad asks me to dance. I don't want to but Lidia pushes me out onto the dance floor anyway. The music is slow and I put my arm on his shoulder and he put his arm around my waist. It was kind of like the dancing you would see in an old movie.

"You look really nice tonight." Brad says paying me a compliment.

"You don't look too bad yourself." I respond. It feels really weird dancing with a guy and I try to play it cool.

"Since you're not with Bobby, why don't we slip out of here?" Brad offers.

"I'm sorry I can't" I answer, "I have to keep an eye on Lidia."

"That's right, I heard Tom really broke her heart. That's tough. Is she going to be alright?" He asks.

"Eventually" I respond.

"Well, you take care." He says when the dance is over. He leaves me and goes over to a different girl and dances with her. I imagine he is giving her the same offer he gave me and when I see them sneak out together my suspicions are confirmed. They aren’t gone long enough for anything to happen though. The parent's here are really on top of things.

I notice that Bobby didn't waste any time. He must have been stringing somebody along to get another date so quickly or maybe he just has them lining up outside his door. The girl he is with isn't as attractive as Nia is but she still looks really good. She had blonde hair and blue eyes and is wearing a blue dress. I walk over to him.

"Hi Bobby" I say greeting him warmly.

"Oh hi" Bobby responds. He seems a little uncomfortable.

"It's okay." I reassure him, "There's no reason why you shouldn't have a good time because of me."

"Are you sure you don't mind?" Bobby asks. He must have thought Nia would be upset seeing him here with another girl or maybe he wants Nia to be jealous.

"Of course not but I would be upset if you didn't save a dance for me." I answer. I think I'm really getting the hang of this. Being Nia gives me a confidence that I have never experienced before.

"Sure, I'll catch you later." He says trying to play it cool.

I walk over to where I had left Lidia but she isn't there. I calmly scan the dance floor but I don't see her. I thought the only place left she could be is in the restroom. I hate going into the girl's restroom. It makes me feel really uncomfortable but I go in anyway. I don't see anybody but I hear gentle sobbing coming from one of the stalls.

"Lidia" I call but get no answer.

"I know you're in here." I say again. There is still no response.

"Okay, well I'm just going to have to wait here until you come out." I say in a stern voice.

After several minutes of just standing there. Lidia comes out of the stall. Her eyes are red. I put my arms around her and hold her close.

"Tell me what happened" I say gently.

"I saw Tom dancing with someone else and I couldn't help myself" She says still gently sobbing. Girls are so emotional.

"I'll walk you home." I tell her. Lidia nods her head. With my arm still around her I lead her out of the building and walk her home. When we reach Lidia's house I escort her to her room.

We sit on her bed. I have my arm around her and she is still crying. With her body so close to mine I start to have a hard time controlling myself. The thing is, is that her face is inches away from my face. The scent coming off of her skin is driving me crazy. I am doing everything I can not to kiss her. Then I think I could kiss her on the cheek. That's something that girl's do right? Sometimes they kiss each other on the cheek. I wasn't sure about that but I reach the point where I can't control myself any longer and just reach over a bit and give her a sweet kiss on the cheek. I wait a few minutes to see what Lidia's reaction is. She remains unchanged so I decide to give her another one. I feel really low kissing a girl in another girl's body.

I reach over to kiss Lidia but this time she turns her head in my direction and instead of kissing her on the cheek our lips find each other. Lidia doesn't pull away either and I'm thinking that maybe Lidia has been hiding in the closet. I know she is really shaken up over Tom though so maybe she is just confused. After our lips linger for a few minutes longer I'm the one who pulls away.

"I'm so sorry." I tell her, "I didn't mean to kiss you on the lips."

"it’s okay" She responds, "I kind of liked it." Nia would flip if she knew her best friend had been hiding in the closet. At least I think she would. I was really torn as to what to

do next. I wanted to kiss Lidia so bad but I also didn't want to ruin their friendship.

"What do you mean kind of?" I protest. OMG I'm flirting with Lidia now while she's vulnerable. Have I no shame?

"Maybe you should kiss me again then" She answers. She's flirting back! I should nip this in the bud right now but I don't. I move closer to Lidia and we press our lips together again. I can taste her lipstick.

"How was that?" I ask.

"That was good" She says breathlessly, "You better go. We'll talk about it tomorrow." She isn't crying anymore and she has a nice smile on her face.

"Yeah, your right." I respond, "I'll see you tomorrow."

I walk home. I am feeling pretty amazing and despicable at the same time. I ruined Nia's friendship with Lidia because I couldn't control myself. I am such an idiot. When I get home my parents ask me about the dance. I tell them that I had to leave early because Lidia was upset and they tell me that I am a good friend. If they only knew.

When I go to sleep I wake up in my own room. I check the 'tin can' thing and a new scene has become clear. I can see Nia and Lidia kissing in Lidia's bedroom. Of all the scenes that could have appeared it had to be that one.

Generally, there are three ways to steal from a bank. If one is prone to violence and lacks subtlety, he carries a weapon and robs them during working hours. If one is prone to subtlety and lacks a capacity for violence, he carries a ledger and embezzles during working hours.

If one lacks both violence and subtlety, he carries a pickaxe and digs a tunnel into the vault.

Ghain was a burglar.

This story begins where so many other stories end: six feet underground. Ghain had been digging his tunnel for several days, and by his best estimates, was immediately adjacent to the brick wall of the bank vault. Ghain was genetically and ethnically predisposed to this kind of work: short, stocky, and coming from a society of deep earth miners. He even whistled while he worked.

Ghain took a deep breath, hefted his pickaxe, and broke through the brick wall.

But the scent which assailed his nostrils was not the smell of success, but a sharp stench of something else.

As the dust settled, Ghain found himself face-to-face with a recently-deceased cadaver.

“Argh,” he thought, with consternation. “Not again.”

Ghain wasn’t easily deterred, however. Holding his nose, he stepped over the body. This wasn’t like any crypt he had ever been in - but thinking it over, he hadn’t been in any crypts before. The body was wearing a suit, but it was dressed in business casual rather than funeral formal. The brick-enclosed space was tiny, and unadorned, and Ghain’s attention was soon focused on the wall across rather than the decomposing corpse below. He scratched his head with the tip of his pickaxe, and then resolutely went to work breaking through the second wall.

This second effort was much more rewarding.

Bricks tumbled forward into the vault, messily and noisily, and Ghain lifted his torch into the dark and dusty interior. Hundreds of bags were neatly piled around the room, bulging with various denominations and currencies. It was a princely treasure, and it brought a crooked smile to his face. He immediately set to work, grabbing a bag and tossing it through the hole in the wall. The sound of loud voices on the other side of the heavy vault door made him pause, however. Had his clamorous activity attracted attention from the bank employees?

Perhaps he shouldn’t have burgled the bank during working hours. As we indicated before, Ghain lacked subtlety.

But he soon realized that the commotion outside was not directed at him, as he heard various shouted threats and commands.

“Everybody on the floor!”

“Stay where we can see you!”

“Give us the money and nobody gets hurt!”

It appeared that a robbery was in progress. Or two robberies. Technically, one robbery and one burglary.

Ghain hustled back into his tunnel, no longer registering the dead banker that he repeatedly had to step over on his way out. The voices outside had gotten closer, and it seemed that they had discovered the vault door - and were intent on opening it. Ghain didn’t really want to meet the robbers. An introduction would inevitably lead to a conversation about splitting the loot into fair and equitable shares, and since Ghain wasn’t carrying any weapons, his share would probably be zero. That would technically count as a second robbery, in his opinion.

He paused at the mouth of his tunnel. Like any good excavator, he had shored up his tunnel with wooden braces so that it wouldn’t collapse during the burglary. But technically, the burglary was over, and collapsing the tunnel might prevent a robbery.

Sledgehammers started pounding on the vault door outside.

Ghain grabbed his money-bag and crawled with much haste through his tunnel, pausing only to kick out the support braces behind him.

*****

This story ends where so many other stories begin: in a street cafe. The next morning, Ghain was sipping his cup of bitter, black coffee when a paperboy delivered the morning journal. Out of curiosity, Ghain paid the kid for a copy, and opened it up to see if there were any reports about either his unsuccessful burglary or the simultaneously unsuccessful robbery. He unfolded the paper and read the headline:

BODY OF MISSING ACCOUNTANT FOUND UNDER BANK

Police Investigate Embezzlement, Cover-Up

Ghain scowled in recollection of the assorted counterfeits that he had found in his single sack of loot last night. He folded the paper back up and took another sip of his coffee, contemplating a career change.

The air leaves me breathless. The light, blind. My senses, over extended. My bones crack under pressure. My hair, whipping like wild fire. Fed by the oxygen and thriving out of control. And everything is ending. And I think that as I fall I will leave you behind. But you fall with me. And you are the wind under my skin. You are the gravity breaking my insides to splinters. The stars behind my eyes. You are the rupture of my lungs. The bursting of my heart, too full. The enveloping waves, crashing through my last thoughts. You are the cement rushing at me. The ground, ready to catch me. And I think I’ll leave you behind. But I’m only diving to meet you. I’m only careening into your arms one last time. And I still feel you in the end.

Within my life, I have nearly died a total of twenty times. The first time was when I was born. The doctor's heard no heartbeat, but luckily, my mother was far enough along in her pregnancy to be induced. I was birthed with my umbilical cord tied tight around my neck. I was airless for around five minutes. To this day, the doctors are surprised I have no brain damage.

The second and third…. and fourth time I nearly died I was around the age of six. Well, five and six to be exact. I was a bit of a daredevil of a child, and I always had a dream to one day grow wings and fly. Most people would have learned not to jump off buildings the first time they break a leg. It took me three attempts, multiple broken bones, a few skull fractures, and my parents blocking off all access to the roof to get me to stop. The fifth time I nearly died; I attempted to fly was from the tree in my childhood home's backyard. That tree was cut down within the week after that attempt.

The sixth and seventh times, I was eight years old. I was riding my bike in the streets near my home. Normally, this would be safe, but the daredevil in me always wanted to ride out in front of cars as much as possible. I was hit twice before my parents sold my bike and tried to get me to play video games or do anything else instead. They just wanted me to stop endangering myself.

The eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh times were all car crashes. I was ten in the first, eleven in the second, and I was seventeen in the last two. My grandparents weren't always the best drivers, and as they started getting older, their reflexes weren't the same. My parents took away their licenses fairly fast after I nearly died from internal bleeding in the second car crash. Little did they know I would actually die in my first car crash, but I came back to life after a minute. Honestly, I don't really remember my second accident all that well.

The last nine times I nearly died. I was training for my job as a stunt double. I was always the man they called when they needed someone to do an extremely dangerous stunt. I was the only one willing enough to make it look realistic, and everyone in the industry knew that I had no fear of dying, just a fear of not being able to do what I love. And I truly loved the feeling of flying through the air, no matter the consequences.

And yet, in spite of everything, my heart's still beating. I'm still breathing, and the doctor's are even questioning how I can even still be alive. The people at my job are encouraging me to quit, or to do anything else. But honestly, I still haven't truly lost my death wish. I still want to fly, and no one is going to stop me until I get what I want.