“I fell in love with his eyes.”

I know what you’re thinking. So fucking cliché. But let me tell you about his eyes. His beautiful eyes. Eyes that could warp any sour heart into one that could feel love. The blue that decorates his irises is almost impossible to describe. Think of the early morning, but late into the sunrise. His eyes are the color of the sky where the sunrise hits the blue, that small space in between the morning and new. It’s a lighter blue. The light from the sun streaks through that particular part of the sky, and the darker blue of the day fades in around the edges.

That’s my favorite part of any morning.

That’s one of the many things I loved about him.

The brightness that shines from those two small orbs in his face carried me on through the darkness each night I was with him. Which, in all honesty, was only three nights.

“What?” you ask. “Three nights? Did you spend any other time with him?”

Nope. I only spent three days with him, only for a few hours at a time. When we weren’t together and when we weren’t working, we texted for a few weeks, talking about our lives and passions.

Don’t say that you can’t fall in love with someone in such a short amount of time. The tears that stream down my pale cheeks say otherwise. The sickness that evacuated me when he told me he was moving says otherwise. Me screaming into my pillow; that’s me saying otherwise.

Love isn’t timed. It just happens.

Each moment I spent with him was measured by the emotions in the sky of his eyes. His eyes were bright and curious before he closed them when he leaned in to kiss me. When he apologized for the sudden affection, both excitement and curiosity danced in the sky. I saw passion and a hint of what looked like something similar to love when he cradled my body in his hands.

I told him how much I adored his eye color the second time we were together. They were bright after he gushed about his guilty pleasure, which happened to be the same as mine. Bright white streaks raced from his pupil to the outer iris where a dark ring caught the light, causing bubbles of emotions to rise. He blushed, grabbed my red cheeks, and whispered, “I’ve never seen more beautiful eyes than yours.”

I about fell off his bed hearing those words. Many a man has told me my eyes are beautiful, but I could see this man look past the color and into my thoughts. Past the grass green iris with gold flakes and a black outer ring. His baby blues board into my soulful windows and he described the color in a poetic manor. Nothing too cheesy or cliché. Just straight forward, yet beautiful.

I kissed him.

He grinned, wrapped me in my arms, and proceeded to tell me how much he loved my lips. I told him about his dimpled chin and how I’ve admired it for years, back when I first saw him in middle school, when he was a star athlete and I was an awkward artist. He ran his hand through my short hair. I ran mine along his toned arms. From our eyes to our toes we stroked and examined and expressed our passion from each other.

“Have you ever tired long distance?” He shook his head. “A thousand miles between to people isn’t too bad,” I said that last afternoon. He agreed, but we didn’t go for it. I told him to find me when he comes back to visit. That he went for.

“I don’t want to move away now that you’re here.”

When I cry I hear that sentence. I’d much rather hear, “You don’t affect my decision to leave.” It’d be a different kind of pain. I wouldn’t think of sleeping next to him during that last hot night, skin to skin with interlocking fingers and legs. The memory of scooting closer to each other the first day until we are legs and lips were touching. The talks, the texts, the hugs and kisses; all wouldn’t burn my brain so much if he hadn’t told me how much of a connection he felt with me. They wouldn’t haunt my dreams and remind me that I never bothered to ask him to stay, asked him to try long distance, ask him to postpone moving another day. I’d hurt less if that last afternoon was real.

I wouldn’t cry so much if I would have said his name when I saw him at work on his last day.

He walked right by me. I saw his eyes move across the clipboard in his hand.

And I said nothing.

Instead, I went home and painted his soul with blue paints.

Light flooded through the window’s curtains and washed onto the hotel’s beige carpet. The flowers on the comforter stretched out towards the brightness, desperate to reach the sunshine. A groan came from under the sheets followed by a moan from an unknown guest. Aaron froze mid-stretch. Usually, he liked to sleep alone, in his own bed, and in his pajamas, not naked.

Aaron suppressed a sigh and slowly slipped out from between the sheets. Walking to the bathroom, he picked up his clothes and shoes and quietly closed the door behind him. A quick shower woke Aaron up from his drowsiness but as usual, did not restore his memory of the night before.

After drying off, Aaron rose his arms and searched his chest for any ink that didn’t belong there. The man’s sternum was bare, as he liked it. Aaron turned side to side, counting the tattoos on the side of his ribs. Three on his right, four on his left, all black and gray. Aaron grinned, smacked his abdomen and dressed in last night’s clothes: a red V-neck t-shirt, black slacks, and black dress shoes. “Where the fuck did I…?” Aaron rolled his eyes, ran his hands through his thick, curly hair, and stepped out of the restroom.

Sitting upright in the bed was a pale-skinned red head who was pulling her hair into a bun. Aaron turned his head, avoiding eye contact and looking at her bare skin. He started to sidestep to the exit until he realized his belongings were not on him.

“Morning, Mike.”

Aaron slouched. “Mike…” He turned on his heel and looked in the direction of the woman, but not directly at her. “It’s Aaron,” he responded. “I need to go, I have work soon.” Aaron began to walk towards the cheap night stand, avoiding the confused stare of the woman in the bed. He reached for his phone and wallet but was quickly grabbed at by a small hand.

“Hold on, you lied to me?” Aaron finally looked at her. As usual, the person in the bed was hurt, confused, angry. Her grip tightened. “Last night you told me your name was Mike Vaughn and you didn’t work because you have some kind of trust fund.”

Damn that’s specific, Aaron thought. “Look, you’re not wrong but you’re not right. I need to go now.” He broke the grip of the woman and turned to leave. Out of pity, Aaron stopped at the door before opening it. “I am really sorry, Daisy,” he said reaching for the handle.

“It’s Rose, you ass.”

Aaron shrugged. Closer than last time.

The sun was right overhead, blinding the streets of the city. Aaron stepped outside and looked around. “Where the fuck did I end up?” He pulled out his phone, groaned at the dead screen, and walked the streets of Tucson, Arizona while looking for a bus stop. Once he found one, Aaron sat in the shade with his head in his hands, disappointed with himself as usual.

“Hangover?” a stranger asked. He was in a similar position as Aaron, water bottle in hand.

“Good God, I wish.”

***

Once back in his apartment, Aaron stripped off his clothes and kicked them into a corner that was piled with assorted clothes. If he tossed the clothes that he was wearing in the trash like he had before, Mike would just end up buying them again. Keeping them in the corner was the better money saving option.

After plugging in his phone, Aaron got dressed for the second time, but now in jeans and a t-shirt with a name badge on. A quick snack and Aaron was ready to leave for work. He grabbed his phone, realizing he had notifications on the screen. A majority came from his boss, declaring him late for work. The clock read 12:47 P.M.

“Crap, man!” Aaron dropped his phone and ran his hands through his hair. “I am so fucking late, crap.” Jamming his wallet and keys into his jeans, Aaron started for the door but stopped when a stinging sensation arose from the right side of his ribs. Aaron lifted his shirt and looked down at his tattoos.

The black and white owl at the bottom of the rib cage was twitching her way to the sternum. Each flap of the tattooed wings pricked at Aaron’s skin. The feeling resembled the touch of a tattoo gun on the skin for the first time. Pain hammered Aaron’s side causing his breathing to falter. The pain shifted with the moving tattoo until it finally hit the sternum. The owl closed her wings and perched on Aaron’s solar plexus, shacking out her feathers.

Still holding up his shirt, Aaron caught his breath and stared down the owl. He watched it blink a few times and the bird finally shut her eyes. “Margaret,” Aaron whispered. The owl finally opened her eyes, revealing a bright red hue.

Margaret pushed down the shirt and smoothed her hands over it. “Goodness, I am so late!” She sang. She ran out the door, locking it behind her. Margaret hopped down the stairs of the apartment complex and out to the streets. She ran down the sidewalk towards the guitar shop where Aaron worked. After a quick jog, Margaret skipped into High Desert Guitars, pushing her hair out of her face.

“I’m here, John, I’m so sorry.” She trotted up to her boss. “I don’t know what happened last night, I just-“ Margaret touched her face. “My glasses, I forgot my glasses. I’ll be right back, I can’t work without my glasses.”

“Margaret.” John grabbed at Margaret’s arm and tapped on the badge that read Aaron’s name. “I need Aaron, not glasses.”

Margaret nodded her head, her short curls bouncing. The hammering sensation returned to her chest, moving the owl tattoo back to her original resting place at the bottom of her ribs. John grabbed at the shirt covering the tattoos, watching the red ink in the owl’s eyes disappear. John dropped the shirt and slapped Aaron’s stomach. “Good.” He looked up at Aaron. “Aaron, right?”

Aaron nodded his head, his curly hair moving slightly. “Yeah, sorry man, just kind of freaked out when I saw all your messages.”

John just waved his hand and turned to a guitar he was restringing. “It’s been slow today, so no big deal. Just don’t let that phone die again.”

Aaron stepped behind the counter and started fiddling with the store’s computer. “Mike never went home last night. Honestly, I have no idea what happened, but of course he didn’t bother to wake up this morning, leaving me in a mess again.”

He started his simple daily work, trying not to think of the woman he left naked in the hotel. As long as Aaron didn’t encounter any stress, he should stay himself and not have to encounter any alters until the end of the day.

***

Back at home, Aaron dropped his things onto the kitchen table and slumped onto the couch. His chest and head ached from the brief, yet frequent, visits he encountered today. Being yelled at by an unhappy costumer caused eight-year-old Tanner, a fish tattoo, to appear. He stuck around until the man left and then Samantha, the butch salamander, came about and began to pace around angry and frustrated, refusing to voice her thoughts and staying passive aggressive.

Aaron rolled onto his side, flipped on the television, and closed his eyes, exhausted and not wanting to do a thing. He got lost in the background noise and was about to drift off to sleep when his cell phone blasted an annoying ring tone. Fearing it was his boss again, Aaron sprung up and grabbed at his phone, reading the number: 520-794-2646. It wasn’t one Aaron recognized, so he shut off the sound and went back to lay on the couch.

Slumped back into his comfy position, Aaron was ready for a long nights rest. Just as he was closing his eyes, a stabbing pain reared its head onto Aaron’s ribs. He jolted forward slightly, used to but still hating the sensation. The shirt that hid the various tattoos was pulled off and tossed onto the carpet of Aaron’s messy apartment. He watched the nightly ritual of his black and white fox tattoo stand from his natural sitting position, shake out his fur, and swagger over to the center of the chest. Mike, the fox, puffed out his chest as he took a seat right on the solar plexus and fluttered his eyes until the shade of gray ink turned to red.

Mike shot up off the couch and tussled his curls with his hands. He pulled back his hair, tight and slick against his head and started searching for a hair tie to keep in place.

“Alrighty, alrighty, alrighty, Aaron, where did you put all of my things?” Mike went to the corner where Aaron liked to drop all of the things that he bought to better improve their lives. He dug through a pile of slacks, dress shoes and shirts, sport jackets, and ties, all the things Mike loved to wear and all the things Aaron hated.

Mike found a hair tie, braced his curls back tightly, and then removed Aaron’s day clothes and put on his own night clothes, slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie. Mike grabbed his phone, his wallet, making sure it was full of cash, and left the building for the night.

***

“Well, I can buy you a drink, babe.” Mike wiggled his eyebrows at the beautiful woman sitting at the bar. She was young and flirtatious, looking for any drink to fly into her hands. Mike slapped his phone quiet for the third time tonight in the bar. The number that was pestering Aaron earlier in the night was now bugging Mike. He didn’t want the person on the other line tonight, he wanted the pretty little girl that he was buying a drink for.

“Here you go, baby.” Mike leaned in to the girl, ready to whisper in her ear.

A shadow loomed over the young woman and with it came a booming voice. “Michaela?” it asked. Mike pulled back from biting at the girl’s ear and was face to face with a square jawed, muscular man. “Who’s this?” Mike stepped back from Michaela and who Mike assumed was her date.

Michaela bounced off the bar stool and into the arms of the man. “This is just a nice gentleman who bought a drink for me.” She spread her purple colored lips and grinned up at the man. “I’ll go get us a table, Thad,” she sang as she skipped off.

Big Thad smiled as his girl left the bar, then glared down at Mike. Mike stood his ground until his breath started to falter. Stabbing sensations broke out where the fox sat and spread out to where the tattoo of a sheep lay. Not breaking eye contact, Mike held his breath as he felt the two tattoos change places, the fox sitting on the ribs, the sheep now grazing on invisible grass with its red inked eyes.

Tad stared down Dan, who was loosening the tie around his neck. “Stay away from us,” Tad breathed.

Dan nodded his head, his small, curly ponytail bouncing. “Y-yes sir,” Dan sputtered out in his thick Texas accent. “W-won’t happen ag-again.”

Tad’s eyes widened in confusion at the sudden change in behavior but moved on. Dan fell onto the nearest barstool, shaking in his dress shoes. Very quietly, he asked for a small glass of ice water from the bartender and then pulled out his phone. The clock read 11:56 and there were two missed calls, a voicemail, and five text messages, all from 520-794-2646. Dan assumed the person who was trying to contact the phone owner was a woman, based on the language being used in the texts.

Dan was far too shy to interact with anyone in person, much less over the phone, so he pocketed the cell, paid the barkeep, and left to go home, where he hoped Aaron would wake.

***

Aaron tossed his cell into a drawer and slammed it shut. He was tired of seeing the same unknown number brighten his screen. He didn’t know if this number was connected to any alters, but he knew if it was they were ignoring it just as he was. Aaron turned his back to a customer and pretended to care about unpacking an acoustic bass. In reality, he was counting down the tattoos on his chest, trying to find the culprit that could be connected to the number.

Aaron knew that it couldn’t be Tanner, considering he was only eight. He kept to himself unless he was being confronted uncomfortably. Samantha the salamander who was always above Tanner was the one who contacted women and was never contacted by them. She was the persistent one. The owl, Margaret, never interacted with people outside of work. On the other side of Aaron’s ribs was Mike. The fox sat high and mighty right above the shy sheep, Dan, who was above Maxwell, a sneaky rat. No woman has ever connected with either man on any level.

The last tattoo was a highly detailed black and gray wolverine. He was always curled up in a ball, his nose hiding on his tail. Aaron never bothered to learn what the wolverine had named himself. He only visited when Aaron’s anger was maxed out. The wolverine was an unrealistic man who did as he pleased. Aaron tried to keep him glued to his rib cage, never wanting an impromptu visit.

Aaron searched his memory, checking to see if the tattoo has been awake recently. It was pointless doing so; until Aaron was back in control, he was unaware of some alters coming and going and had no idea what they did while they were around.

“Hey, Aaron.” Aaron turned to face his boss, John. “Do you know her?”

John pointed out the store’s front window towards a woman who was staring inside. Aaron didn’t recognize her at first glance, but he did notice that she stared at him intensely. “Never seen her,” Aaron muttered looking away. The woman lingered outside for a while, pretending to look at the guitars and amps, but obviously glancing up at Aaron frequently.

Aaron’s chest thumped with pain at the bottom right of his rib cage where he could feel the tattoo rat stretch his tail and crawl past the other animals up to the sternum. Aaron didn’t bother to watch Maxwell’s eyes change from black to red but rather focused on not looking at the woman outside.

John let out a sigh from the other side of the small store. “She left, Aaron,” he breathed. Maxwell turned and glared at John, his nostrils flared. It took a second for John to realize that Aaron wasn’t around at the moment. He studied the most recent alter, looking for signs of who it could be. He noticed Maxwell’s shifty eyes, moving about the expensive music equipment. He knew that Maxwell was hard to deal with, so until Aaron returned, John kept a close eye on his coworker, making sure he didn’t try to pocket anything.

After a slow day of work, Maxwell finally crawled back to the bottom of Aaron’s chest, leaving the center clear of ink. Aaron turned to apologize to John but was stopped with a wave of the hand. “I’ve known you for 6 years now Aaron. And I’ve known your different personalities for just as long.” John smiled at his coworker. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

***

“Mike?”

Aaron had just left High Desert Guitars, walking down the sidewalk towards his apartment. He kept his head down and walked at a steady pace. He didn’t know if the woman was referring to the fox with the bright red eyes that lived on his rib cage or a different Mike, but he didn’t want to know. Aaron pulled out his phone to look busy, to look uninterested. He tapped at the screen and stopped in his tracks.

“Mother….. Fucker…..” The phone was dead.

“Hey Mike,” the woman from before who was looking in the store window caught up with Aaron and grabbed at his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Aaron awkwardly shrugged off the woman’s hand. “Hey,” he said. He looked the woman up and down. She was beautiful at first glance and even more breathtaking when face-to-face. The woman was fairly short with dark curly hair that mimicked Aaron’s. Her brown eyes were magnified under the rim of her glasses and her freckles blended in with her dark skin.

Aaron had no idea who this woman was.

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” she said.

Aaron waved the phone in his hand. “My cell is dead,” he coughed out.

“I’ve been calling and texting you for a few days now,” the woman replied. “I’ve been worried about you, you’ve been saying you wanted to see me again.” The woman grabbed at her purse and started digging for her phone. “Maybe I just wrote down your number wrong.”

“Hold on, are you 520-794-2646?” The woman perked up and nodded, bouncing the ringlets on her head. “Yeah, I’ve been getting your calls and texts.”

The beautiful smile that seemed plastered onto her face dropped. “Oh,” she breathed. “You have?”

“Look, I’m not Mike, I’m Aaron.” The woman dropped her shoulders. “Hey, hey,” Aaron didn’t want to see the beauty fall from this woman anymore. “He didn’t give you the wrong number, it’s just-”

“Did you just lie to me about who you are?” she snapped. “You’re not Mike but you look exactly like him and we’re pretty close to where we first met.” She gestured toward a local bar. “And, you live like, right here.”

Aaron never knew of Mike letting a woman know where he lived. Mike always took women to a cheap motel. “Listen, uh,” Aaron felt the fox tattoo whip its tail. “Ashlee?” The woman responded to the name. “I am Mike, but… ugh, how do I put this.” Aaron didn’t know Ashlee like Mike did but he didn’t want to lie or disappoint her like he had to with Mike’s other adventures. “Mike and I share a body?”

Ashlee stared at Aaron. The way he phrased that sounded fake and questionable. “Look…” He kept trailing off, extremely uncomfortable, trying to describe his relationship with Mike and the other tattoos that lived on his chest. “Uhh…” Aaron lifted his shirt revealing the alters and pointed at the gray fox that was pacing the rounded bones. “That’s Mike.”

Ashlee reacted just the way Aaron thought she would. She rolled her eyes and scoffed.

“Why didn’t you just say so?” she asked. Aaron wasn’t expecting that.

Ashlee rolled up the sleeves of her sweater, revealing a baby blue snake on her right forearm and a black one on her left. The blue snake was coiling up and down the woman’s skin. The black one was dormant, curled up and sleeping. “Bipolar,” she said. “My ‘ups,’” Ashlee raised her right arm. “And my ‘downs.’” She raised her left arm.

Aaron was in shock. “I really liked meeting and spending time with Mike,” Ashlee said. This shocked Aaron even more. “But can I buy you a drink this time?”

Ashlee extended her hand. The blue snake looked up at Aaron as he reached out to grab the welcoming hand. The snake danced around excitedly, as did the tattoos that lived on Aaron’s chest.

Quickly, quietly, I padded out of the house, barefoot. I hopped out of the doorway and hurried through the mist and out to the barn. My toes sunk into the moist grass as I tried my best not to slip on the morning dew. I reached the barn, avoiding the livestock as to not wake them. I found the ladder leading to the roof and climbed it in record time. I shimmied my way to the peak of the roof and when my eyes caught the first glimpse of the sea, I saw it; the Viking ship.

It was sailing straight towards our small island, wind stretching the red sails, causing them to whip. I held my breath. They were coming fast, even in the early morning storm. I watched in horror as the neck of the ship bounced on the waves. The wooden serpent rose with great power and dipped back down, causing the waves to shudder under its weight. Even from the far off distance that the ship was at, I could see the flames of torches flicking on the deck.

Then, as if the mighty gods themselves knew of the chaos that was about to take place and feared for our safety, the wind came to a sudden halt. A complete stand still. The only movement in the surrounding area was my breath, coming out in small puffs of chilled air. The ship, even with the crashing waves, wouldn’t be able to move without wind. I let out a soft sigh of relief.

I watched the ship for a few minutes, praying the wind wouldn’t return. When everything seemed well and safe, I shifted to begin sliding down the barn. I stopped, half my weight on my elbow, the rest on my knees. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up as a chill ran down my back. The air was still quiet. Suddenly, the Viking ship started to move. I looked around in a startled panic. No trees were moving and neither were the waves. The ship ventured on as if it had its own source of wind. The sails of the ship stretched out with tension even further than when the wind was moving them. The Vikings, the rulers of the grand oceans, moved even faster towards my home.

“Finn!” My name was half shouted, half whispered. I whipped my head around to find my mother standing in the doorway of the house. She was large, taking up the frame of the door, blocking my sister from coming out into the chilly air. Get in here, she mouthed while clenching her fists.

Fearing my mother more than the Vikings, I slid down the roof and dropped onto the soft dirt with a thud. I hustled off towards the house, crouching low. I knew the Viking ship was too far to see me, but maybe they had a scope. I couldn’t be too safe.

“The ship, mother, the one the island has been fearing.” I spoke low enough for my sister not to hear and pointed east towards the sea. “It draws closer even without wind.”

Blond, bushy eyebrows climbed up mother’s forehead. Her blue eyes bore into my identical ones. “Impossible,” she murmured.

“But,” I started.

“Nonsense, you child.” Mother reached out with her large fingers and gripped my ear. Even at the age of 14, my mom still treated me like I didn’t take care of my family, which I did. I farmed, I traded, and I hunted. I supplied for the family and this woman still acted like I played in the mud. Mother pulled on my ear, causing pain to flare up. “It’s too early for these games, Finn. You woke both me and Katla.” She pushed back my sister, making her stumble into the orange cat that slept in the house during the winter and spring months.

The feline hissed and ran away while my mom pulled me into the house, slamming the poorly fitted wood door. “The Vikings, mom, they’re coming. We need to warn the rest of the island.” Mother pushed me towards the small room my sister and I slept in.

“Stop speaking your lies, boy. Just for this, you will have no breakfast. Now,” she huffed. “Both of you, off to bed.” Katla quickly turned on her heel, rushing for her bed. I walked backwards slowly, still facing mom.

“You have to listen, they’re coming mother!”

“Bed!” She threw out her thick arm, pointing in the direction Katla went. The ragged clothes that covered her arm swung loosely with the action. “If you want to eat at all before the next sunrise you’ll hustle now.”

I turned and made my way to the cow skin I slept on. My sister was curled on her bedding and was wrapped in various rags. I plopped down and waited until I heard our mom snoring near the fire in the main room. The loud echo of mother’s breathing canceled out my light footsteps across the freezing stone floor. I crouched by Katla and shook her shoulder. She stirred and peered over the make shift blankets.

Like she has for her whole life, she stared up at me with dark brown eyes and said nothing. Katla has never said a word and probably never will. I don’t know why I woke her. I didn’t want my sister to be in trouble, to be in danger, or to be worried, but I needed all the help I could get. I needed to warn the rest of the village of the coming Vikings.

“Katla,” I barely whispered loud enough for her to hear me. “I need your help.” At first I felt I needed to explain what I was talking about, but she knew. My sister had this eerie sixth sense of always knowing what was going on around her without having someone explain anything to her. It was one of the few things the gods had blessed her with considering they forgot her voice.

Katla blinked slowly once, answering my plea for help. I swooped down and lifted her up by her shoulders. Many people wouldn’t guess it, but Katla was my twin. My hair was so blond it was almost white, while my sister had hair so black it was hard to find her in the dark. She had eyes that were identical to our fathers, a dark brown that would change to black when one of them grew angry. My mother and I shared pale blue eyes that caught attention from anyone who looked into them.

I had to duck my chin in order to look at her when she stood so close to me. I may be a male and may work all hours of the day, but the height difference between me and my twin was astonishing. Watching her tie her hair up with a leather strap reminded me to do the same. After pulling back my blond locks I found some fur and more leather straps in the corner of the room. I tossed the smaller tuffs and straps to Katla and we made makeshift shoes for ourselves.

Katla started pulling the rags off her bed and began wrapping herself in them. I knew it was cold outside and her small frame didn’t do her much justice in the body heat department.

Hurry¸ I mouthed, but she was already in front of the doorway before I finished the word. Katla threw up her hood and tip toed out of the room. I followed close behind, stepping over the cat when we passed the fire. Our mother was still snoring, drowning out the meowing the cat started to do when my sister pulled the door open. I kicked the cat out the doorway and quickly jammed the door into its frame.

Before hurrying to the barn, I took a look at my twin. She was holding the cat while glaring at me. “Sindri will be fine,” I grumbled. I watched as Katla stashed the cat away in the fold of her rags and then quickly followed me.

I didn’t have to climb the barn this time. The Vikings were close enough to be seen from where I stood. Carvings on the wood of the ship were crisp with detail even in the dark. The ship wasn’t coming straight for the island, but rather circling it, looking for the port. The farm we lived on was opposite of the port and was perched near the edge of a cliff. The Vikings wouldn’t have a way to invade us from here unless they planned on climbing up the slope.

I felt Katla pull on my sleeve. I looked down at her wide doll eyes and cursed under my breath. “You’re right, we need to hurry.” We made our way inside the barn, me heading to the back and my sister heading straight of the horses. “Hold on, we need something,” I said when I felt Katla’s eyes boring into my back.

Shifting around the hay, I began stomping on the wooden boards. A horse made a huff behind me and I knew my twin made it do it. “I’m hurrying, dammit,” I growled as my foot broke a floor board. “Found it,” I breathed. I reached down and gave the wood a hard pull, snapping off the rest of it. The horse started making louder noises. My creepy, mute sister tended to communicate through animals. This was the blessing she received from the gods. It was also a trait she was given from our father. He, being deaf, resulted in the same blessing. He liked to call the communication “mind melding,” meaning he could connect with animals and talk and listen through them.

Of the many talents my sister was blessed with, why couldn’t it be finding gold or something?

Grabbing what I needed, I kicked the broken board back into place along with some hay and stomped off to my sister. She was preparing my horse, obviously anxious for our task. “Here.” I dropped a dagger into Katla’s tiny hands. She looked up at me from under her long eye lashes, questioning the need for the weapon. “You never know, sister. We need to be safe.” She gave me the ‘yeah-right-a-dagger-is-going-to-stop-the-Vikings’ look. I held up the sheathed sword that was in my other hand. Katla gasped. It was the last item that belonged to our father that mother didn’t sell for gold or alcohol. I hid it from her and because of that, Katla always assumed it was sold. “I hid it with other weapons.” I pointed toward two sets of bows and arrows that were hanging on the wall. “I pulled those out the other day when the Vikings were spotted.”

A man that came into port about a week ago warned the island of a fast approaching Viking ship, but no one had seen it since. I wasn’t taking any chances and began to prepare for the worst. I hid food and dug up weapons, placing them across our property. Every night I snuck out of the house multiple times and checked the sea for any signs of the ship. Tonight was the night that all my hard work paid off.

The soft spot on my head has returned. 

A demon punches my skull from the inside, breaking apart tissue and bone. He is never too tired to stop, but when he does, he starts screaming. 

He screams for me do let him out. I rebuttal with no, I am stronger than you. 

Laughs then echo in my head and I'm struck again. My eyes are pinched from within causing me to tear up. I'm strong, I repeat to myself. My ear drums are stabbed and blood flows out. I'm strong. I can't hear myself, words are drowning in the puddles in my ears. 

The soft spot on my head gives and a thick black substance seeps out and clings to my hair. It flows down my face and wraps itself around my neck. The substance becomes sticky, then forms into chains. I'm chocking. 

Attached to the chains is the demon, he is standing out of the soft spot. The wicked grin on his face seems familiar as he bends over and looks me in the eyes. Are you stronger than I am? he ponders.

I am... I exhale. weak.

A forest is one for wanderers,

under the trees, filled with satisfaction

and the sun is hard to find at dusk. Beneath the greenery, 

eyes are locked but lost in the shadows, dust is falling in the only light. Two hands, 

they strangle each other.

We are alone together.

And many friends hate us for what we do.

No one cares for what we do.

The trees are dark, and no one can see.

You have so much potential, he said. Children and even their parents look up to you. They want to grow up to be like you. You're a great person, always remember that.

These words spiral through my head as I look in the mirror. Smeared mascara and puffy eyes glare back at me. 

I'll always remember, I breath. 

Because it makes it that much harder to live, and that much harder to die.  

you’re the only person

that is always open

to the idea that life

can never be sweet like love;

the feel of the cold

during the summer shine

my blood falls out,

running down my arms

then fists

darling i’ll give you everything. No tears

– tears are like poison that make

your eyes glaze over which means

we are for each other: then

kiss me, while you hold my raw wrists

for we are the meeting the period

And life; it stops at the end of the sentence

The dream with the gun in my mouth doesn't wake me in a fit of tears and sweat. It notifies me of itself as I roll over, re-fluff my pillow, and sigh, wondering if my mind will create anything new for the remaining hours of the night.

But it’s the dreams of the gun in your mouth that make me scream and scratch at my ever bleeding skin. The vividness is haunting. The reality is terrifying.

I close my eyes, scratch my scalp, and pray for the dreams of old; my gun, my hand, my mouth.

Your sad, brown eyes look past the barrel of the gun and into my green ones. It’s the look in them that scream for help, begging for me to tell you to stop. I want you to stop. I tell you to stop. But instead, I’m sorry leaves my lips and a loud pop shoots me into consciousness where I am forced to sit and wonder if what I witnessed is true.

I am unable to sort out reality and dreams.

I walk to the nightstand. My arms are bleeding, my cheeks are wet. I reach for the gun. It’s not shaking in my certain hands as I open my mouth.

I pull the trigger.

I wake up.

I repeat.