I'm not sure what made my sister-in-law want to walk down that street, but a compliment of a woman's home turned into a twenty-minute conversation and history lesson with a stranger. She leaned on her rake as she told us about the old days and how she came to buy a turreted Victorian on a shady street opposite the Minneapolis Institute of Art.

She bought the house in the early '70s when the city offered first dibs to the renters who occupied the old Victorians located across the street from the MIA. Then, like now, there's lot of artist types who live along the row.

She'd moved to Minneapolis from San Francisco with her then-husband, a sculptor of some acclaim. He's now her ex and living back in San Francisco, and when we ask about him, her current husband tells us how to find him on Google. They are all still friends and put one another up when they come into town. No hard feelings, you know?

She tells us that in the early 1970s, the MIA became a non-profit. The rents they were charging the students to live in the houses across the street were considered profits, so they had to get rid of them and ended up selling or donating them to the city. I forget which now. The city, in its infinite wisdom, was going to raze the old homes to put in parking. We gasped at this information and she nodded at our appropriate horror. The residents back then were of the same mind and raised such a fuss that the city decided to offer the houses to the current residents.

For a dollar.

We stood stunned on the sidewalk as our minds tried to wrap around that...and then immediately went to thinking what it's probably worth now.

She told us that the renovations were extensive. And expensive. New copper pipes, new electric, and a host of other cosmetic fixes had to be made. At one time, the house boasted five layers of roof shingles. And when they redid the turret, they found an old newspaper from a previous rehab that was layered in the wall and signed by the construction crew. They framed it and it hangs in the house now.

We chatted for a while about where we were all from. About the skyrocketing San Francisco real estate market and art - of which we knew nothing, but nodded along. About how her ex now owns the home of the first mayor of that city, but he's going to rent it out and move to his studio on the beach. About how San Francisco doesn't feel like home anymore now that the artists are being pushed out by the tech people. About getting older and how she doesn't want to leave her home, but what if she can't deal with the stairs anymore? She's seventy, but doesn't look a day over fifty, so we marvel at that.

As we were winding down, her husband told us we needed to visit the Guthrie (pictured above). We got directions and thanked them both for a lovely visit. She told my sister-in-law to ring the doorbell next time she was visiting the Institute.

Such a fascinating woman. I wish I knew her name.

She slides her pawn,

He slides his castle, 

She slides her horse,

He slides his castle,  

"Checkmate," He says.

Evil. 

Everybody has their own way of explaining the word.

Sandy Jane had her own way too. 

Evil. The men that hurt her.

They ripped away every ounce of dignity and pride she had, just as easily as they tore the material from her young body.

Sandy Jane has her own way of explaining evil. Of remembering it.

Sandy Jane experienced evil.

And she survived.

Sandy Jane beat Evil. The devil still tries to scrape the surface of her vulnerability. With memories and flash backs. Smells and sounds.

Sandy Jane beat it.

She beats it every single day. 

Those men are the meaning of evil for Sandy Jane. 

And for me the meaning of Brave is HER.

We breathe the pain

Torturous rivers

Winding deep

Souls on fire

We never sleep

We suffer the moments

Grasping at straws

That promise hope

While blood burns hot

We cannot cope

We implode in nightmares

Needles sharp

And dull aches roar

Our bodies protest

There's ever more

We struggle onward

Elusive answers

Hidden from sight

Each aching failure

A rotting blight

Hope is a farce

Luxurious fantasies

Ethereal as air

Dance like motes in the sunlight

While our hearts are laid bare

Please take our hands

We can not survive

Alone in our shells

Sweep us away

From our living hells

#chronicpain #poetry

This was not an act of courage. C put that thought to bed before it could injure her. It was a stupid thought. This could never be considered a gallant choice. She was aware of that when she locked the door and the deadbolt in the hotel room. Could something really be selfish if you had no one left to call you out? Too long. She pushed her allotment. She'd given up the debate. She turned the tub spout, wondering if the water would come on. Stand alone systems would occasionally surprise, giving up the last store of a decrepit water heater. The old tank creaked and groaned, spurting rust colored filth from the faucet. She didn't flinch. She didn't question why it mattered where. Some lingering inkling for attention bent her decisions beyond her conscious grasp. Tearing the pocket off her worn sweatshirt, she stuffed it in the drain of the tub. The liquid gathered in the bottom, slowly filling to rise up the sides. C stared into the water, waiting for an urge to stop, wishing something would change her mind. That's what hurt the worst. There wasn't a single goddamned reason not to.

Pulling a disposable razor from her green canvas bag, she tossed it to the tile floor and smashed it with a boot heel, the pink plastic cracking and setting free her prize. The blade glinted in the sunlight creeping through the tiny rectangular window above her. It would be sharp enough. C slipped her boots off, almost wondering too long on why it even mattered, or what possessed her. She wouldn't be putting them back on. She stopped herself, right around seven seconds. Maybe that's what she should do, zap herself while she was at it. Then it would be certain, a devastating triangle to assure fate of her conclusion. The water was warm and slimy, endeavoring to tug her socks low on her ankles as she swung her feet into the murk that begged to drag her further down into the reddish sludge.

She held the blade against her pale skin below the cuff of her weary leather jacket. She imagined her blood recoiling, drawing back from the vein the razor threatened. If this was the end, where was the flash of life she was supposed to see? Where were all those faces and people and places and time? Tears burned behind closed lids, seeping through lashes and down her cheeks. That was enough. That was everything. She'd been robbed of even the last moment of memories. They weren't allowed anymore. There was no white light. There would be no open arms. There was absolutely nothing left. The sharpened metal blade drew a thin red line from left to right over a shaking wrist, and then from right to left across the other before falling from her hand and disappearing into the discolored liquid below. Blood and rust. Rust and blood. She leaned back, never opening her eyes. The sunlight felt warm and yielding on her eyelids. Trees danced outside the window, their shadows playing over her face, concerned onlookers too distant from the situation to intervene. Even with her last breath, C wished her mind would change, that it even could.

**Now**

Something hot and wet pressed against her hand. C looked down. Lyrique stared up at her, crooked head and deep brown eyes inquisitive as always. C ran her fingers along Lyrique's velvet nose. Roland sat on the makeshift hospital bed with Penny at his side. Over an hour passed, tests she wanted to do and questions she had to ask. C wasn't fond of witnessing the procedure. It dragged old memories out of locked boxes and rubbed them in her face. So much time had passed since then, and it simply didn't matter. She couldn't let that go. She'd disappointed herself and still refused to accept her own apology. She'd spend as much time making up for it as she could, but she would never step into Doc's shoes again.

"Hey, Doc, I'm taking Lyrique out for a while. You guys all right?"

"C, you know you don't have to be here." Penny smiled sincerely.

C shrugged, trying not to let her nerves get the best of her. "I'll be back in a bit." She couldn't bring herself to look at Roland, to say any sort of farewell. It was too final. She didn't want to think about it.

It had been ten years since the first strike was made against the government of what was once the United States. A decade rotted in the ditch between what was and what is, fouling up the air of memory. Sometimes C would sit and think, a privilege she would never take for granted again. Her mother and father ghosted childhood recollections, their faces blurred like old photos, their voices faint like whispered secrets not meant for her ears. She tried to summon up every detail she could about how things were before. It wasn't just that she wanted to remember, but that she had to. If it slipped away, if she forgot where she came from, she was accepting that it would always be like this, that things could never be good again. In her mind, the future depended on the past. There had to be an answer. There had to be a way to fix this. The numbers of those able to think without restraint were growing, but it wasn't enough. The only solution was too risky, and it didn't matter anyway. A population that can't reproduce is doomed to extinction. They existed as long as the last survivor. After that, the human species would be bone in layers of rock, the new dinosaurs.

When the government took complete control, C was one of the few still working. Her father was a politician and they were some of the lucky ones, at first. She worked for him doing secretarial and clerical duties. Her mother maintained the house and pretended nothing was wrong, depleting a healthy stash of valium, regularly. One day, the general decided they no longer needed politicians. It was no longer necessary to convince the public of anything. They would be told what to do, and they would obey or rebel. C's position became an innocent bystander, one of the many jobs eradicated in the crossfire. Of course, her father could not afford the family home without employment. A new tax was implemented on all privately owned properties, and most were confiscated shortly after, including C's. They were evicted, on the street within a day. C was naïve, nineteen and sheltered, never expecting in her life to be digging through wealthy people's trash cans in hopes they'd tossed something edible, even a scrap. She'd never imagined just how cold a winter night could be, huddled in a concrete corner with her family rattling against her and the wind raking bitter, icy nails over every bit of her exposed skin. Her father died two weeks later, arms frigidly wrapped around them when they woke in the morning, eyes frozen shut in permanent sleep.

Casey Wright lost both parents that day. Her father went with the unrelenting night and her mother left her mind with the rose on his shallow grave. The only thing worse than being alone is being alone in the company of another. C would be the first to tell you that her mother was never "all there". She'd always swayed towards prescription pills, alcohol a fall back when she couldn't readily find the other. Most of C's childhood, her mother was asleep on the couch and her father was at work. They fought, all the time. Her father was a good man, a devout Catholic to his regrettable fate, and would not end the marriage. Yet her mother had given up while her father spent his last energy trying to keep them warm. Despite her growing resentment towards this woman who brought her to life, yet would not assist in maintaining it, C fought to find them food and struggled to keep them in shelter. Minutes slinked by like guilty cats, stealing scraps from the table of time. There were things she would never discuss, the dignity she'd sacrificed for food or water, the only thing she had left to trade.

One morning, she woke up alone. They'd been hiding in an old elementary school library, burning books and tables to stay warm. C opened tired eyes to find the room empty, except for her and the stack of literature she couldn't bring herself to utilize in the fire. Her mother was gone. C searched the streets for her, checking all the usual spots they'd scavenge food, even going back to the house she'd grown up in. There was no trace of occupancy. Someone had broken all the photos on the walls and thrown them into a pile in the middle of the living room. C stared down at smiling faces behind splintered glass. It was really over, and she was truly alone. She hit the floor, her body shaking with sobs until there were no tears left, until the sound of soldiers could be heard outside. C quickly snatched up a photo of her parents from the shards of broken civility and snuck out the back door. She had no destination, no purpose. She wandered, and that was all.

Six months passed, akin to the slow drip of an IV burning through her veins like saline. She'd join others, working odd jobs at refugee camps for food. Her clothes no longer fit, fifteen pounds slipping away from her already thin frame. In the unfortunate event that she passed a reflective surface, the gaunt face of a pale skeleton stared back at her. The image gave her chills, so she stopped looking. She let herself fall to the desolation that beckoned, hair matting into dreadlocks and fingernails caked with dirt. There was no such things as the future. She would wander until her time came. Then she could be free. That would be too much to ask though, as she would soon find out.

General Styph came into unrestricted power during the upheaval. It was simple. A man without a conscience had no boundaries, no restrictions. He took what he wanted and anyone begging to differ was executed. After the rebel strike against the supply houses publicly humiliated his command, after his search for any person carrying information about the perpetrators, came his brilliant new plot.

The NIDs were developed and implemented. C would hear talk in the camps of this new device that could control your mind. They'd lost everything already. Now they would take their thoughts? Camps emptied, scores of broken citizens fled to the forests hoping to avoid capture. The general offered everyone a choice: Commit willingly or be executed. C didn't understand. Why were they doing this? What had the rebels done that frightened a man with such power and stature? The question was something to occupy her passing time, other than grief, a goal to distract from sorrow.

The task of rounding up entire city populations wasn't easy, but with the volume of military personnel, they made fast work of it. Door to door, they dragged people from their homes. Those who fought back or resisted were shot in front of their kin. Their head down and heels dragging the street, body after body filed into vans and busses heading to the hospitals. C hid, watching the process, praying someone would stop this. No one came to the rescue. Superheroes weren't real. The broken will of a population had no power against the tyranny of a corrupt government. The busses and vans returned, dumping off the hordes of "corrected citizens", as they called them. Husbands held their wives close and mothers tried to pacify screaming children as they made their way home to the only semblance of security that remained. C decided it was time to go. It didn't matter why this was happening. She didn't want it to happen to her. Taking what miniscule food she'd stored and her old down comforter rolled and tied to a backpack, she set out in the middle of the night towards the rumors of the rebel camp, praying she'd make it out before they found her, somehow knowing she'd waited too long.        

Every morning there’s a halo hanging on the corner of my girlfriend’s four-post bed. Or, at least, there was a halo. 

She was quite excited when she came over my apartment with the news the first time it happened. Yvonne barely got through the door before she was falling over in excitement, nearly vibrating with her eagerness to tell the story.

“I woke up this morning, and this light was in my room! It was bright and huge and it reminded me of an angel. More specifically, the halo they wear that hovers over their heads. At first I just laid there, sure it was a trick of the sunlight, but then it moved. I freaked out and was practically chained to my bed, but an hour passed and it didn’t hurt me or whisk me off to another land. It followed me around the house while I got ready and bobbed when I left the house.”

I was calm while she told me about her morning. “So, you saw an angel?”

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her, but if someone came to you and told you a fantastical story such as this, what would your reaction be? To my credit, I didn’t laugh in her face or belittle her by calling her names, such as stupid or idiot. I sat and nodded while she talked and tried to seriously consider the fact that an angel’s halo was at my girlfriend’s house.

When I asked her my question, it was like she deflated. Her vibrating stopped and the eagerness in her voice evaporated. “You don’t believe me,” she whispered.

“I didn’t say that,” I replied. “It’s just…hard to believe.”

“Then sleep over,” she said, standing and coming behind my chair, grasping my shoulders gently and kissing my neck. “You haven’t slept over in ages. You can see the proof with your own two eyes.”

The next morning arrived, bright with hope. I was awakened by my girlfriend poking me in the side. I opened one eye and looked at her. She was sitting on her side of the bed, knees to her chest, eyes glued to the end of her bed. I stopped her finger and sat up as well.

A bright golden halo hovered over the end of the bed, and an ethereal body could barely be seen. When I squinted my eyes to see more, it looked more corporeal. I stared for a moment and then rubbed my eyes, sure that it wasn’t true. But it was, and the truth was right in front of me. It had to be an angel’s halo. There was nothing else it could be. I glanced at my girlfriend and she was watching my face with a wide grin on hers, her eyes alight with laughter and happiness, and her entire body was vibrating, awaiting my words. I looked back at the halo and then shook my head, laughing.

“You were right.”

She squealed and jumped out of bed, dancing all the way to the kitchen. The halo stayed for a moment, staring at me, and then followed Yvonne downstairs.

This continued for about a month. I slept over ten times in that month, and every morning I’d wake up and the halo would be there. It didn’t feel dangerous or evil. It was just there. Yvonne thought it was her guardian angel and was eager for the protection from evil. I didn’t know what to believe. It was strange how it just followed her around the house, and stared at me from time to time.

One morning I decided to take her out to breakfast. She had been complaining lately about how we never go anywhere, and more relationship stuff. This was my way to try and be a better partner. I came over her house and knocked. She didn’t answer. I knocked again, looking around at the other neighbor’s homes. It was still early, only students and nine to five workers would be out this early. I waited before knocking again, and then I pulled out the key.

Everything looked calm and tranquil when I walked in. I swept my gaze over her orderly living room before closing the door behind me and walking upstairs. It would be more romantic if I woke her with a kiss, and then we could have a fun day together.

I opened her door and the first thing I noticed was the halo. Or the absence thereof. My eyes drifted to her sleeping form. There was something strange about how she was sleeping. Normally, she would be spread out all over the bed, the blankets tangled and the pillows askew. Instead, she looked like a sleeping angel. The blankets were pulled up to her neck and her eyes were closed, her face facing the ceiling.

I walked over to her and gently caressed my fingers across her face. She was cold.

I kissed her forehead lovingly and waited for her to open her eyes. She was a light sleeper, and I was honestly surprised she hadn’t woken up just from me knocking on the door and coming into the house. I could go pee in the middle of the night and she’d be awake when I stumbled back.

“Wake up babe,” I said loudly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Let’s go out for breakfast. We can go to that spot we like so much, the ones with freshly squeezed orange juice.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t even stir in the bed at my voice. Frowning, I stood up and drew back her blankets. My eyes widened and I stood frozen, the blanket shaking in my outstretched hand. I looked over her bloody, mangled body as my body refused to move, my mouth opened wide in a silent scream, and my mind refusing to process the scene before me. Blood covered her from head to foot, making her look like a head atop a blood bath. The sheets were soaked with blood and she was spread-eagled on the bed.

My mouth tried to form words, but only ended up choking in emotion. Tears streamed silently down my face as I looked at Yvonne, my dead girlfriend. Silently, I fixed the blanket back up to her neck and called the police. Somehow, I managed to talk to the operator without choking on my tears. When I hung up, I sat on the floor at the end of her bed, head in my hands.

It was the halo. There wasn’t anything else it could’ve been. Yvonne thought it was her guardian angel, but instead it was her death. It followed her around the house to get to know her schedule and the house itself. It stared at me to see if I was a threat to its plans. Why did it do this? Why did it enter her life? Why didn’t I warn her against such a thing? I remembered when she told me about it the first time. She had been so full of life, so excited. Now she was dead. She would never be excited or vibrant again.

“Yvonne,” I whispered as tears streamed down my face and my body shook with emotion. “Yvonne,” I cried again, wishing she was still alive.

A motion in the doorway made me look up from my mourning. It was the halo. It stood there, calm and floating, watching me. I stood, anger and grief overcoming my intelligence. With a loud battle cry, I launched toward the halo, ready to tackle and destroy the figure that killed my girlfriend. I passed right through the figure and fell down the stairs, landing at the bottom hurt and bruised. The halo stood over me as I struggled up. Suddenly, I felt its weight and couldn’t move even as I attempted to struggle beneath it. Dread filled my stomach as I looked at the halo.

I no longer had to squint to see its physical form. It was the shape of a human, with the halo around its head. It wore white long robes and wooden sandals. It was faceless, and the skin was an alabaster white with bright blue veins sticking out and pulsing all over. Tears continued to stream down my face, and I screamed at the halo, wanting to know why. Why Yvonne? Why her? Why?

The halo put one hand into its robes and pulled out a long, gleaming, samurai sword. Even as I struggled underneath the halo and cried out for help and my dead girlfriend, the halo grasped the sword with both hands and plunged it into my heart.

Blood spurted out my mouth as I coughed and tried to take in breaths to start my stilling heart. The halo didn’t move as I lay there dying. It watched death overtake me moment by moment. If it had eyes, I would say it was glued to my face.

“W…h….y?” I gurgled, managing to speak with my last few breaths.

“Because you are useless.”

The water had ceased to bother her, and the bitter cold that lived like the marrow in her bones had been forgotten.  There is, after all, a limit to what one can feel.  The constant ache in her stomach had become bearable, and the almost total stiffness in her fingers was as normal as the bleak gray sky.  Snow fell, like the tiny hands of winter, onto her clothing, making her figure less human and more part of the building she sat against.  A few flakes landed on her face, icy needles just another pattern in the blanket of her everyday life.  She brushed them away, and people that walked by seemed startled.  That lump was a living person? Why didn’t it get up?  Why, she thought, a grimace tightening the harsh lines on her face.  And the only answer was one that she used to account for everything, even herself.  No point.  Two words that had destroyed the point.  Her life, her mind, her body, written off in two words that had been the only ones anyone could see.

    No point.

And why did she have any right to contest it?  She had come to believe that everyone else was right.  What was her purpose?  Anything she could have done wouldn’t have been much more than keeping the small piece of sidewalk dry.  She pulled her arms closer to her, trying to summon any tears that were left in her.  Ironic, she thought dully.  I’m covered in moisture, but can’t find any.  A small breath escaped her lips, jettisoning a small cloud.  She closed her eyes.  Who would care whether she lived or died?  She had spent her entire life fighting the words that had described her since before birth.

“She will have too many problems,” they said.  “There’s no point in trying.”

And after birth, as well.  

“She is too much work,” they said.  “There’s no point in keeping her.”

Even as she grew, trying desperately to make them see.

“You are failing,” they said.  “There’s no point in continuing.”

She had a point.  

“I’m sorry,” they said.  “There’s no point if I don’t love you.”

She had just forgotten what it was.

“I’m sorry,” they said.  “There’s no point in hiring you.”

And maybe it was her.

“I regret to inform you of your eviction,” they said.  “There’s no point if you can’t pay.”

Maybe she had failed.

“Go away,” they said.  “If you cause this much trouble, there is no point in letting you stay.”

But maybe.

“We’re full here,” they said.  “There’s no point taking in you in.”

They just needed to look closer.

“I have a point!” she screamed.  Passersby flinched, their gazes snapping in her direction and then looking away.

She had a point.

But for now, the only thing she could do right was to do nothing.  She was giving up.  It had to happen, and all those who had met her knew it would.  But she had tried so long to keep fighting, to win the battle.  Now she would leave, more quietly than she had entered.  One last puff of air came from her, before her breath stopped.  No one noticed. She was almost thankful to be done with it.

Because there is no point in breathing if the rest of you doesn’t work.

               For Jake, the day he had waited for so long had finally come. The day he worked for, hoped for,sweat and bled for, the day for which he had competed with over 600 men. The selection pool for the experiment was wide: men from across the country, of all ages and all walks of life: lawyers, pilots,economists,as well as plumbers, construction workers and a few losers like him. "Loser" had been the word his wife Clara had used when he told her he was quiting his day-job to become a freelancer.

                "Freelancer? Is that what they call losers these days? You better go back tomorrow and beg for your job back. I ain't supporting no loser!"

                 He hadn't gone to beg for his job back the next day and that was, of course, the straw that broke the camels back with his shacky marriage, but hey! you can't make an omelette without breaking the eggs, right? He was sick with Clara anyways, sick of her fits, sick of the boredom she called "family life". Sure, at first he thought he was going to lose his mind,when he saw her packing half of the little they had and drive off that autumn day, but he found he did not miss her group of gossiping lady-friends always around the house, or her constant nagging. It took him months to realize how much it helped him not seeing her dissappointed look every day, to understand how good it is not to hear about somebodys husband who made that much money or that he is not man enough for her or that she could have done so much better than him. It took him even longer for the idea to form in his head that HE could have done a lot better than her, that HE could have done more with his life, had he not married her. But if he really changed, and grew, and left all that behind, how come that now, in his hour of glory, he cannot help but think of what she would say if she could see him? Why does he keep imagining the look of surprise on her face, her jaw dropping, her envy even? He even knows what he would say :"Hey baby!Who's the loser now?"

              No! He had to forget about Clara, forget about her completely, concentrate on a small detail,until she was no longer a person, but an abstract concept, like gravity or supernovas. That worked during the tests. Of course, he was afraid they would see through him, that they will see what a weak man he was, how little will-power he had. You don't go through months of psychological tests without exposing a few skelletons in the closet, like your failled marriage. If these guys sniffed out that he still had moments when he could kill her with his bare hands , that would be the end of the road for him. But he played it smart: whenever they brought her up, he remembered the blond hair in her eyebrow. He had noticed that hair on their first date and found it adorable. Later on, he came to hate it: who did she think she was, lecturing him about stuff, with her single blond hair in her black eyebrows, beneath that mop of long,curly,black hair? She irritated him so badly when she talked (and man! the woman never shut up!) that the only way he could protect her from his rage was to stop listening. He would stare at that blond hair, tuning her out, until her words no longer made sense, they were just sounds, without any particular meaning. That's what he did during the trials too: he called back her image and stared at that hair until his anger passed.

               At this time, Jake had no way of knowing that he wasn't fooling anyone,really. They had sensed his rage, his hatred even, but what had made him qualify was exactly the plasticity of his mind, his ability to distance himself from his own feelings, even the ones that were so intense. There had even been a controversy in the psychologists team: some of them were convinced that at some point he was going to crack under pressure, but the more they poked and probed him about Clara, the more effective his mechanism was. At some point, the idea of bringing him face-to-face with her was on the table. It was eventually cast aside, because it was obvious the woman could not be the monster she had become in his mind. She was far more effective as a memory, a pressure point they could always push to flare his anger.