Who am I? Ill tell you.

I am am 1 of 5 people in my home

1/5 of the population

But, I am in a city with about 43,000 people

Making me 1/43,000 of the poplation

Which happens to be in a county of 104,500ish people

Now im only 1/104,500 of the population

Not done yet

Im in a state with 12.8 million people

Wow, im 1/12.8 million of the population

In a country with 323.95 million

Yikes, 1/323.95 million of the population

Finally, I live in a world with 7.51 billion people

In the end, Im just 1/7.51 billion people

What was the point of all of that? The point is it doesn't matter who I am, or what I do, or what I believe. I am only one person.

With this, this isn't about me

The only thing that matters is how I influence others

Its one thing for me to say something to myself

It is another when I mess with multiple people

Because that changes the numbers

My main point is dont act like you are everything

Or that you know everything

Or that you are the best

Because you're number is the same as everyone elses

Your number

And my number

Is 1/7.51 billion

No more

No less

She stared down at her shoes. There was danger in looking up. 

"You're awfully quiet," he said to her, in that careless manner that suited him so damn well.

"You'd rather I be chatty?" she asked for the sake of asking. After all, goading him was easier and he did always complain about her inability to keep her mouth shut, so... Two birds, one stone.

He snorted. "I'd rather you act normal, that's what I'd rather."

She rolled her eyes. "I am acting perfectly normal, you jerk," she retorted, but there wasn't much fire to her words. She was treading on thin ice, after all; the last thing she needed was to get burned. 

Gavin put his hands behind his head and leaned back. She was forcing him to think thoughts he wasn't ready to put into words just yet. There was too much at stake and he was far from a saint. Full disclosure? He could be best described as one of the things that went bump in the night, while she... she was doomed, wasn't she? From the very start, he had put her in harm's way. There was no chance in hell either one of them would come out of this unscathed, not anymore.

"You suck at lying," he said. "How you're gonna pull the wool over everyone's eyes beats the fuck out of me."

She frowned and set her jaw. "I'll manage," she bit out through gritted teeth. Gavin had a knack for bringing out the worst in her. Part of her was grateful for the diversion; anger could help reset her focus. As long as he kept pushing her buttons, there was a chance they would get through this after all.

The young man tutted and wagged his finger at her. "Temper, temper..." he teased, secretly delighting in the slight flush of her cheeks. She held her tongue, but he knew that, mentally, she was cursing him out. 

In the beginning, he had tried to get her to hate him. It never stuck. 

Though there was nothing much to getting under her skin, she wasn't the type to hold grudges. By nature, she was far too kind to do the right thing and follow the plan. Instead of looking down her nose at him like she was supposed to, she rarely greeted him without a smile. Even now, after everything, she had somehow managed to move past the hurt just enough to keep trusting him. Was it any wonder, then, that she had softened his every edge? 

"Whatever you may think of me, I don't have to walk into that room and lie my way through,"she hissed. She faced both him and her fate head on, with shoulders pulled back and chin held high. So much for being cautious and looking down at her shoes... "When I go in there," she persisted, "I will be taking my rightful place."

Gavin's lips quirked. Someone like her would undoubtedly make a fine ruler. The thought alone filled him with an unfamiliar sense of pride, but it also made his chest hurt. The moment had come for him to learn to let her go, as promised.

"You're ready, then?" he asked, holding out his arm for her to take. 

Her chin quivered. "Are you?" she threw back in his face. Her eyes - big, beautiful, brown - sought his for an honest answer, the kind he would never give because, of course he wasn't. No man is ever ready to die.

His fingers wound themselves in her hair, which was funny because he couldn't remember closing the distance between them, let alone raising his hand. The problem was that she had too much power over him. And his body? Simply put, it had a mind of its own. 

With a light touch at the base of her neck, his wandering, treacherous fingers tilted her head up. Her throat... He could slit it in less than a heartbeat. He could put an end to everything and, in so doing, fulfill his own destiny. Except...

"I promised, didn't I?" he whispered, meeting her gaze without flinching.

She closed her eyes and performed a magic trick: she smiled without meaning it. Love was bitter as lemons, cruel and unkind. 

In the smallest of voices, she recited an unholy incantation:

"You'd want to keep me. I'd want to be kept. What a disaster that would be."

Her words were a warning and they rung loudly in his ears, but all of a sudden he was past caring. Because fuck fate and fuck responsibilities and fuck the greater good! Because the moment was theirs and he would be damned if he let anything or anyone steal it away. Not this time, not anymore. 

"Open your eyes, Violet," he commanded. He felt her shudder and heard her breath catch. "Please..." he insisted. His voice cracked and his courage wavered. 

Her eyelashes fluttered, tears stubbornly clinging to them. "You can't keep me," she murmured, shaking her head in a final act of defiance.

"I know," he agreed, his easy acceptance making her flinch.

Startled, her eyes shot open. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time."I can't keep you," she spat out and her voice shook, the truth making her come undone. 

Wordlessly, he pulled her closer. He needed her so much closer.

"I can't..." she repeated. His breath ghosted across her face and her knees knocked together. "Gavin, we can't..."

He moved around and against her. He crowded her space. He filled up her mind and her heart. He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered secrets into it. "I know," he told her, "but I'm done caring. Are you?"

She could have stopped it. She could have pretended to misunderstand him and his intentions. She should have pushed him away, but she let him kiss her instead. She succumbed to personal tragedy willingly: the heir to the throne and the leader of the rebellion certainly couldn't fraternize, much less play for keeps. The trouble was, they couldn't keep their hands to themselves either. Besides, he had practically dared her, hadn't he? And she was not about to go down without a fight. 

"You'd want to keep me. I'd want to be kept. What a disaster that would be."

I screwed up my face in disbelief. "What? I don't want to keep anyone. If I wanted to administer to any living creature I'd get a pet. Or train as a nurse. Kill me now, I don't ever want to keep another person. What are you talking about?" I held my hand down on the table with the palm of my other hand, sure that I would slap him if I didn't keep tight control. He was smug, so smug, and far too sure of himself. It was time that someone took him down a peg or two but I didn't know if I wanted that someone to be me. Too much effort for too little return.

He shrugged and poured himself another glass of wine. He didn't offer me a refill despite the fact my glass was near empty. I glanced at the bottle as he set it back down on the table. He had left only a mouthful behind as a sign of misplaced etiquette. I looked towards the door. I could be out of here in a second, thanking my lucky stars for my escape and putting the whole sorry episode behind me.

He leaned back in his chair. I resisted the urge to tell him that the bottom button of his shirt was undone, exposing a portion of his shockingly white-skinned, plump, and hairy belly. I wondered if he knew how chubby he looked from this angle. Not that it mattered. If I was interested in him I would have embraced every inch of his plumpness. Embraced and adored. 

"I know your type. You successful women all need a man in your handbag. Boosts the ego. A little kept man to escort you to functions and events. Someone to show off to your friends." He sipped at his wine and smirked at me. "But you are pretty."

My head screamed, "Are you fucking serious?" My face smiled politely and my left hand played with my wine glass, twirling the stem round and round. Red wine is a funny thing. A leftover splash in a glass can look like pinkly diluted grape juice or a sparkling rare ruby. Or blood.

"I've made my success. Traveled the world. Did you see the new Audi parked outside the door? Did you see the number plate? PURRRR. I tried for PUSSSY but it was already taken." He smiled up at the young waitress as she came to take our plates. "Hello, love. Gorgeous neck tattoo. Does it go allllllll the way down?"

The waitress looked at me, a combination of confusion and sisterhood plastered across her face. I smiled at her, conveying a succinct "I just met him and I'm outta here as soon as I can" back. She nodded and turned to my companion, a professional smile on her face. "Lucky guess. Yes, it goes alllll the way down." She sashayed back to the kitchen, her shapely bottom telling me a far different story than the one that he had read.

He leaned forward, oblivious to the fact that I had not spoken for at least five minutes. "We want the same things. We're too similar. You're gorgeous but you're not what I'm looking for. Come back to my house. I have a spa pool and an unsurpassed view of the city." He stared down my top. "You are pretty. I like big-bosomed women."

I stood up and reached for my bag. "Well, that was fun. Isn't it funny that no-one is ever as you expect them to be? Thank you for dinner. I have already settled the bill. Good luck!" I resisted the urge to kiss his wide-open mouth. That would've been too cruel but oh-so satisfying. I pushed open the door of the restaurant and drove home, thankful for yet another reason to write an interesting story.

My first pet was a snowball.

Her name was Snowy, and she lived in between the ice cream (strawberry flavored) and frozen peas in my freezer.

I put her there so that she could eat dessert first and then also her veggies, because I wanted her to be a strong snowball until winter.

I was sad because after I put her there, I felt like I had taken away her family. When the ice melted and the cherry blossoms outside bloomed, I resolved to keep Snowy alive all summer so she could return to her family in winter, and then Snowy wouldn't be so lonely anymore.

Snowy's friend was Mr. Ice, an ice cube who kept her company when I thought she looked lonelier than usual.

When I woke up one morning, the power was out. There had been a big thunderstorm and everything was off.

I tiptoed through the hallway, wide-eyed in the dark, my heart fluttering against my ribs.

I opened the freezer...and Snowy was gone!

Thief! I thought, because all that was left in her place...was a puddle. :(

I'd love to die,

But my body just won't let me.

It's been two heart attacks,

One brain tumor,

And four rounds of chemo.

But here I am.

Breathing...

Ticking...

Lasting...

For at least another day or so.

I'm a medical marvel, they say.

What kind of miracle takes a dozen pills a day?

It'd be better for everyone if I just said goodbye,

Ended it once and for all.

No more pain,

No more surgeries,

No more transfusions.

Just darkness...quiet...peace.

Forever.

But will heaven still accept me if I quit before my time is up?

Every day for lunch I go to Watermelon's Diner and sit at the same seat, at the same time, for the last six years. After today though I don't think I'll be going back. While waiting for my BLT three hooded men walked in all brandishing weapons. It was disruptive. As they walked by I grabbed the barrel of the first man's shotgun. The first shot demolished the ceiling, the second his partners.

Disarming him the third shot sent him flying through the window.

"Joe, I'll take my sandwich to go, please."

With my sandwich boxed up, I walked out.

          A woman stirred, rousing from slumber. She reached over, caressing her companion. Gradually, they came alive. Sparked. Danced. Climaxed.

          Despite having watched thousands of times, I remained smitten by these powerful acts.

          That was 7 days ago.

          The woman prepares in her kitchen, unaware as I observe.

          I descend from up high, through the roof, ceiling, floor. There she stands. Care-free, oblivious, beautiful. There within was the potential for pain, pleasure, challenges, adventures, love.

          It is time.

          I look at her once more.

          Just as the soul departs after death, so it must join at conception.

          See you soon, mother.

She would be drunk on champaign, day and night.  The scent of booze constantly escaping her dry, chapped lips.  She was sky high on alcohol so often, that she commonly lost control of her body.  A mother she was once.  To a sweet young girl, however, with such disheveled confusion filled moments, she abused her daughter.  Leaving red streaks on her cheeks, sometimes bruising in the shape of fingers.

A horrid, abusing monster.  What could she do? No one knew her story.  The Woman when younger fell into a deeply wronged group.  Abusers of the law, misjudged individuals, thieves.  The Woman never had a friend.  Her days of alcoholism started young at age sixteen.  By age eighteen you could see she needed help.  It was never provided nor recommended, so the drinking never stopped.  Twelve years passed of sweetly bitter wine. Vodka in the morning, whiskey in the evening.  Escaping sometimes, merely, with smudged eyeshadow and a dizzying amount of "liquid courage".

She stumbles on a stair climbing the steps to her daughter's room, ready to strike.  Side to side, wobbling. One step, two steps, three, seven, and so forth.  She reaches the top, partially in control.  She needs more.  Her thirst for alcohol grows. A deep yearning inside her.  She looks to her right hand and notices she lacks a bottle.  The child - she thinks - must have stolen it, again.  The Woman looks back up and walks through her daughter's door.  The child attempts a scream, too little, too late.  Not fast enough for her mother's slap.  A clink brings the Woman's attention to her left hand, where her bottle truly is.  She takes a swig, and retreats down the stairs from whence she came, leaving her progeny sobbing.  Down the stairs she stumbles and plops on the couch in front of a TV blaring gibberish.  She thought about her life.  She was remembering all those days when she was younger when her mother would take her out to ice cream on Friday nights.  She remembers her sixteenth birthday, and her mother being diagnosed with cancer.   She remembers when she first tasted a beer.  It burned her throat, yet made her feel better.  She remembers four years ago when her boyfriend overdosed and died.  A tear trickles down her cheek.  No, she mustn't remember.  She takes a long drink of her beer and repeats her cycle.  The only thing she knows anymore.