A pitter-patter of little feet.

A gentle sound. It roused a smile to my lips as I was lulled, swallowed under waves of sleep.

The velvety scrape of a cat licking its paws in sandpaper swathes. I smiled.

Ripping of claws along the closet door. I glared blearily about the room, eyes landing with relief on the lines of a pampered pooch sprawling on the floor near the door. I grumbled displeasure, flopping back beneath blankets into the heaviness of REM sleep.

It woke me again at dawn. I greeted the day, glaring at the sunrise. Even many a cauldron of magic bean juice could not slake the thirst of my grumpiness. It persisted until that evening, when the sounds of a farmhouse at night returned, and I was lulled once more, at peace with the quiet rustlings. I'd like for my husband to nestle a blanket around my shoulders and brush a soft kiss upon my cheek as I slept before the banked embers of the woodstove. The thought dragged me further toward sleep.

But the scream had me sat up, ramrod in spine, ears pricked to sounds of struggle echoing down the hallway from the open garage door.

My husband, a man of formidable size and strength, was cursing and screaming, "NO! Oh God, NO!" Sounds of battle and Thumping, followed by, "GET OUT. GO and don't ever come back! OH MY GOD."

I entered the room, primed with a kitchen knife, ready to fight for our lives, but was shocked to discover my husband leaning against the wall, stricken, pale, but alone. "...What...?" I trailed off.

He gulped and raked his fingers through his hair, giving himself a shake, as if he could rid himself of some horror, "It was....a...rat."

I stared and scoffed, "A...rat?"

He took me by the shoulders, "No. Listen to me. It was a huuge rat. It had to be the size of our dog..." He looked about, trying to confirm the creature was indeed gone before continuing, "Honey, I've hunted all my life and I'm a farmer to boot. I'm not squeamish about such a thing, but I tell you, this was no normal rat. It was all wrong. It was so huge..." He shivered and glanced around once more before pulling me inside and locking the garage door firmly behind us.

When I went to return the knife, he stilled my hand, "No," he said, "Keep it by the bed tonight. You may well need it to fend off that creature." I chuckled, following him upstairs, crawling under the blankets in sweet relief. Rest, at last.

And the house began to stir.

A pitter-patter of little feet.

My eyes flew open.

Little feet... of unnaturally large rats...scurrying along the joists in our attic.

The velvety sound of tails along the ceilings.

The gnawing of overgrown teeth.

A grating sound of claws, scratching at my closet door.

The sounds of a farmhouse at night provide reprieve for me no more.

The first thing Madison does when she inexplicably stirs awake at 2 in the morning, is scream.

Because in blinking away the hazy surroundings of her bedroom, and rolling from her supine position to her back with the heels of her hands rubbing away the darkness, she's met with the moonlit shadow of none other then her high school ex.

What comes out next is a string of incomprehensible garbled curses, all strung together to the back of a freight train that cannot leave her throat fast enough.

The ex in question looks up at her, the holes where her eyes are meant to be widening just so and then her head tilts back— the skin of her neck that seems paler than it used to glinting in the bay view window, a low groan tumbling from her lips.

"Oh you've done it now."

Within a split second, Madison is tugging her blankets to her chest like a frightened child and letting out another half-scream, half-swear, more embarrassing whelp when her older brother and father both burst in- the first with a baseball bat at the ready, and the second tightening the knot to the robe bulging around his stomach that he refuses to replace for a properly fitting one, poking himself with the leg of his glasses before fastening them on.

"What? What's going on?" Her brother says, on edge and hair a spiky mess of unwashed gel.

She points, and the two men follow the tremble of her hand to the bay view, where the ex stands, unamused.

"She's right there! Don't you see her?!"

Her bother stares at the space, stepping forward, crouching to swing his gaze beneath the bed, and threw his eyes to the closet, before settling back on the brunette. "Who are you talking about? Where?"

Her father pats his salt and pepper covered head, and with kind eyes peers around his wild blinks to banish the sleep. "What are you taking about, sweetheart?"

"Emmy! She's-- she's right there!" It's half question half accusation that borders on whining and the woman looks up from where she's admiring a photo of Madison, younger by a handful posed by a childhood dog. Emmy smiles.

Jason looks every shade confused, every line in his face flooding with that shameless pity she knows all too well, reaching without any certain weight shifting his stance forward with the back of his hand to his sisters forehead like she's the deadliest thing in the room, bat limp by his side.

"Are you feeling okay?"

Madison swats at him, and he backs off with hands raised in surrender. Madison thinks she's close to the brink of insanity--

"Tell them it's a nightmare." Emmy says, smooth and soothing into the discomfort buzzing around.

"Uh..." Her gaze darts to her father and brother, both expectant and bordering something that forewarned of institutionalization. Inexplicably, she abides."Bad dream. Sorry."

Emmy is now running her fingertips along the knifes edge of the wall, painted a deep purple with a sort of tenderness that... it would be both right and wrong to call it displaced. Given the fact Emmy wasn't meant to be here at all, let alone having some kind of trip down memory lane..

Emmy smiles approvingly when she looks up from the photo in her other hand. "Good job. Its nice to know my words carry years after I've said them."

Madison clenches her jaw. This was a dream. No, no this was a nightmare, like her subconscious brought a demonic abomination to animation. She had read about dream theory- they almost always made you dream of something completely different than the meaning itself. This Emmy looked nothing like the real one, so this was fine— this was—

Emmy groans again, heavier as she swings herself down onto the windowsill's bench, face in her hands but her words escape her fingers. "Who's this guy?"

Madison doesn't get a chance to process the confusion, between her brother and dad acting like two NPC's called off in-action stalling awkwardly by the doorway, and the neck break speed in which Jason nearly goes face first into dream-nightmare Emmy when the next man, this one with gaming controller in hand bursts in, dropping onto the bed beside her with eyes full of such honour that she wanted to humourlessly call him off like a solider.

"You alright babe?"

His hands are soft against her cheeks-- meaty and heavy and calloused from lacrosse. It does little to soothe the Great War six feet away.

"Yeah I'm alright, Jack. Just a bad dream."

Jack frowns, his eyes flickering over every inch of her like she was about to crumble into dust that he would likely encapsulate in a gem around his neck for all of eternity-- which was more disturbing then comforting at the moment. "Do you need me to stay with you?" But then she senses the real discomfort—it's not him. He's perfectly good. True, and loving. Real, in his gentle strokes of her hair. So, the real issue was the... thing across from her.

She flashes a half smile at him in response. "No it's okay, love you."

Jack smiles back, warm and an offer of salvation in the strangeness of the hour. "If you're sure." He stands at her nod, pressing a final kiss to the crown of her head and followed behind Jason. Her dad had slipped away as soon as no threat was perceived. "Love you too."

"God that's so gross. Bye pretty boy!" Emmy waved at him, a smile thats all barbed wire and dark bruises.

Madison wanted nothing more than to move heaven and earth just to crush the vision before her. "Don't look at him." And it comes out in a snap, heat licking behind her teeth.

Emmy's face turns to her, slowly, unreadable in the dim light of the moon and the diffused glow of the city. She's much more frightening like this. Guarded instead of swinging. "Why? Scared I'm gonna hurt him?"

Madison scoffs, "You're not real. You can't climb from my memory to do any damage in my world." She says sliding back against her pillows but never enough to draw her eyes from the thing across from her.

Emmy tilts her head, eyes inconceivable like she's pulled shudders over them. "Aren't I real? Im here. I can touch things. I can speak to you." She slams the photo down for emphasis, and Madison prides herself in the way she only slightly jolts.

Madison's eyes narrowed. "You're not a ghost."

"Maybe not. But I haunt you."

"Of course you do. In every thing I do." And she wants to take it back, the words sucker punched out of her from the glow of dark eyes that screamed spineless, weak, soft. Flashes of those same words spat between the cover of green lockers and text messages blurred in the front of her mind.

"You blame me for things I didn't do." Come's the timbering reply.

"I blame you for every unjustified punishment you flayed me with. Your words, and your actions. They ruined me."

Emmy laughs, and it used to be such a pretty thing; tinkering and soft. It used to fill her with a warmth that carried through her veins until it melded into maple. But in the dark of night, hazed by sleep and anxiety that suffocates, it's haunting. It feels like loosing her, all over again. A darkness that can't be unbidden by any amount of sterile lighting or pleads. To—

"If you want to think that, you can. But it's a weak defence."

Madison grinds her teeth, refusing to rise to the bait.

"It's weak, to blame everything on someone else. What is it my therapist always said?- Redemption is not about pain, Emmy. It's about the good we do, not the price we pay. So why do you still think that your suffering is something special? Like you're a hero for not stabbing me for being mean? That because of who I was to you--sixteen years old, that that's excuse enough to be a shit person?"

"I was sixteen too."

"Oh, so that means you're unique."

Madison, belatedly realizes this is ridiculous. She's arguing with her pysche-- sleepwalking, or sleep paralysis, likely, so she flips onto her side and juts her foot out to cool her body temperature with the familiar sooth of the untouched side of the mattress.

There's no more talking, but she knows Emmy is there. Watching. She doesnt sleep. But she wont give the past the benefit of attention, either.

—————

An hour later, Madison is sitting at the table with a grimace on her face as she. stares at the bottle in hand. The liquor tastes... it says pineapple mojito on the wrapper. But what pineapple has such a noxious yellow colour, nearly glowing in the low light of the kitchen. It was cool in her mouth, like the thickness of mango juice, and went down with the taste of soap that settled into coconut and blossomed into... boot polish?

She doesn't flinch this time, when a familiar blonde appears sitting atop her kitchen table, elbow on an upright knee.

"You can't drink me away, you know." She grins, mouth bloodied like the one of the character's in Jack's Resident Evil game. "I've tried."

Madison slams the bottle down with more force than necessary, moving with leaded limbs to rub at her eyelids with the pads of her fingers.

"Why are you here? Do I need antipsychotics?" There's a low chuckle from closer, the fridge maybe. Then there's rifling-- notably the yoghurt containers getting caught on the cardboard in the procured haste to free the snack. "Do ghosts even eat?" She asks when the silence gets to be too much. Maybe this is her own personal brand of hell, dying and awakening to the eternity of high school subjected abuse. And now, it was just a quiet evil that followed her around and ate up her money.

"Wow, what a surprise. You're rude toward a minority."

A hairpin trigger, pulled, Madison looks up blearily at the figure illuminated by the fridge light. Emmy looks so at ease-- older, no longer fumbling with a body of an unsure and hyperactive teenager, but confident, poised in her movements. She isn't so horrifying now that she herself is less afraid. Her eyes were still dark-- did she dye her hair, or was it always such a bronze tinted blonde? It suited her weirdly perfect. Complimented the stained blood around her mouth, too.

Madison looks down to her bottle, wondering if it's food colouring or another poison that causes that bright yellow lurking below. "Why are you here?"

"You called. I come."

Madison doesn't know what that means, but Emmy's voice offers no invitation to question it freely. She focuses on making small circles with the tip of her index finger on the table instead. Waits. She's used to waiting, for Emmy to make the move. To hold her hand when everyone that mattered wasn't looking. To offer placating words in repose of verbal abuse. And its--

She was mean. But she also... she was also someone that stood in the fridge light, deciding whether or not yoghurt would disgust her or not the second she opened it and then decided on a string cheese instead. She was someone that fawned over photos of herself, younger. She was gentle, even with the gore She wasn't all bad.

"So," Emmy dragged her from her reverie, dropping the spoon down beside the unopened container of yoghurt, seemingly still deciding as she eyed the duo with hands on her hips. "What's wrong with you? Insurance too expensive, nails too brittle, mom too bitchy?"

"She died."

"Oh. Huh." Emmy blinks at the spoon. Decides to forgo it, as she tears open the yoghurt and begins slurping. "Sorry."

She's not-- they never got along. But thats fine. Madison and her mother never did much, either.

"S'okay. Not gonna send you to hell for poor tasting jokes or you'd be there already."

Eyes, twinkling like the most dangerous parts of the sea catch hers, "Aren't I now?"

Madison catches some of the sugary poison from the cupids bow of her lips, shrugging, "Lying is a sin. Again, can't send you to hell."

The other woman hums putting the unused spoon back into its rightful drawer, shooting over her shoulder, "Who knew you had such taste for ghost jokes. I'm stealing them."

"Another sin. Two for two, do I get the third for free?"

Emmy's lips flicker just barely, before they smooth into that all natural sneer. "You have wanted me dead for a very, very long time. Everyone knows that. So why do you still think of me?"

Madison shrugs, digging into the comfort of the bar stool with her nails. The circling index digs into the lacquer. "I don't know."

"You do. You just don't want to remember."

"I haven't been able to forget." She snips, her finger permanently etching a line in the table.

Emmy's laugh is dark. Twisting metal and rolling pennies on the back of the tongue. "You ever wonder why I was the way I was?'

"It was easier to not symphatize with the devil."

"Maybe." She sighs, quiet for a moment. "But I wasn't born mean. I didn't treat you badly out of malice."

"You didn't have to react to every feeling." Madison can't help but say. Emmy doesn't snap like she used to. She just nods, her face even and drawn.

"No. I didn't have to. But you can't blame a person you no longer know. You can't blame someone who was drowning for lashing out for any kind of reel."

Madison looks down to the tabletop. The air is too thick, her heartbeat too loud in her own ears. She releases a breath of her own, heavy and stilted. "I didn't help. I was rude. Quick to anger, I guess."

Emmy chuckles humourlessly. Madison looks up at the sound, and sees the twinkle in those dark eyes. They're different— softer. Eyes she had fallen for, when she was nothing but nerves and indecision. There's no blood on her lips now, when she gives a fleeting smile.

"It's not your fault."

Madison blinks.

"What?"

Emmy looks younger, now— like beneath the dwindling moonlight and the glow of the fridge, she's aged back to that sweet sixteen. Awkward, unsure, emotional. But her eyes are that same steady strength— unwavering despite Madison's response to flee.

It's written all over her face she's sure. She's never been good at hiding when she wants to leave.

"It's not your fault. What happened."

Madison blinks, her eyes bleary with unshed tears that she can't consciously remember forming. Emmy is a twisting vision— dark as night, quicksilver like a teen, and... her. The soft, flaxen haired one who looked at her with such tenderness.

Emmy circles the table, and Madison can vaguely recall the memories before the war— them two in the kitchen, sharing hoodies and feeding her childhood dog treats. Quiet, glowing smiles in privacy. The hard set jaw of a child under her own inquisition in public.

"My death. It's not your fault."

"I—I could have done more. To stop it."

Emmy shakes her head. A mess of black, bronze and flax. "No. You couldn't. Two children can't save each other from a place adults made unsafe. A child cannot bear the burden of another child's life."

And her voice— there's no edge. It's light, like it used to be beneath cotton sheets in the cool spring before global warming dragged and misfortune hung. Emmy is warm, here. In this kitchen, in her bedroom, in her mind. She isn't leaden with the exterior that Madison remembers—- that she forced her to bear in death in hopes it would be thick enough to assuage her own bleeding. But it wasn't.

Her tears are heavy on her cheeks, burning a trail only those fingertips had taken.

"Why.. why did you have to die?"

Emmy smiles, it's half of one and pained. But it's real. It's normal. It's not fabricated by a preconceived notion, or what she had begged to see in its place. "It gets very tiring to lick your own wounds. Some poeple..." eyes, not dark like the dangerous parts of the sea but wading at the surface that showed nothing but life, dipped to their edges then back. "Some souls aren't ready to be born yet. That's no one's fault. But some souls, some are waiting to be called home."

Her brother, father— oh.

One door. Heavy. Room filled with little trinkets. Cotton sheets. Worry. Familiarity.

Hospital.

Emmy's eyes are rimmed with a quiet plea. "The world needs you alive, too."

Her throat is thick with cotton when she swallows. "But.. you're not there."

"I haven't been for a while."

"So you're not... real?"

Emmy shrugs. "Who's to say? If I can soothe you— I am as real as you are."

Madison frowns. "I didn't.. you were mean, weren't you? Did I make that up?"

"No, you didn't." Emmy reaches out, her touch nothing more than a buzzing memory against her cheek. "I was mean. I was young, and sick. That's no one's fault. But it's okay to move on. It's okay to let me go."

Dark eyes, and light all the same drift to where Madison can make out the sleepy figure of Jack on the visitor's chair, face tucked into the palm of his hand and yawning. His eyes were heavy, trying to focus on the body in the bed but his own body begging for rest.

"It's okay, to love. To grieve and to heal, and to feel affection all the same. You can love me, mourn me, and love him and cherish him, too."

Madison looks back to Emmy, who's slowly stood. Smile strong and gaze fixed, warm.

"Will I see you again?"

Emmy's head tipped to the side, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Oh, yeah. When it's your time, I'm going to bother you forever."

"So there's an afterlife?"

Emmy sighs, exasperated but fond as she bends to press a buzzing kiss to the crown of brown hair, stepping back without breaking gaze. "There is no plain of existence where I wouldn't find you." Then, with that same guileless smile, "to haunt you of course."

Madison glared, soft and tired as she settles back into the bed beneath her. It feels faint, but there. Real.

"I love you, Em."

Emmy smiles, and opens the door. "Live for me; that's love at its purest."

I'm the finely chopped onions

Sprinkled upon a bed of noodles

that hide naked beneath the soup

I'm the finely chopped onions

Peering over the edge of the bowl

to see the crispy, tender meat,

the silky, bouncy tofu,

and the soft, fluffy rice

all come and go

I'm the finely chopped onions

Carrying the burden of chili oil

While suffocating from the flavorful steam

that constantly rises into my face

and escapes the cage

that I cannot

I'm the finely chopped onions

Desperately clinging onto the warmth of the sinking noodles

While gasping for air

as I sink with them

Into the suffocating world of hidden spices

Into the embrace of savory waves

that slowly wash over me

I'm the finely chopped onions

That stick to chopsticks like a leech

That rise and fall as they command

While catching a glimpse of the sweet, sweet world

that I can never dream to join

I'm the finely chopped onions

That notice the abandoned peanuts

from the very first dish,

shivering in the cold

while longingly gazing upon the lively dance

of the newly arrived mango puddings

I'm the finely chopped onions

Left in the bowl at the end

Feeling soggy and wet

Alone and unwanted

But also unscathed

i know this boy

who gets me in every way.

we used to talk all the time,

spend all our time together.

he made everyday more fun than the last,

and i love him for that.

but i also love him because,

when we lost our friend,

one of our best,

and i couldn't get over it-

or even express how i felt,

he got it.

he got me.

he understood that it hurt so much,

that no words could describe it.

that nothing would ever be the same again.

and we're still friends.

he's seen me at my worst,

in tears,

a sight not too many have seen,

and somehow he's still there for me.

i'm always scared that no one will stay if they see the real me,

but he's the one person who always has,

because he's seen me.

because our friendship is genuine.

and even though we don't talk very often anymore,

we still talk like no time has passed.

maybe it just doesn't pass for us-

maybe we're stuck in time.

Please don’t send me flowers. I know you mean well. I know you’re only doing it because you don’t know what else to do. Honestly, I don’t know either. All I know is, I don’t think I’ll want to see another flower for a long time.

It’s funny how something that typically brings such joy can become a symbol of such sorrow, that something so bright and colorful appears when the world should be dark and gray.

There were so many flowers at her funeral. So many people commented on them, saying how much she would have loved them. They were right; she would have. But she wasn’t there to appreciate them. She’ll never be here. It’s just me now. And as much as I try, I can’t appreciate them.

I can’t look at a bouquet and admire the soft colors or take in the intricate patterns of the delicate petals. I can’t enjoy their aroma that fills the room. All I can do is remember her and remind myself that she’s not here to enjoy them.

Please don’t send me flowers.

As soon as the door opens, I bolt into the closet to avoid being seen. I do this every time Lilian comes home, but today it’s even more important. She’s mad. I can’t tell who she’s yelling at yet, but I can hear crying.

“Would you stop?! You know who I am!”

“No, I don’t!” she says, crying even harder. I can see her now; she's a little girl, and she looks to be six or seven.

“I am your mother! Stop playing around Ashlynn, or you’ll be going to bed early tonight.” I could tell how exasperated she was, but Lilian doesn’t have a daughter. She’s thirty-two, and has never been married, or been in a relationship long enough to have a child.

The little girl quiets gradually, and when she finally forces herself to stop crying, she says, “My name is not Ashlynn, it’s Eva, and I think you mixed me up with your own child. My mommy’s name is Helen, and my daddy’s name is Robert. I live on-” but Lilian cuts her off.

“Your name is Ashlynn, I am your mother, and your father died two months ago!” She screams the last bit, and Eva starts crying again.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It’s probably the landlord, coming for the monthly check. Lilian goes wide-eyed, but walks toward the door. “Go sit in the living room, Ashlynn.”

She smooths her dress and opens the door. “Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

When he comes in, I see that it’s a police officer. “Ma’am, we got a call a few minutes ago, saying that one of your neighbors saw something moving in here, and you weren’t home yet.

Would you mind if I take a look around real quick?” But he’s already walking in before she can nod her answer.

Doesn’t he realize that there’s something wrong with Lilian? She’s a wreck, and it’s only going to get worse.

I’m the one who was seen in here earlier. I sometimes come in here and try on my old clothes that Lilian never got rid of. It makes me feel real, since I died two months ago. I’ve been watching over her, making sure she’s alright. Lilian and I were together for two years.

Before I died, she told me that I was the only man she ever loved. There is definitely something going on with her, though. She didn’t used to be like this.

I always loved taking Lilian places, and spending time with her. She was a little uncertain of our relationship at first; she wasn’t very open with her feelings. But after a while, everything seemed so natural.

But Lilian never wanted a child. She specifically told me that when I would bring it up, hoping she’d change her mind. I don’t know where she found that little girl, but she seems to actually think her name is Ashlynn, and that I’m her father.

After looking all through the house, he goes into the living room, and sees Eva. She looks scared, so he sits down cautiously. “Hello," he says, "And who might you be?”

She just stares, and doesn’t say anything, probably thinking that Lilian was going to freak out again if she says Eva.

“It’s alright. You can tell me. What’s wrong?” Nothing. “Can you tell me your name?” Still no answer.

He takes out his spiral pad and a pen and hands it to her. She takes it, but doesn’t write anything down.

Lilian comes in, carrying coffee. “What’s going on?” she says suspiciously, looking back and forth between the two.

“Is this your daughter?” he asks, looking at Eva the whole time.

Lilian is silent for a moment. “Yes, of course, she’s my daughter. Why else would she be in my house, on my couch?” she asks him defensively.

“Ma’am, she looks terrified, and there is nothing in this house that suggests a child lives here. I’m going to have to ask you to go stand in the foyer for a few minutes while I talk to the girl.” He turns to Eva as Lilian walks away.

“Now, I want you to tell me your name, so we can get you back to your real parents. Can you tell me?”

She stays quiet for a moment, and then recites what she tried telling Lilian earlier. “My name is Eva. My mom’s name is Helen, and my dad’s name is Robert. We live in a neighborhood called White Springs, and I was at the playground when she-” She looks up at Lilian, who is now crying. “She came over to me and picked me up, calling me her baby, like I was her daughter. I don’t know her though, please help me.” She talks so quickly he has to scribble to keep up.

“Okay, Eva. Do you know your parents’ phone number? Or your address?” She shakes her head no.

“I’m sorry.” She pauses. “I'm still going home, right?” She actually looks scared that he’ll say no.

“Of course you will. I’ll be right back.” he tells her, and walks into the foyer to talk to Lilian. “Can we go outside and talk?” he asks her, eyeing the door.

“Sure.” She looks upset, like it’s actually her daughter who is about to be taken from her.

~

Before I died, Lilian was put in a mental hospital to care for her, and to fix her. They said that she was experiencing a break from reality, caused by the loss of a loved one. They don’t know about me; no one does, but they know that her dad died earlier this year.

She broke down at least once a day, being trapped in a small room alone, aside from her once a day therapy session. Lilian is considered one of the dangerous ones in this place.

I visit her everyday, and most days, I stay all day. She started talking to herself more and more frequently, which the doctors found concerning, but she was trying to talk herself through everything that had happened.

And then- well, then, she started talking to me, too. She told me she was sorry, that she loved me so much, that she wanted to see me- just one more time, if that’s all she could.

She just wanted a chance to apologize, to make it up to me for what she did. I never spoke back, but I listened, whenever she needed it.

~

About two months ago, Lilian was still grieving her dad’s death, and I came over to her house to comfort her. She seemed to be telling herself that he was coming back, that he just went to the store, and took a detour, that he got lost, that he was getting directions, on and on until I tried to tell her that he was gone for good.

Lilian had been my everything, so I wanted to help her feel better, to move one, even if she still missed him. But she shut down, stopped talking to me. And I know I shouldn’t have, but I left. She kept telling me I couldn’t help her, and that I was worthless, that if she had been with her dad more instead of me, he would still be here.

I had given up on talking to her for the week, but then I saw her walking in the park. Out of impulse, I went up to her, asked if we could talk. She tried to walk away, but I followed. She ignored me all the way back to her house, even when I tried telling her that I loved her, that I would always be there for her, that she could tell me anything she needed to get out of her system. But she slammed the door on me,

I could tell she wasn’t okay, and I still had a key to her house, so I went in. She was in the kitchen, starting to make dinner. “Sit down.” she said. I looked at her questioningly. She looked straight through me. “What are you waiting for?! I said sit!”

So I sat. She rushed around the kitchen, banging pots and pans and gathering ingredients that made no sense together. I stood up.

“Lilian, are you alright?”

“I told you to sit down!” She was screaming at this point.

“Lilian, listen to me, Please, just talk to-”

“No! I said sit down! Stop telling me that everything is fine and that it’s going to be okay, and that everything I’m feeling is normal! I lost my only living parent, the only person who ever cared about me! I! Am! Alone! But you wouldn’t get it, because everyone cares about you! Just get out of my life!”

“Lilian, you need help. You can’t live like this. I’ll go if that’s what you want, but then you would be really alone. I love you, Lilian. I always will, and I’m so glad I have you. I don’t want to lose you. I need you.” I’m crying but she doesn’t seem to care.

She pauses, silent, except for the sound of her breath hitching as she cries. “I love you too, Jack.”

I move toward her, and wrap my arms around her. We stay there like that for a while, just hugging her, crying, while I tell her how much I love her.

I whisper, “He may be gone, but you can still talk to him whenever you want to.” Her eyes go wide, and she gets mad again, shoving me away.

“He’s not gone! He’s coming back! He would never leave me!” She’s back to screaming, “I know he’s not gone. You’re both just pranking me. He’s on vacation somewhere. That’s where he’s been! That’s why he’s been gone! Don’t lie to me!”

She picks up the cutting board off the floor, washes it, and starts haphazardly chopping onions and other vegetables.

“Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself. Do you want me to do it instead?” I ask, hoping she’ll put the knife down before she cuts herself. I walk toward her slowly. “Honey, come relax for a few minutes. I grab her arm gently, trying to ease her out of whatever came over her, like I did before. “Lilian. Lilian, I need you to talk to me.” With my other hand, I gently take her wrist, the hand she’s holding the knife with.

She seems to cooperate, but then her eyes go wide, and she realizes what I’m doing.

“Lilian, please, just calm down.” I tighten my grip just in case, but she’s faster than me. She slips out of my hold, and walks around to the other side of the island countertop.

“Lilian! Please, Lilian! We can work through this. You will be alright. I’ll get you someone to talk to. We can even go together if you want. I love-”

But she charged at me, and everything went black as my head hit the counter and I fell to the ground.

When I woke up, I could float, and go through walls, and no one could see me. I don’t blame her for what she did. She was hurt- and something was going on. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t herself. I don’t think she ever will be again.

I watch her now, and she doesn’t seem happy, but she seems at peace. And I’m happy for her. She’ll make it. Even if I didn’t.

Jerry is thirty and looks fifty. Unshaven, without a bath in weeks, his hair filled with lice. His eyes, sunken far back into his skull; he weaves his way in and out of the city streets in search of scarred food to keep himself alive to meet another morning.

At one time, Jerry had a family, a well-paying corporate position and all the other attributes a man would ever want.

On a day Jerry can’t remember, his world fell away from him. The pressure of Corporate America got to him before he knew what hit him. He turned to alcohol, drinking away his problems and ended up swallowing his pride and puking it up in one of many dark alleys to become his new home.

Sometimes, Jerry would sit on a cobblestone corner and listen in his head as the computer’s whir; listen in his head to the instruction of the day’s business agenda and start talking to himself about what he has to accomplish before quitting time.

Other times, Jerry would walk through the city park, or walk along the tall oak, pine trees, and watch children play. He would stand in the park’s shadows, watching, as if seeing his own children play; and would smile a drunken smile through rotting, broken teeth.

Late at night, in the frigid months of Winter’s Father, Jerry would huddle between cans of rotting garbage and nestle his head against concrete pilings, falling asleep, dreaming how he once curled his head next to the smell of fresh amber and soft, red hair, as well as the laughter of twin girls playing in the back yard. All the memories go away in daylight hours with the help of a fifth of whiskey or a cheap bottle of wine.

When the Mother of Summer rages, the permeated sweat that festers his body, and charges him with a fever; he wanders aimlessly, never knowing where he is, or why he is.

It was one of many summer nights that found Jerry curled in a twisted mash of flesh down by the river; dead, in his own twisted way. No longer a man, no longer a person; only a number for the city to deal with.

… and the night moved on

Here name is June, barely fifty, but to look at her closely, you would have known that once upon another time, she had to have been a real looker; but time, lived by her daily shopping on the streets, foraging through remnants left behind by the neighborhood, has a way of changing people. A pair of tattered gloves, an old scarf, a woolen sweater moth-eaten over time, and shoes that don’t match and slightly too big, and an old gray woolen skirt streaked with age, is her attire.

Today, like all her yesterdays, she shops for new clothes as she loves wearing something different every day. As she walks, her gray skirt billows away from her somewhat lean frame and its bottom meets the top of her one brown and one red sock. June doesn’t care. She loves color.

She eats what she can find that has been freshly discarded by local’s restaurants when possible. She has scruples to a point. She would say, “Never eat yesterday’s food today. You could get sick as a dog.”

In her daily travels, she would fall back into a relapse and remember the old days. The days when her husband came home from work every day. The days when she would bake peanut butter cookies for her boys when they came home from school. She would remember the picnics shared and the many nights the boys would get sick and she would take care of their needs.

She remembered a time when her husband and the boys decided to go to the supermarket one afternoon because she was ill. She remembered being told there was a terrible accident; that her family were broadsided by a truck and killed.

She would shake her head at that point, squeeze the memory from her mind and she would tell herself it was a story she read somewhere, that she never had a family.

When her day was over, she would take her shopping bag of goodies, drag her feet behind her as she headed home. It would take her sometimes four or five hours because if she lived elsewhere than where she lives now, most certainly the bluecoats would arrest her. The very thought of being locked away makes her shiver.

Two hours beyond dusk, June would find herself staring at the skyline of the city’s early night lights. “Such a waste of money to keep them on all night,” she would say.

She looks at her house covered by several layers of tarp to keep out the rain and keep her home, made from cardboard, dry.

Inside, several layers of old carpet cover her floor she found lying around a large dumpster behind a carpet outlet on one of her many shopping trips.

Behind her home, there is a large hole she uses as a latrine, and a few feet away from there, is another hole she uses as a cooking pit.

Tonight, sleep will find her as it does every night. Inside, sitting crossed-legged, holding two dolls, rocking them back and forth, singing a lullaby.

… and the night moves on

Jack is seventeen. Jack is a fine son, a good student and very popular with the girls in his school because of his looks.

Jack has parents who are community oriented, “Pillars of society,” say the neighbors. “Jack is a fine young man,” say the neighbors.

Jack isn’t who they think he is.

When the sun disappears from the large blue ceiling, the night finds Jack on the other side of town at a party, just like other parties he has been to; so why should this one be any different?

The crowd is mixed with colors of both sexes and the booze is plentiful, so are the drugs.

Jack is an addict, and has been ever since he was thirteen, but that wasn’t so bad. At seventeen, Jack’s habit has taken over the rational side of his life.

Lately, he’s been skipping classes, forging school reports, forging his parent’s signature for teachers at school. Jack still has a calculating mind, but his brain cells are slowly dissolving.

Jack started with the pills. The red ones, the yellow ones, the blue ones. Other times he would get prescription pills from a friend’s source and pop those as well. Jack would follow it with a little alcohol and before the night was over, he would not only be drunk, but high as the sun at noontime.

On this particular night, the booze flowed, and drugs oozed out at him. Jack popped a pill here, a pill there, before the announcement that some primo Mary Jane from below the border had arrived along with a kilo of cocaine.

Before long, the room is filled with the sweet odor of smoke and heads are buzzing as people begin laughing at things that aren’t funny, and Jack is one of those people.

Jack hits on a girl a year younger than himself and they walk into one of four bedrooms at the party. Twenty minutes pass before the girl screams and others run to where the screams were heard.

As people rush inside the bedroom, they see the frightened girl staring at Jack.

Jack is standing on a ledge of a second-floor balcony window, naked as the night, arms outstretched, feet together and his head staring straight to the stars filtering the night around him.

He heard the commotion behind him, begging him to come down. He shook his head, no. Jack knows that once he jumps to his death, the bad side will be gone, and the good side will live on.

Jack started shaking in the cold sweat that blocked the pores in his body. Below him could be heard the crashing waves as they rushed upward on the jagged rocks below. Jack pushed off and away.

On his way down, Jack never screamed. He smiled with one final thought before he smashed into the rocks below.

He wondered if his mother would still bake him a birthday cake tomorrow.

… and the night swallowed him and moved on

Her name is Melinda, and she is in trouble.

She ran away from a broken home, run by a father who was never home very much, and a mother who cheated on her husband, forcing Melinda to do all the work. If she didn’t, she would be punished, mostly with whippings. Melinda couldn’t take the abuse any longer, and after saving what money she could, she bought a bus ticket to the big city. It was in the city she decided she would begin her life, her new life.

Melinda wasn’t off the bus ten minutes before a young man, well dressed, came over to her making conversation. Starved by all this freshness in her life, Melinda fell into the man’s trap. He talked her into spending a few weeks in his motel room. “It’ll help you save money,” he said. “Nothing will happen,” he said smiling. Melinda believed him.

Inside the motel room, the nice young man turned into a regular Mr. Hyde. He ripped Melinda’s blouse from her body, slapped her face, and shoved her body to the bed and raped her. When he was finished, he redressed, took what money she had and left her on the bed; her face a massive series of bruises building, her arms filled with the same, her virginity shattered, and she was alone. For the briefest of moments, Melinda felt as if she were home again.

Melinda slowly came around to the way the real world operates. After her injuries healed, after she formulated a plan of survival, she found a job. Not a regular job, but it was still one of independence, working the streets at night. But Melinda never became your average hooker.

She would take her johns for a spin and her fee was high, and it would always end the same way.

Melinda always insisted the johns buy a motel room someplace outside the city. Once in the room, Melinda would pull from her purse a knife and she would use it on every man who touched her behind closed doors. When she was finished, she would shower away the blood, redress, replaced the knife back into her small purse, and leave unnoticed.

By her third month, Melinda found out she was pregnant. She made up her mind to give up the baby to a foster home. She knew she couldn’t take care of a baby on her own, not with what she was doing.

Bye the ninth month the baby came and with all the months that came and went, over a hundred men were murdered. She always took great pains to cover her tracks, but the law catches up to you eventually.

Melinda had looked at the small face of her child, a girl, and suddenly all the hatred and anger she had been feeling disappeared. She didn’t want to give her daughter away. She wanted a real job and raise her child better than she was taken care of, but the law wouldn’t let her and now she’s in trouble.

As much as she wanted to take care of her daughter, Melinda knew it was only a matter of time before the police came for her.

She asked the lady across the hall to watch her baby for a short period of time. The lady, your typical grandmotherly type, smiled and said yes.

Melinda went back inside her apartment, walked to the bedroom dresser, and pulled out a gun she bought a long time ago. It was loaded.

She walked to the patio window and looked seven stories below and watched as tiny orbs of light streaks from cars went in all directions. All the sounds from below reached up to her. The shouting of angry men, laughter from a distant corner, horns blaring, tires screeching and brakes whining, and people dying.

Another sound that approached her building was the sirens of red and blue lights from police cars. Melinda knew they were coming for her. She didn’t invest in a police scanner for nothing.

She closed her eyes, and in the dream held within her mind, she could see the police taking the elevator to the seventh floor. She could see the doors close behind them as they got on and she watched the doors close behind them as they got off. She could feel them approaching her door and ringing her doorbell.

Melinda opened her eyes wide in fear, not for herself but for her daughter. Melinda knew she wouldn’t be able to take care of her. Melinda prayed as the trigger was ever gently pulled back. Melinda prayed a good family would take her daughter in and treat her as one of their own.

The short muzzle of steel weighed heavily in her mouth.

The doorbell rang.

Melinda never heard the deafening roar of the bullet.

… and the night, like all the ones to have passed, with those yet to be, has claimed its share of the burden of life for one night.

… a message from the night

Step right up, try your luck and see if you can survive.

The next time you are walking, wherever that may be, listen to the branches sway, listen to the gentle bending in the wind; or is it someone following you?

When you walk down a dark street to get to your car and you pass under a dimly lit streetlight and see your shadow for a fleeting second; or is that the shadow belonging to someone directly behind you?

The night holds many unexplained mysteries. When you are surrounded by the hours of nightfall, be careful not to become one of the unexplained, one of the forgotten, one of the lonely; one of the frightened.

… and don’t say it can’t happen to you because it can. I know it can. You see, the night follows you everywhere, even when you sleep.

You can run, but you cannot hide.

I’m watching.

the one thing i ever wore all the time

is your sweatshirt

remember the first time i wore it?

i spilled my coffee all over myself

and you came to my rescue

no matter what i felt

i wore that sweatshirt

it was gray, but not a gloomy gray

just gray

and it had the pink floyd album cover on it

the dark side of the moon album

because you were obsessed

except it didn't have the whole image

it was so worn out, well loved

that pieces of it had ripped off in the wash

remember what you told me when you gave it to me for christmas?

you said that it was special

because your dad gave it to your mom

when the two of them were dating

that sweatshirt was my everything

i kept it safe

and always knew where it was

because you gave it to me

why don't you ever wear it anymore?

you used to tell me you'd sleep in it

and it'd feel like i was right there next to you

you loved my scent on it

but now it's like you'll do anything to forget us

even if it means neglecting your favorite hoodie

Another day walking up along the chipped beige wall. Beyond the plain color, its easy to see the jungle mural with its small ornate leaves painted under it. Cars rush through the intersection to the main road, their axels squeak from the sharp left turn blowing trash and broken car bits towards the narrow sidewalk. At the beginning of the crosswalk I stop and wait as a few hot rusty Junkers rush through it, tired engines putter up one of few steep hills in central Florida. It's hard to hear the beep of the crosswalk button when I press it with my elbow. The intersection crossing 13th street with Archer Road is the hottest place in the city, a solid infertile space of sidewalk and grey concrete that bakes any pedestrian or peddler like a slow cooking egg. I assumed all cars with their shade and air conditioning had it better until the day I turned to see who was parked first at the stoplight.

It was a convertible car with its top up, several people in tank tops and cheap shorts were slouching inside its shiny leather interior. After another inspection of the vehicle I realized the top was not up, but ripped off. While this alone would be strange, the most eye catching area of the car was its front. A series of wild scenarios crossed my mind the second I put my eyes on it. A fire under the hood? A bad front collision? A car part robbery? None of my ideas, brought any certain explanation to what I was seeing. The entire car was black and it looked like the color was applied through spray paint. Any front it had could not be understood by the bystanders terms. Nothing but random parts attached in that area through duct tape or sheer luck. This area too was blackened by spray paint. A windshield or side windows were nonexistent, just a loose car body with headlights dangling off like dead flowers.

There it idled, a poor clunker that had been disemboweled and sewn back together into a disfigured metal Frankenstein with shabby paint. A tired sagging shell of what it once was. That is, if it was anything to start out with. I couldn't believe such a sad machine could drive, but it did. When the light turned green its tires moved forward. All four of them seemed like a separate entity from the car that bobbed on top. Any logical person would suspect the main body was seconds away from sliding off of its foundations as the loose covering trudged through the intersection. It left as quick as it came, some strange anomaly that gave my bizarre dreams a run for their money. I crossed the sidewalk, seeing the last of the thing lurch up the hill and disappear into traffic.