Look, I'm here for a reason. And I'm not talking about some spiritual crap, I'm physically in the place that I am for a reason. I don't blame myself, I blame my mother. She pushed me over the edge. She forced my hand. I would never have hurt her if she had just left well enough alone. I know what you're thinking, that I'm in prison writing this on a bathroom stall with my shit. You're wrong. I'm in a home with some crazy people who actually do write stuff on the walls with their shit, but none of it makes sense. I don't belong here. I should have received some sort of thank you, not been put on trial and forced to plead insanity. Yes, she's dead. I didn't technically kill her, I just let the spiders do it. My mother was collector of all things with six legs. She would walk around feeding them, talking to them, loving them. Doing things for them that she never did for me. A mother shouldn't love a spider more than her own son. She called me a mistake and told me she wished she never had me. It wasn't the first time, I'm usually pretty good at ignoring what she says. That day was different.

So here I am in my white robe with my white slippers, sitting in a room full of insane people playing checkers and cards by themselves, looking for crickets in the corners of the room so they can get that little bit of extra protein. I sit here and I watch them. None of them interest me, except for one. She looks like her; my mother. I imagine she is quite normal and is here for some ludicrous reason, like me. Beautiful and slightly broken, just like me. We've only ever talked in my daydreams, but I know all of this is true.

I sit here and I watch her. I watch her beautiful black hair sway as she moves. I watch her stare off into the distance and I know she's thinking of me. I watch her and I can't help but see her completely covered in spiders.

Last night I began reading a self-help book of sorts. I usually roll my eyes at those types of books, thinking that a book could never help me help myself. Last night though, I was feeling quite down. I was feeling defeated emotionally and physically, and I was on the verge of sabotaging myself. I couldn't sleep and I didn't want to scroll through Facebook because that usually makes things worse. I wobbled my tired body over to my bookshelf, and as I was running my index finger across the spines of the many books that sat upon it, I paused. I stood there for a minute and thought hard about whether or not I wanted to crack this one open. An acquaintance from a long time ago gave me this book. I had never opened it, and never planned on it. I sighed, and pulled it from the shelf. What could it hurt?

The first chapter mostly explained how we are conditioned as children to act and think a certain way. I don't want to get too much into it. It wasn't religious, though God is mentioned. "I am God, you are God, we are all God"...something or other. God is light...we are light and what makes up the space between the stars. It was compelling, I read more. Then I began reading a chapter on how we should always be impeccable with our word. We should never say hurtful things because those negative words are black magic and can put a spell on someone, even if it isn't intentional. The smallest word can make a great impact on the person we say it to. Basically, be a good person and stop being an ass. Then I began reading about forgiveness. I try my hardest not to hold grudges, but I can admit that I am not perfect. It hurts me when I put out effort and the effort is not returned. I don't believe in "tit for tat", but I can't help that my feelings are bruised whenever the "tat" doesn't come.

So I'm reading about forgiving people who have hurt you in the past. Forgive them, because holding onto anger and sadness only hurts YOU. It keeps you from personal growth. As the chapter came to an end and I turned the page, the darnedest thing happened. A picture fell out from between the sheets of my book. This book I'd never opened. This book I placed on a shelf after I brought it home. The picture was of a boy. A boy with medium blond hair, brown eyes, and a cheeky smile. A boy of 8 or 9. A boy whose eyes were mine. I saw myself. I saw my father.

I sat there for a while and stared at this boy. He had the light in his eyes that children have that is on the edge of mischief and wonder. He was innocent and sweet. I saw my nephew who is 9, and I couldn't help but think of him and the way he is right now. Cocky, sure of himself, and absolutely convinced that he is and will always be the greatest. Still, they have their moments when they are confused. They don't know why they aren't able to do something, even though they are in fact, the greatest. They're so innocent and so ignorant. The world has yet to sink its claws into their minds and destroy their confidence. I saw my nephew and smiled, and as I studied this boys face further, I saw my nieces and my sister. I saw my daughter, and my eyes watered. I saw myself and the tears fell. I have his eyes, there's no denying that. I love the little boy in this picture. I love him so much that it hurts. It hurts because he has hurt me. This sweet little boy grew up into a man who didn't know how to be a father. He didn't know how to show his daughters love and attention. He thought that trinkets and presents, and cute little diamond stud earrings or a Gizmo furby would help make up for the time that he didn't spend with us. For the time that he did spend with us, but was elsewhere. I have good memories, don't get me wrong! Camping, bike rides, trips to Sam's Club or that Mexican restaurant that I can't remember the name of, where I got all the salsa I could ever want. I loved my father despite his shortcomings. I yearned for more of his attention. I saw him less and less as I got older. 3 times a year, twice a year, once a year. It's still mostly once a year. The 3 times a year started around the age of 13. He blamed my mother for moving 2 hours away and my mother blamed him. I realize now, as a parent, it was both of their faults.

I tried convincing myself as an adult, that I don't need him. That I don't care if he's in my life. I quickly realized how much of a lie that was when at Christmas last year, I was fully ready to give him the cold shoulder, and as soon as I saw him that all went away. I was a little girl again looking up at my daddy, wanting his attention and his affection and his praise. I wanted him to acknowledge my 45lb weight loss. I wanted him to tell me I looked pretty or at least tell me how beautiful my children are. He didn't, and I still feel  unsatisfied. I wanted him to hug me a little bit tighter even though I felt awkward with what little hug he did give me.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this. Part of me is just typing this just to get it all out. I want to say that I forgive him. I am going to begin forgiving him. The picture in the book was a sign, and I have always believed in those. My father will never be the man I want him to be, and that's okay. I love him anyways. I am not going to attempt to strengthen our relationship, because I know that will lead me down a road to disappointment. I will be upset with him when he doesn't tell me or my kids happy birthday, but then I will forgive him. It'll be an endless circle of disappointment and forgiveness, and I accept that. Why would I put myself through this? Because when I looked at the picture of that little boy, I saw myself. I am half of him, and I choose to love that half.

I do not know you but I wish for you to know me, and for you to know the truth. I want everyone to know the truth. So please, do not stop reading until you have read every word. Before I begin I must tell you, I never meant for this to happen. I am so sorry.

First I would like to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Lansel Barge. I am 47 and I've no wife or children or any immediate family for that matter. I have a single companion and that is my male Bengal kitty, Hansel. Lansel and Hansel, I thought it had a ring to it. He is a very handsome boy. He wears a golden collar with a golden bell, and if you see him, do not approach him. He is Patient Zero, and he is a very fast runner.

I work for a genetic research branch of the government called GenXI. It has been kept a secret, even from Mr. President himself. We focus on gene splicing, cloning, and new creation. New creation is how I got myself into this mess in the first place. We were working on creating an immunization that would accelerate brain activity, causing an increase in intellect, speed, strength, and endurance. We almost had it, and we thought we did have it. We did not. We tested this vaccine called NCV (New Creation 5) on multiple rats and it worked. I was elated. I decided to bring it home and give it to my Hansel. I know what you're thinking, we should have run more tests. The thing is, we were running tests. It had been almost 10 days since the rats were injected and they were showing signs of perfection. I brought it to my boy on the 9th day. I administered the vaccine at 8am on the 10th day, and at 12:42pm I received a call from one of my colleagues telling me that our rats were dead. I immediately packed up my Hansel and headed to the lab. I was not going to let this take my handsome boy away from me. 

After 8 days of testing on Hansel's blood, we finally thought we had the cure. I was desperate, and this time yes, we should have run more tests. Unfortunately we were out of time. The way I saw it was, if he is going to die anyways, I have nothing to lose. If the cure didn't help him, at least I tried. The very night that the cure to NCV was created, I gave Hansel the shot. We didn't even bother naming it. Our plan was to destroy the entire project, as it was a total failure.

I stayed awake with him until the end. The "cure" somehow sped up the process and he died the morning after I gave it to him. I cried. Hard. I killed my boy...for fucking science. I can still see the way his eyes glazed over as his brain discontinued function, as his heart stopped pumping and neurons ceased firing. He was beautiful, even in death, and I would never be the whole again. My colleagues wanted to keep his body at the lab, but I refused. I could handle it myself.

I took him to the very best taxidermist I knew of. Harold. He was a sweet, tiny old man with but a spattering of hair on his head but a beard so full that I was once convinced that he might have a family of mice living in there. I told him that Hansel passed away from food poisoning and I left him with the body of my best friend. I would return the next night. Harold was a fast worker. The next morning Harold called me and was a bit upset, because he thought I trusted him. He didn't understand why I would steal my boys body back. I could barely understand him, and I was extremely confused. I explained to him that I'd been at home and if anyone took Hansel's body, it wasn't me. After a moment of silence on the other end, I heard the old man curse. And then he cursed again. "He ain't dead, Lance!".

I will leave it at that. What followed was a gruesome exchange between an old man and a cat that was hell bent on destroying him. He didn't have a chance. I wish I knew why it happened and I wish I had time to figure it out now. Hansel was a being of perfection with a hunger for human flesh and an anger that raged throughout him.

And that's how it happened. I fucked up and I turned my Bengal into a freaking zombie. By the time I got to Harold's store, the doors were wide open and there was chaos. I watched as a fragile old man tore into the stomach of a biker who had been riding by on the sidewalk. I knew what was happening. I've seen the movies and I've read the comics. This was it. Harold looked up and locked eyes with me. They were full of rage and his thick beard was dripping with the blood of the man we was in the process of consuming.

Hansel was out there somewhere. I could have found him by following the sound of screaming and terror, but I am a coward. I have always been one and I will die as one should, by my own hand before I can be turned into one of those things.

So, whoever you are, don't feel bad when you see me hanging from the closet rafters. I hope you find this soon, before all of the genius scientists are dead. All of the information they would need is in the locked drawer of my desk. The key is inside of the smallest nesting doll on the wall to the left of the desk. Retrieve it and deliver it to someone who can fix my mistakes. Do what I am too afraid to do. I am sure that my Hansel is coming home to me, so I will end this letter and then I will end my life.

Again, I am so sorry. This was never supposed to happen. I just wanted to save my handsome boy. "

Jillian placed the letter back onto the nightstand of the bedroom she was standing in. Somehow this house hadn't been trashed and she was tasked with searching it before her group moved out of this neighborhood. She was just a 15 year old girl who had lived the last 4 years running from the dead. Every day she asked God why he let this happen, and now she had the answer. It had nothing to do with God and everything to do with humans who were trying to play God. She found the papers that the Doctor mentioned and shoved them into her backpack along with a couple of cans of pinto beans. As she walked back through the house, she decided to check the mans closet. She was curious to see if he had actually gone through with hanging himself, or if he was too much of a pansy to even do that. It was dark, so she had to retrieve her flashlight. Hanging from the top of the closet was a rope that was clearly very old and barely twisted. Below it was a pile of bones that she could only assume was the man that caused this. She cursed him twice, and turned to leave.

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.

 She heard a tiny little bell ringing. Looking around, she couldn't seem to find what was causing it. She heard the rafters at the top of closet creek, and when she shined her light up there, she saw him. The most handsome kitty she'd ever laid eyes on. He was staring at her, and though he was sitting, she could see his muscles were preparing for the pounce. Jillian knew she should run, but she also knew that this cat would only cause more harm. The fighter inside of her was winning, and as she reached for her gun, Hansel attacked.

Shots were fired. Minutes later a group of armed people came bursting into the room, ready to kill the dead and to save their girl.

They saw blood. Laying on the ground was a breathtakingly beautiful cat. It was long and muscular and had shining, silky fur. His face was...gone. The girl was sitting across from him, staring at the hole in his head. As her adrenaline settled, the tears started flowing. The mother-figure of the group collected Jillian in her arms and held her as she told the group what she had found. They all read the letter and decided unanimously that their next move was to find someone who could do something with this knowledge.

They left the house and made camp for the night inside of a small cottage that was a few miles away from the neighborhood that they were in. The darkness was consuming and though the sounds of the others steady breathing and light snoring usually lulled her to sleep, tonight was different.

Jillian couldn't sleep. She scratched the cut on her elbow that the cat left on her with one of his claws. She easily concealed it, as elbow skin barely bleeds and she only had to roll her sleeves down to hide her wound. She prayed to God and asked for his forgiveness as she placed her gun against her head and pulled the trigger.

I'm not sure yet what the title will be. Enjoy.

Heaven and Hell are on Earth. No, not metaphorically. I am talking literally on Earth. Hell isn’t located in the molten center, and Heaven isn’t up in the clouds somewhere. The fact that there are people who think so, is ridiculous. No, Heaven and Hell are surrounding us. Almost no one can see these separate planes. A few more people can sense them, and a few more than that can communicate with them. Those two usually come together.

My name is Sydney and I have seen Heaven and Hell. I don’t know why I was chosen and sometimes I wish I hadn’t been. I’ve been able to see it all for as long as I can remember. My parents put me in a hospital when I was 8, and I was diagnosed with chronic Schizophrenia. After months of group therapy and pills that turned me into a zombie, I started lying. They were never going to believe me anyways. I was finally released the day before my 9th birthday. Being away from my parents was hard, but being away from my sister felt like I was being ripped in half. My twin sister, Lacey. She was my best friend and soul mate.

When I got home the morning that my father picked me up at 5:30am, I immediately ran upstairs to our room and climbed into bed with her.

“Sydney”, she smiled sleepily, and we both began crying. The connection we had was indescribable and pure. I know that there are people out there who will try to pervert it in some way, but it wasn’t even close to anything like that. We shared a womb, we shared our nourishment, and we even shared a pinky. Her right pinky and my left were fused together when we were born. They were easily separated, and now we have only small identical scars as proof. Oddly enough, she was right handed and I am left handed. Well I suppose I am ambidextrous, as I wield my swords in each hand.

Oh, yes. I forgot to mention this...

I am a demon slayer.

Nails chewed to the quick...

Pick, pick, pick.

Doesn't matter how sick I get

I can never stop

It holds me forever.

I enjoy many simple pleasures in my life. My children's laughter, the warmth of my lover, and the smell of my Spanish Saffron Heat candle holder that even though it's empty from hours of burning, I can still smell it. I cleaned it out and it now holds change, but I can still smell it. That's the problem you see. I can smell things when the smell is gone. Imagine it, really. It's literally all in my head.

I'm trying to make this as poetic as possible, but it's proving to be difficult. Therefore I will cut to the chase and form the questions.

Why do I...do this to myself? Why do I sit here and imagine the smell of the candle I cannot afford? Why do I imagine the taste of the cake that I am not supposed to eat? Why do I see myself slender, healthy, and vibrant while I am sneaking candy to my bathroom? Why do I let myself suffer for mere minutes of bliss?

Why, even though I have a beautiful life, do I want more? More romance, more affection from my son, more obedience from my daughter, more house, more money, more more more....

I can't help but worry that it will never be enough for me, and if it isn't, that karma will come and take it all away.

Why do I do these things? I don't know.

I love these moments

Waking up and still feeling the heat that filled me up while I was dreaming of him

Touching me deeper than humanly possible.

I lay there, trembling, unable to catch an even breath. My toes are tingling and I'm unable to move.

He does this to me in my mere sleep. Whoever he is, I often wonder if he is real.

His leather jacket.

His chewed up pencil.

Dark hair, broad shoulders, and light stubble.

This mystery man.

There once was a boy named Greg

He danced with only one leg

He played jacks and cards and raced his cars

And on weekends he had to beg

His father, he had no job

And was often in a drunken fog

He held a sign on the streets and asked for treats

While Greg looked sad with his dog

Greg's sister, her name was Beth

She stayed swaddled to her mummys breast

She was only a doll but no one ever saw

That her eyes were glassy like death

Now I'm sure if you saw them you'd pass

And say something to make yourself sound like an ass

But while you're judging Greg's dad and his mum and his dog

And you assume Greg's dad lives in a drunken fog

You hope his mum breastfeeds her doll

You should know that Greg goes hungry to bed

And cries 'cause he can't itch his phantom leg

While you're comfy at home wrapped up in your shawl.