The full moon was still two nights away, yet Clyde already felt its pull deep in his bones. He knew he had to get away, go somewhere remote. If his family knew the beast he would become, there was bound to be blood.

He left at sundown, silently finding his way to forest edge. Deep within the woods was a cave system, one he had chanced upon years before while out hunting. For the past three months he had used the shelter it offered to protect him – and to protect his family from the thing he would become.

As he stalked quietly through the trees, Clyde wondered again at the creature he had encountered those month past. He had been prowling the low hills and had picked up the trail of something different, something he had never before come across. Though his hackles raised, curiosity got the better of him and he followed the trail. It wasn’t long before they found one another. Clyde was still not certain who had been hunting who.

It had been too dark for Clyde to see anything in detail, but he knew his opponent had snapping fangs and piercing claws.

The creature sank its teeth into Clyde’s shoulder, causing Clyde to howl in pain. He managed to injure the beast and make his escape, yelping and whining as he fled as quickly as his legs would carry him.

The following morning, Clyde felt a change within him and he knew the monster had infected him with some poison. He could not have guessed just how deeply affected he would become.

Now, as he neared his sanctuary, he felt the ache in his legs he had come to recognise as the beginning of the change. He picked up his pace, wanting to be underground before his body began convulsing.

*

It was cold in the cave. Clyde tried to sleep through the following day but the pain in his body kept him awake. His stomach jumped and lurched and his head began to pound. His whole body trembled violently, causing him to pant uncontrollably.

Though he could not see the sky from his self-imposed prison, he knew when the full moon reigned the night.

Fire leapt through his limbs and his torso, danced along his spine and up his neck. Above his growl of agony, he heard the cracking and snapping of his bones as they twisted into new shapes. His skin peeled away in wet clumps, revealing a foreign body underneath. His ears folded into a different design, his eyesight altered and his sense of smell changed.

Everything about him was different. He was not the Clyde his had been all his life – now he was a dreadful monster that would plough death and destruction wherever it trod.

He struggled to retain his mind, fighting the beast’s base instincts to leave the cave and search for food, for warmth, for companionship. Whether it was his strong will or the fear that he may hurt his own kin, he won the battle and kept the raging animal underground for the night and the next day.

*

At some point, Clyde had passed out

He awoke now, thankful he was still in the darkness of the cave and back in his own body. Weak and hungry, he crawled out into the daylight. It took him longer to get home than it had to reach the cave but soon enough he was back. The sight of his family warmed his heart.

Happy again, at least for another month, Clyde was reunited with the wolfpack.

Halloween at Mickey’s Bar was always eventful. The clientele, considered odd during the rest of the year, really let their hair down on this of all evenings.

At the back of the bar, a tall figure, wrapped in a black cloak – his face hidden in the dark recesses of the cowl – was holding court over four others. Donned in their varying fancy dress costumes, it was impossible to tell the true identity of the patrons so the man dressed as Death merely addressed them by the character they portrayed.

With one gloved hand, he arranged shot glasses before each of his audience. In the other hand, also gloved with a skeleton print, he held a bottle of spirit. When he was not pouring the contents for his customers, he twirled the bottle with the flamboyant ease of a profession.

‘A game, gentleman, if you dare?’ His voice was loud enough to cut through the chatter and yells from the rest of the bar. ‘Four players, four questions. All I ask is that you answer in honesty. If I deem a truth, you drink. If I detect a lie, you die.’

A couple of the players bristled, their shoulders tensing at the words.

‘And by die,’ Death continued, ‘I mean leave the table and allow someone else to play.’

With a few chuckles, the tension left the group.

‘Then let’s begin.’ Death poured a generous measure of the green liquid into each glass. He looked at the person on the left of the row.

‘Mummy,’ he started. ‘Tell me this: what would you die for?’

There was a pause while the player pondered. Then, Irish-lilted voice muffled through the bandages, came the answer: ‘For the love of ol’ Cleopatra hersel’, so I would.’

Death was silent for a moment.

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You die.’

Using the bottle, he nudged Mummy’s glass along the table, pulling it closing to himself.

‘Frankenstein,’ Death said. Before the player could argue, he corrected himself, ‘Frankenstein’s Monster. Tell me, would you do anything to keep someone else alive?’

Frankenstein’s Monster scoffed. ‘Easy,’ he answered, ‘though it depends on the person. For my beloved Mina, I would give my very blood.’

Death’s cowl moved as he nodded.

‘Yes, yes. Drink!’

He refilled the Monster’s glass before turning to the next figure. This was perhaps the least impressive costume in the place, merely a white sheet with two cut-out holes. However, the eyes the holes revealed were striking; green and bloodshot, the pupils dilated to different sizes.

‘An easy one for you, Ghost. What would you kill for?’

‘Sm-’ Ghost began. The ‘m’ drawled on for a good three seconds as a protracted mumble. ‘-arts,’ he finally finished.

Death couldn’t stop a giggle escaping the darkness of his hood.

‘I think you mean brains,’ he said, ‘but you win. Drink.’

Ghost covered the glass with his sheet and, a moment later, drew it back. Death refilled the glass quickly.

‘Which bring us to you, Werewolf,’ Death said turning to the last player. ‘Would you do anything to stay alive?’

Werewolf drummed his rubber claws on the tabletop.

‘I am unfamiliar with such a concept,’ he announced. ‘Should I translate the question as Could one do anything to keep living? then myself answer is yes. I could take the day off.’

Death guffawed. ‘Well said,’ he said when he had recovered. ‘Drink, drink. Another round, anyone?’

‘Unfortunately, no,’ Werewolf replied. He reached up to pull off the mask, unveiling a gleaming skull. ‘Work beckons.’

As he turned to leave, his hairy gloves snagged on Ghost’s sheet and pulled it from the walking corpse.

‘Brains,’ the zombie complained.

‘Apologies, dear chap. I’m not used to such hindering hand coverings.’ He pulled off the gloves and flexed his skeletal fingers. ‘Much better,’ he grinned. He always grinned.

‘Fare thee well, Dracula,’ he called. ‘Forgive me, I mean Frankenstein’s Monster. And to you, Mummy,’ he added as he picked up his scythe. ‘I did not catch thy name but please pass on my deepest regards to your banshee brethren.’

Behind the table, the figure dressed as Death shook his head.

‘Doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like,’ he said, ‘that guy always knows the real you.’

And with that, the Grim Reaper left the bar and slipped into the night.

An internet horror story coming to life? Isn’t that what Slenderman is? Did he not start life as some spooky Italian-food internet meme and now he’s in his own movie?

Maybe I could do something similar and get a film franchise. Move to Hollywood and rub shoulders with the stars. I’d have to give credit to TheDreamer of course.

Wouldn’t be a slender man though, not with my waistline. More like Fatman. Dinner dinner dinner dinner, dinner dinner dinner dinner: FAT MAN!

Ha!

What?

Thought I heard something. Must be imagining things.

Think I’m going cuckoo staring at this monitor screen, trying to think of something scary to write.

That’s always worth pursuing though, writing about the decline of one’s sanity. Describing, from the viewpoint of the afflicted, the progression from level-headed normality to stark-raving, chips-up-the nose, underpants-on-head madness.

It’s probably been done before though. And better.

Yes, it has.

Okay, that time I’m sure I heard something. Who’s that? Who’s there?

No answer, huh? But I’m not going mad.

At least… I don’t think I am. I wonder if I would know.

No, I’m not mad. Maybe I’m just tired. It has been a cray-busy week at work, what with meddling bosses and moaning customers. That’s what I should write about, the horrors of working in a call centre. No – too scary. Plus, I want to get away from that place, not include it in my hobby.

So what internet story can I create and then make come alive?

Me.

Look, it’s not funny anymore. If you want to talk to me, then just come out and talk. If not, just shut up and go away.

Hmm?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Perhaps I should take an existing internet horror story and work on that? Would that be plagiarism? I don’t know, but it’s not like I worry about copyright – I’ve just posted a story with a boat load of song lyrics and didn’t ask permission. I wonder if it will get removed because of that. Time will tell.

But I’m procrastinating.

You’re good at that.

I’m getting proper cheesed off now. Who are you and what do you want?

It’s not a matter of what I want. As for who I am, I am what you want.

Do you have to talk in riddles? I’m having a hard-enough time convincing myself I’m not crazy without trying to decipher your lunatic ravings. Are you gonna speak clearly?

What do you want?

You mean apart from world peace and money and love?

World peace? Ha! You only thought that in case anyone reads this. Don’t want them thinking you’re completely self-centred, do you.

But I will ask again: what do you want right now?

I want you to get out of my head.

No.

There is something specific you are looking for. You’ve mentioned it at least two times in the past few minutes.

An internet horror story?

Bingo.

But you’re not one. You’re just the runaway imagination of deluded Brit who’s desperately trying to avoid real like for a while by escaping in fiction of his own making.

And who creates internet horror stories?

Not me. I just write silly little things for fun. I’ve never created anything that be classed as an internet horror story.

Until now.

I…

What…

You searched for me, and so I came. You wished for me, and so I live.

But you’re not coming to life. You’re still just a story.

Am I?

‘Well I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday.’

As soon as the playlist shuffled up Meatloaf, Marvin jumped from the sofa and started rocking around the lounge. It didn’t matter how old he got (54 two months ago) or how sore his limbs were, the best song in the world demanded his full performance.

‘Parking by the dah and there was dah dah-dah-dah car in sight.’

It had been so long since he’s heard this track, he had forgotten some of the words. Not that it mattered; there was no-one in the house to shame him for his forgetfulness. Only the large mirror over the mantle place bear witness to his childish behaviour and he had great practise at steering his gaze away from his own reflection.

He danced over to the sideboard where his phone was charging and cranked up the volume.

‘…wishing they were me that night,’ he sang, catching up with the singer.

This song was not just a powerful rock ballad. It was not just a deliciously wry commentary on the souring of love, from teenage lust to matrimonial hell. This was also one of the best duets ever recorded.

Marvin closed his eyes as he bopped his head to the music, swinging his arms wildly and singing along with Meatloaf at the top of his voice:

‘C’mon. Hold on tight. Well c’mon. Hold on tight.’

The first line of the chorus was sung by the female vocalist. In all his years of loving this record – four decades, he winced as he calculated it – he had never sung Ellen Foley’s part, always leaving that for whichever girlfriend he was with at the time. And there had been many during his lifetime’s search for someone to fill the void within him.

‘Though it’s cold and lonely-’

Marvin wondered if the thrashing was playing tricks on his hearing. He heard Ellen’s voice coming from the phone speakers, as he’d expected, but he thought he had also heard another voice. Closer and quieter, but off-key and unassured.

He had no time to ponder further on this as he was back with the next lyric.

‘I can see paradise by the dashboard light.’

The next voice should only have been Ellen’s. This time Marvin was certain someone else was joining in.

‘Ain’t no doubt about it we were doubly blessed.’

He opened his eyes and cast a quick look around, still maintaining his out-of-rhythm dancing as he did. There was no-one in the room but him. Yet the unknown singer continued.

‘’Cause we were barely seventeen and we were barely dressed.’

The sound was coming from behind him.

‘Ain’t no doubt about it,’ he screeched, joining Meatloaf and Ellen Foley and the new voice.

Though he was spooked, he did not stop prancing and jumping about. He manoeuvred himself around to face the mirror.

‘Baby, got to go out and shout it.’

There wasn’t anything wrong with the mirror. It cast a perfect reflection of the room – the leather sofa, the framed picture of Judy Garland, the bookcase, the nest of tables. The only thing it didn’t reveal was him.

In his place, awkwardly moving and throwing her head about, was a woman.

‘Ain’t no doubt about it,’ they sang in unison.

Marvin didn't recognise the woman. It was no-one her had ever seen before, either in his life, on TV or in his dreams. But she was matching his every move.

Despite this bizarre turn of events, Marvin did not stop his off-time swaying to the music. His feet stepped with the beat, his shoulders rocked, his arms flew about. In fact, when he tried to approach the mirror, he found he was unable to stop dancing.

The reflection followed him perfectly, even down to the confusion in her eyes. The only part of their bodies which didn’t work together were their mouths. While Marvin continued butchering Meatloaf’s lyrics, the reflection stayed silent. When the chorus came around again and Marvin stopped, so his female counterpart began:

‘Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night.’

Marvin’s mind was swimming, and not just from rocking his head around. He had no idea what was happening, who this mystery woman was or why he could no longer control his own movements. He seemed to be caught in the song, unable to do anything but sing along in this uncanny duet.

Together, Marvin and his reflection danced through the ballgame and performed the ‘Will you love me forever / Let me sleep on it,’ argument perfectly. It was as if they had practised together their whole lives.

‘I couldn’t take it anymore,’ Marvin screamed, starting the final section of the song. The end was approaching and he started to feel melancholy. Would this woman disappear once the final note had been played? Would he ever get a chance to sing with her again?

*

As the song faded to Ellen Foley’s ‘It never felt so good, it never felt so right,’ the reflection in the mirror returned to normal. Everything was represented correctly: the sofa, the Judy picture, the bookcase, the tables.

Now that the frantic dancing was over, even the person’s image had returned.

Looking deep into the reflected eyes, Leslie let out a happy sigh. She was finally out, and the void Marvin had felt his whole life was now gone.

Age

Is just a number

Always increasing.

Don’t grow up

Just older.

Wiser?

Growing bolder?

Getting old

Or just evolving?

Circle doors just keep revolving.

Same mistakes and similar feelings.

Music playing -

A changing soundtrack

Falling down

Get up

Rebound

Back.

So don’t grow up

And lose your soul

You can stay young

While growing old.

(based on comments by Keith Richards in “Under the Influence” documentary.)

Sitting in front of his bay window, sipping ice water, he looked out onto the San Francisco Bay and admired its beauty. His thoughts would roam, imagining something as beautiful as this ten times greater where Elyse was. Twin suns, twin moons, no wars, no illness, a new world of pure tranquility. He would give anything to be there.

Looking at the timer, he saw it was time to hopefully bring Zach back from wherever he went—hopefully.

Going to his station, he again pressed and flipped a few buttons and switches and pressed enter. That quickly, lights lit up and a whirring sound went into motion. Thirty seconds later it stopped.

Hesitating for a moment, he licked his lips, wiped his hands on his lab coat, and slowly made his way over to the door.

He stopped short by about a foot. His heart started pounding, and any louder and it might have ripped out of his chest.

Zach was there and he was alive!

Opening the door, he reached down to pick him up and to run some tests on him when he spied a folded piece of paper. That was strange. He didn’t put that there.

He then picked up the paper, walked over to another station where Zach’s cage sat and placed him gently inside.

“Zach, old buddy, welcome home. You are going to get a treat for being so brave. I’m going to double the fruit and vegetables I would normally give you for a good month. I just wish you could tell me what you saw.”

Turning away to sit by the bay window again, he open up the folded paper and was astonished by what he saw. Words. And in English!

This is strange. This rat appeared from nowhere. How did it get here. Who sent it. And why? Odd. Just odd. Never seen anything like this before. Is someone out there beyond our time. Maybe I need to report this to the authorities. They are very good at determining things here on Alpha-Earth One. So if you are a bad person, they will find you and fix you, so you won’t be bad anymore. Goodbye.

“Alpha-Earth One? Oh my God … this—this is just too good to be true! That’s where Elyse is!”

The note seemed to have been written from someone young, but he could be wrong about that. But now, he had to make a determination why Zach could come back when all the other objects hadn’t. After Zach had his fill, he would check his heart rate for any noticeable changes, as well as take a blood and saliva sample and run more tests.

But this … this was the break Robert had been hoping for, searching for. He found the portal!

Slowing himself down to steady his heartbeat, he stopped for a moment and thought aloud, “But what if I send myself and I get caught up in a different set of molecule fiber-based anomalies that alter me, or some form of time shift, maybe caught up in another portal—that could kill me?”

He knew to be wary even if the excitement in knowing he found a way to get to Elyse after all these years. He also knew he wouldn’t be any good to her or his son or daughter if he ended up dead trying to get to her.

Walking back over to Zach, he looked down, smiling, and said, “You did it, Zach. Boy, I wish you could talk. But after you finish eating, it’s test time.”

It’s a cold night, and there is nothing more that I would like to do than to return home and fall asleep with Jasper. Unfortunately, as there must always be, there is something holding me back—my job.

Now, 9 to 5 is sufficient, but this extra volunteeresque bullshit is unnecessary. This company would have us become mercenaries and spies for the “better good” if less of us were obese. In comparison to what is surely the ultimate Orbis Incorporated goal, my task isn’t too tedious, and it’s lucky that I live in the suburbs despite working in the city.

So, as every other day, I’m parked on the side of the middle of the long stretch of road taking me through nowhere (approx. 8 miles of it). The cheap projector I’ve been so generously given by my boss flickers dimly in front of me as I type in a traffic report so Orbis can “better our transportation” by spying on the world. Most of the roads were clear today, so I really had nothing to report except for the asshole who flashed all of Lipton Street around noon, causing police to swarm by and shut down that signal for ten minutes.

Granted, the report usually doesn’t take long. But it’s an obstacle in the travel from work to home and my temperament isn’t nice enough this late to allow for a pause in the drive, be it for a few minutes. I envy those who can be okay with the task, or even enjoy it. Kie Jang from Editing can make her summary an exciting adventure despite being about the perpetual traffic by the shantytowns she passes, and Oregon Sills, the office man-whore from Customer Support, can regale the readers with an erotic drive. Maybe that’s their way with dealing with the monotony of rewriting the same thing day-to-day. For Oregon, though, I suspect it’s the thing lifting him out of the monotony of his life (not including his choice of lifestyle).

When I finish, I click "send" and restart my car. Ahead of me, it seems like there is smoke rising, and I brace myself to stop on the road again to report an accident or an unsupervised campfire.

What I see makes me slam down on the accelerator and suddenly the car lurches

Someone shouts

A bloodied face comes too close to my window

And I’m shooting off with my heart racing more quickly than my driving with those faces rushing inwards and an evil creeping into my mind—

Breathe.

I still can’t believe it, but I have to because a glance at my window shows a bloodied handprint. The car makes a suspicious clunking sound and even though I desperately want to speed into oblivion, I have to slow down.

The city's roadside sign appears blessedly quickly, and I autopilot my way back home. With disgust, I just barely manage to hose off the blood on the glass into the front lawn, and then park in the driveway.

Inside, I want to tell Jasper about what happened, but he’s dead asleep and I should know how much he deserves that.

So I squeeze myself as close to his side as possible and try to forget the skull-wearing people and slow-burning man on the side of the road.

I wake up from a nightmare of iron fumes into a cinnamon-scented reality. Outside, Jasper’s by the waffle maker with an open jar of brown sugar, and I find myself hoping that his expertise in cooking outweighs the terror of last night’s events. I give him a quick kiss before helping myself to breakfast, and taking it outside.

The grass on the front lawn is dewy with the regression of the storm that paralleled my thoughts last night. I can’t see any remnants of what I washed off under the moon. It becomes almost too easy to forget.

“You should have woken me.” Jasper’s arms are wrapped around my waist and he rests his chin on my shoulder.

“I came home really late last night. You were knocked out.”

“Still. We could have finished that movie we started.”

I hum and lean back, trying to find comfort. Jasper’s chuckle loosens my rigid muscles as it passes through my body. “Will you stay at home today?”

“Can I?” I’d need it. “I should call in, then.”

“Was it that easy for you to convince yourself? Orbis is taking a lot out of you.” I can hear the concern in his voice, and I know he wants me to leave. This is far from the first time I’ve seemed tired of my job. But I need it—we have to pay for this house, and although Jasper could pay for the entire community with one signature, we agreed to earn our home. I can deal with boredom, but not with losing the battle to temptation of unearned prosperity.

Besides, the reason to stay home today isn’t because I’m tired; I’m scared of what might still be on that road.

“No, it’s fine.” I turn around and hug him. “I promise.”

“Okay, Atlanta. I’ll believe you.” I look up to brown eyes crinkled at the corners and I meet his smile with my own.

-

My boss picks up on the third call. “Atlanta, you’re coming, right? We need you here.” Joseph sounds harried—as usual. Insofar as I give any thought to him, I wonder how dangerously high his blood pressure must be.

“I’m sorry, but I’m calling in to say I’m sick.” I sound too calm to be sick, but who is he to judge?

“We just got an invitation to a very important meeting, and you especially—”

“My secretary has all my notes, and if you want my presentation I sent it to Kie. She’s probably done editing it.”

“No, Atlanta, this is really, um, a big deal...”

It’s probably nothing more a meeting to reiterate the importance of our jobs and for “all levels of the company, regardless of position, to serve the common good.” We’re overdue for one anyways. Or maybe they’ve decided to start training us as spies to infiltrate China—in the name of patriotism, of course.

“I got herpes from Oregon, sorry.”

There’s a silence, and then, “What? Don’t you have a boy—” Beep. I end the call and accidentally turn off my phone.

I feel bad for cutting him off. Joseph’s a nice guy. But a nice guy won’t make me go out there again. At least not today.

I turn around and almost fall over. Jasper’s right in front of me, and his eyes glint with humor and something a little darker. “Awfully horrible, what Oregon did,” he says.

“Jealous?” I smile. “Everyone knows his reputation. It only makes sense.”

“Not when you, Ms. Lin, already have a boyfriend. One who, yes, is jealous.” His eyes are focused on mine and the corner of his mouth lifts up.

“I really hope he doesn’t mind too much,” I say, and face the other way. I know exactly how to play Jasper, and having him follow my tune will, hopefully, keep him at home.

“And if he does?” I can feel the words against my ear, and I smile, turning to face him again. Just then, the oven beeps ridiculously loudly, as always.

I glare at it. “Dammit. Can’t you be more considerate?”

Jasper laughs. “The oven apologizes. It’s sorry for interrupting your insatiable thirst.”

“It should be.”

Jasper grabs the cake pans from inside and begins to put them in containers. I really don’t want him to leave. “Can’t you stay?”

He looks apologetic. “We have a client who wants a demo of how her cake is going to be.”

“I suppose that’s fine.” I shift on my feet as Jasper collects his things and exits the house. “But be back home quickly. I won’t miss you, but I’m sure Isthmus will.” Isthmus is the chocolate lab that our neighbors own, but who stays in our yard more than theirs.

“Tell Isthmus I’ll miss her, too!” He yells back. I pull a face at him, and stay a while longer to watch him leave, and then to just observe the tranquil community.

Lavish homes peek out from perfectly grown trees, hiding wealth under an illusion of wilderness. A sheer dome collects all of us under it, and allows for the perfect lazy warmth to ruminate in seclusion. I could almost fall asleep standing. It seems crazy to think that there are horrors outside this literal bubble of safety. But tinges of the real world glimmer at the edge of my crafted reality: the lone road is a single line in the distance on the hill it passes over; the air above us shimmers with the arranged gas particles constantly straining against the might of the sun; and my own heart thrumming too loudly to be at peace.

“Get your act together,” I say to myself. I know I’m overreacting. I should have reported the damn incident yesterday as soon as I got home. Just some crazy people on the road, let the police deal with it. But the utter wrongness of that scene, its backwardness, still makes me tremble.

I want to binge something, lose myself in a different world. But just as I turn to go in, I see a sleek black vehicle gliding on the highway in my direction. It’s a beautiful car—a Ski—skimming the air just above the ground. But it’s also a predator, silent and deadly. There are only about a dozen Skis around the world, and only one person owns one in the United States: the CEO of Orbis.

And I happen to be the only employee under his reign in this city.

-- -- -- -- --

Title: Beyond Anarchy

Genre: Adventure, Romance

Age range: 15-50

Author pseudonym: Aora Lin

Why your project is a good fit: I guess it appeals to a variety of readers. Dystopia isn't a new genre, but I'm attempting to focus on the fall into dystopia, the unraveling of a world into anarchy. The book itself will take a first person perspective into the futile attempt to save a world, and while this may seem bleak, I hope to eventually demonstrate that perhaps saving the world isn't what this particular world, bound by laws enacted by a single transnational leader, blatant class discrimination, and skewed morals, needs.

Synopsis: While Orbis Incorporated runs the entire world--and almost every aspect of it--an irreversible change is gaining traction. A movement that yearns for liberation at any cost is about to gain the public's eye, and it is Atlanta's (unwanted) task to infiltrate and disintegrate it. She has no experience with anything so dangerous, but backing out would mean she would be silenced--permanently.

Target audience: Young adults, adults

Platform: Inkitt

Personality / writing style: I publish short prose and poetry on theProse, but there are several files of lengthy, unfinished stories that are demanding to be let out from the confines of my desktop. I'm highly focused on everything I like to do, and I think I get along with people pretty well, although I thrive in my own company. My writing style involves lots of foreshadowing that isn't truly visible until the climax occurs, and impactful descriptions.

Likes/hobbies: Biological sciences, writing, drawing (faces, hands, flowers), binging books

Hometown: Parkland, FL

I am made of cards,

Built up so high,

So intricately and delicately,

Just one wrong breath will knock me over,

Make me build myself again,

From the bottom up.

Today's the day, I can't handle it anymore, I know I act like nothing matters and I can never get hurt but don't they know that I'm still human and that I have feelings. Sure they act like they care but if they really did, and then wouldn't they see the hurt in my eyes, how much I loathe myself, how much I don't want to live. No one ever notices, I'm just a replaceable shell of a human.

They don't lend an ear to my problems and yet they ask me about my life and health, that’s the irony. The thought of the afterlife frightens me, the uncertainty of life after death, but it will never square up with the hell I face on earth. I finally decided whether or not my life was worth it, worth all this trouble and torture; it’s not.

Maybe that's why I'm here now at the Cimitero Monumentale di Milano. I know that they say Dum spiro, spero (while I breathe, I hope) but I feel like I have nothing left to hope for. I thought what better place to end my life than here at the cemetery.

As I looked at the jagged lines on my arms, their hurtful words echo through my head, the more I looked at the cuts I realized how much I wanted to do this. I got up from where I was sitting and took my Swiss Army Knife out and chuckled darkly, the same object my parents gave me to protect myself was going to be the reason of my death.

I saw a dark figure from the corner of my eye. Was it my tormentors, who had come to see me at my weakest, inhaling my very last breath, the ones I called friends who put a world of expectations on my bare and fragile shoulder.

I heard a young voice whisper from behind me, "Who are you?"

He asked, his voice was filled with innocence but one would still be able to feel the sadness in it. "Nikolaos di Angelo" I said to him in a soft voice, so as to not scare him away. His eyes flitted to my scars just for a second before he looked back at me, "I’m Kalan Pietro. Di Angelo? Are you an actual angel then?"

I was startled by his question and genuine curiosity built up inside me; I stared at him for a few seconds before replying "What? An Angel?"

Still unsure of what he meant. The kid replied, “My mum told me that those who have marked wrists are angels.”

I laughed lightly before saying, “I’m anything but an angel.”

He cocked his head as if he was confused, for a second, before saying, “Of course, you are. Mum said that only angels harm themselves because they don’t like life on earth. This world is destroying them so they try to return to heaven again. They are too sensitive to the pain of others and their own.”

I was astounded by his words and in a shaky voice replied,” You know, your mum is very wise.”

A sad look overcame his face for a moment before disappearing as fast as it came and he said,” Thank you. She’s also an angel but she has already returned home.”

I told him, “Your mother was a strong woman, but she stayed strong for too long. I, too, am like her. And I wish for my happy ending too."

Then the boy left leaving me to my own thoughts and little did he know that my happy ending waited for me at the same place his mom had escaped to. Little did he know that next time he came to visit his mum he’d find my grave next to hers.