1

I remember being a little kid and having nightmares so real, even after I woke up screaming and sweating I would still be scared to close my eyes. The flashes of distorted, smiling faces looking down at me coupled with the screams that never escape from my throat haunt me even when I’m wide awake. I roll over in an empty bed and savor the smell of the clean sheets. I feel my jaw untighten just a little and my shoulders relax as I moved to check the time. My phone read 8:30 am and next to it, a picture of myself and my sister caught my eye. Both of us were smiling, my hair a mane of brown and blonde, hers a cropped bob. Our arms were slung around one another, just happy to be together and excited for life in a new city. God, I miss that girl. I miss being free from the scary consequences of the world and feeling like there is always someone breathing on the back of my neck.

I forced myself up and into the shower. I don’t remember ever showering so much in my life. Showering until the scalding hot water runs cold. Showering four or sometimes five times a day, scrubbing my skin so hard in places it has become red and raw. I almost didn’t notice until I looked down at my legs while I was getting dressed. I felt disgusted. My body only served as a reminder. I hated looking at my body so much that I covered my mirror with a sheet. I didn’t want to see myself, my body, a tool for that man to do whatever he liked. But today it the day. The police are coming over and hopefully, I can hear the conversation now, they’re going to tell me that they have been working hard and they think they’re getting close. I sometimes have daydreams where I get to go into a police lineup and point out the man that did it. Feeling that power surge up within me, taking back control of my life. It almost made me salivate.

I heard a knock on my apartment door. I live in an apartment building and didn’t buzz anyone in. My stomach immediately started doing flips as I tiptoed to the door. I held my breath before looking through the peep hole only to see two men with badges looking impatient on the other side of the door. My heart continued to pound in my chest as I let them in.

2

I offered the police officers, no- detectives, coffee as they made themselves comfortable at my grey and glass dining table. My apartment is a loft and very spacious. From the table you had a vantage point of the whole room which was plain but messy. I hadn’t cooked food or cleaned, hell, I’ve hardly left my bed in at least a week. I poured them coffee into two matching mugs and saved my extra-large, chipped college mug for myself. I sat at the table, shifting my weight trying to be comfortable under their gaze but constantly found that I wasn’t able to relax. Every interaction with a police officer or detective just leaves me feeling like they don’t believe my story, my account, of what happened last Thursday night. They ask the same questions over and over like they are expecting me to slip up and tell them something completely different and wild.

The first detective finally looked at his partner and then back to me. “I wish we had some better news for you. We were able to catch part of the struggle on the camera outside your building and we’re waiting on our tech guys to scrub it so we can try to get a license plate number. But until then, why don’t you recount your… story, for us one more time since we aren’t the cops who took your original statement.”

My face flushed and I continued to stare into my coffee. A sort of numbness takes over me each time I recount what happened. Like I’m telling a tale about someone else and that this all didn’t really happen to me. I took a deep breath and started at the top. “Okay,” I mumbled, “if you insist.” The second detective clicked open a pen and opened up a tiny notebook that he had taken out of his pocket. He gave me a nod as if to say, go ahead.

“I went out with a few friends on Thursday night, just to hang out for a little bit with some friends that I hadn’t seen in a while. We had a flight tasting at a brewery downtown before just me and Kate went to another bar.”

“And why was it only the two of you going?” the first detective asked.

“I hadn’t seen her in a while. We used to see each other two or three times a week but we hadn’t and wanted time to catch up, just the two of us,” I replied. He gave me a nod, and I continued.

“We got to the next bar, The Peacock, and things seemed fine. It was really crowded and Kate and I sat at a table outside. She ordered us both a drink and a water. I remember that it was so packed on the roof but Kate felt like this group of kids in the corner was looking at us the wrong way. Everything happened so fast. Kate went to the bathroom and I guess on her way back she started yelling and getting into a fight with a girl who was sitting at that table. I don’t know what the fight was about but Kate is like, the sweetest girl in the world. She would never have started something unless she felt like she had to. But I told the waitress that stepped in that Kate and I would leave. As we were going down the stairs Kate started acting weird. She couldn’t stand up, she wasn’t making any sense when she was talking. My only thought was to get her safely to my car so I could figure out what to do next. But I had to carry her, literally carry her, and her purse and stuff and in all the craziness my purse fell and was picked up by someone who later stole my money and my credit card. Someone saw Kate passed out on the ground and called an ambulance. They took Kate away, the doctors told her that she had been roofied with Ketamine and had an allergic reaction. I think I was roofied too but I’m double Kate’s size and I don’t think it impacted me as much. But anyways, Kate was taken away in an ambulance and a cop told me he would take me to a homeless shelter for the night or back to my apartment. I didn’t have anything- no purse, no phone, no car keys, no apartment keys, I mean nothing. The cop took my back to my apartment building and left me there.

Not too long later, I was sitting on the corner crying when an Indian man in a red car pulled over. He listened to me, he told me he would help me and the next thing I knew he punched me in the eye,” I lifted my hand up to my green, swollen face, “and drug me into the alley next to the apartment building. He threw me on top of a dumpster, pulled my dress up and raped me. I don’t remember if he finished. I don’t know how long it went on for. I only remember the smell. The stink of the garbage, it smelled like rotting beef. The next thing I remember is him grabbing me by the ponytail and throwing me in his car. I don’t remember a lot after that. He kept stroking my bare legs telling me he was going to take care of me. He would take me to a motel and take good care of me. Maybe he said it was his motel? I’m not exactly sure. He touched me all over my clothes. I remember we drove on roads that didn’t have a lot of lights. Suddenly, I looked out the window and saw a fire station. We stopped at a red light and when it turned green I jumped out of the car, ran over the median, and went straight to the firehouse. From there the police were called again and they took me to the hospital to wait for Kate to wake up since they didn’t have anywhere else for me to go. And that’s it. That’s what happened,” as I concluded I glanced up. I realized how quickly I had been talking and how fast the second detective had to scribble to keep up.

“Thank you,” the first detective said. “I know its unpleasant to talk about.”

I half laugh and half snarled. It was the first time I looked up to the detective’s scrutinizing brown eyes. “Yes,” I spat, “it is.”

The first detective continued, “We will let you know when we have some more information from the security cameras and go from there. That’s all we have for you today. Thank you for the coffee. Where should we leave our cards?” The detective was finished with me. Just like all the others, came to take from me and leave. He had no intention of sharing anything in return. I walked them out before returning to the comfort of my clean smelling bedsheets for the remainder of the day.

3

I laid on my side in a tight ball, sweating. Another nightmare, I thought, as the images of hands squeezing my throat from behind and eyes looking down on me started to fade from the front of my mind. Curled up like this, I felt safe, my body felt protected. I made a conscious effort to slow down my breath and wipe the tears from my eyes as my heart continued to vigorously pump blood through my veins, ready to escape the danger that lives inside my own head.

That’s it, I thought, switching on the light. I am done. I am done sitting and waiting for something to happen. I am done hiding away from the world. I am done being a victim. I need to go out and find him. I need to know that he can’t hurt me or any other girl ever again. As if I was hit by a bolt of lightning I realized that justice was probably never going to come to me. The police weren’t ever going to help me, they certainly couldn’t keep me safe so why should I trust them to help me now? The answer, I’m not. I felt the gears of my mind shifting, finally fitting pieces together so that I felt like I had a handle on how to run an investigation like this. I know the guy who did this. I talked with him, I spent time in his car. I know how to find this guy if only I can remember some more of what happened that night. If the police won’t do the work that needs to be done, then I will.

4

I walked into the plain brown office building situated in a large plaza close to town. I had never done anything like this before but I figured that I might as well try. I walked inside and scanned the building directory plastered to the wall near the entrance until I found the office number for Dr. Benson. She was the most well reviewed hypnosis doctor that I read about online. I walked into her office and filled out her intake forms which she reviewed with me once we were seated together in her office. She asked me a few questions, mostly about my willingness and goals for the session. Her demeanor was honestly refreshing. She didn’t look at me like a broken Barbie doll, she looked at me like, I would imagine, she looks at all of her clients.

I closed my eyes and let Dr. Benson walk me through a narrow hallway in my mind with short, navy blue carpet. I saw identical closed wooden doors scattered on sides of the hallway. I walked forward, carefully considering each door. Which one was the right one? How do I go back to the right parts? As if she could hear my thoughts, I heard Dr. Benson’s voice tell me that I would be able to see the broken door and to start there. I continued to walk, unsure of how far I had gone until I came upon a wooden door that looked different. It hung off the frame a little and looked as though it had been punched. A fist sized crater in the door sent wood splintering out at weird angles. I grabbed the door knob to find that it was warm, like someone had been holding their hand on the knob for a while, constantly using this door. Just as Dr. Benson promised, I knew this was the one.

I twisted the knob and slowly pushed the door open. It was dark inside, like when you’re standing just on the outer glow of a street lamp. I realized that I was now sitting in the back seat of the red car. The seats were grey polyester and the car still smelled new mixed with the spices of cumin and curry. I watched the large, heavy-set man stroke my leg in the front seat. I heard him tell me that he would take me to his motel soon after he picked something up. He said his motel. So, he does own it. Just then the car stopped at a red light. I looked up at the street signs. Madison Avenue and… the light changed. I saw the passenger door fling open as the car began rolling forward. My black t shirt dress was short and loose and bounced up as I clamored over the median in the road. The car continued forward as the bottom sole of my favorite black boots came half loose and slapped the ground as I ran toward the fire station door.

The fire station itself looked brand new. The sand and grey colored bricks of the building looked hardly tarnished. But the entire station was well lit and I watched from the backseat of the red car as I dropped down to my knees outside the fire house and cried. I sobbed there for what seemed like an eternity before two men in their boxers and white tee shirts knelt down beside me and helped carry me inside. The darkness around me started closing in, all the sharp details looking fuzzier and fuzzier until I opened my eyes to Dr. Bensons sterile, white office.

I rushed out of Dr. Benson’s office with clarity. Now I knew for sure that the guy who tried to take me owned a motel. Probably a motel close to the fire station I ended up barging into at 3 am. I situated my new whiteboard on the wall near my kitchen table which is also where I set up my laptop. I started writing out what I know. Red, mid-sized car. Maybe a Toyota or a Honda. I don’t remember exactly but I know it wasn’t anything flashy. He was Indian and talked about taking me to a motel. Not just any motel, HIS motel. I’m sure property records for the motel could give me a name I just need to figure out which motel it is. He definitely said motel not hotel, right? No, I know it’s a motel, likely near the fire station. The new looking fire station near Madison Avenue. Now, at least, I know where to start.

5

I began my search spree. I started looking up all the fire stations in Albuquerque, focusing on ones that are within a fifteen-minute drive of my apartment. I don’t know how long I was in the red car for but I know that if you drive more than 15 minutes in any direction from my place downtown you’re basically in the middle of nowhere. I tried to see images of the fire stations online but couldn’t see all of them. The fire stations that do have pictures online were definitely not it. I made a list of the fire stations that it potentially could have been and I set out to see them. I drove in a circle around the outskirts of Albuquerque looking for the shining new structure until I found myself driving on Madison Avenue. After four hours of searching, my energy was low. I felt like maybe I couldn’t trust my memory of things that happened that night, even what I remember through my hypnosis session. Maybe it’s all a crock of shit like the real doctors have said again and again.

I drove until I pulled up to a red light. I came to the end of the road. With a sigh, I looked left and right, unsure of where to go next. I decided to turn left and immediate got light headed. When I turned the car, I saw it. A big, light tan and grey brick building. It was the fire station. I pulled into the parking lot and sat there, my hands trembling, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. I had really done it, I found the fire station from that night, I almost couldn’t believe it. Suddenly, I felt bile rise up in my throat, barely making it out of car before the vomit started spilling out of my mouth.

I found the fire station, Station 7, on my list and circled it with a pen I found in my dash. I debated going inside, thanking them for their kindness towards me that night. I paced outside my car with the driver side door open. As I paced, I felt like someone was watching me. I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder. Was that a person in the bushes? Or just a shadow? I wrote a note on some spare paper in my notebook and stuck it to the door of the fire house with some gum. I couldn’t stay a minute longer. I got in my car and drove to the safety of my parking garage, sprinted to my apartment and I went directly to the comfort of my bedroom to try and get control of my racing heart. Baby steps, I told myself, baby steps.

6

Okay, now for the tricky part. I needed to find the motel. I made Station 7 the center point of my search. From there, there were seven motels in a five-mile radius. I know in my gut that the motel is close to that fire station. Out of the seven motels that came up in my search, one was no longer in operation and another would probably classify more as a hotel than a motel. I kept it on the list but moved it to the bottom, as I thought it was least likely. The five I had left weren’t far from one another and I didn’t need to see them so much as I needed to know who owned them. If I can find the business records or maybe property records for all of them, then maybe I could find the guy who took me. But that also meant I needed to call in a favor.

I got the number for Alejandro through a girl friend of mine. She didn’t ask a lot of questions but she knew something was up. She told me that Alej knew I would be calling him. So, I walked the length of my apartment over and over again, maybe hoping that this would power me up to make the phone call. Alejandro is not someone I know well, I knew him as a nice police officer that sometimes hung around at Sasha and Roone’s house. Sasha and I had become really good friends in the brief time I have lived here in Albuquerque. She was like family to me, inviting me over for Sunday dinner and always including me in happy hour at the breweries. Her house was always the place to be and there was always a diverse group of people coming in and out of Sasha and Roone’s house. Alejandro was one of them and I trust him more than any other police officer I know.

I hit the number and my phone started ringing. When Alej finally picked up I realized it was just like talking to an old friend. I told him what happened to me that night out with Kate and I told him what I had already found out. “You need to be calling the detectives, Mija, not telling me,” he lectured, “but if you promise me that you up will update them, I will find this out for you. And I will find out if you tell them,” his voice was stern. I agreed and thanked him a million times over. After hanging up with Alej, I thought about the detectives that came to see me earlier this week, how different he was than them. I thought of how cold and detached they were even listening to me speak while Alejandro couldn’t have been more kind. And, even better, he agreed to help! This meant that I had to call the detectives and update them if I wanted Alej to follow through on the names of the owners and their addresses. I called the detectives to update them and they sounded less interested than if I had told them I found a penny on the ground. I don’t even really think they have ever actively listened to a word that I’ve said. I thought back to the detective taking notes at my kitchen table. I’m fairly certain that he was actually just doodling on a sketch pad, not noting any important breakthroughs in my case. So what, I thought, I don’t need them. I am going to end this all on my own.

7

I couldn’t take my eyes off my cell phone for two days. For a full 48 hours I wouldn’t go anywhere, even to take one of my four daily showers, without it. Finally, around 8:00 pm on that second day, Alej called me back. He carefully went over all the names that he was able to pull for the five business licenses and property reports. Some of the hotels had two or three different names on the different licenses but I had Alejandro give me all of them. I thanked him again, choking back tears as I spoke. I told him that I spoke to the detectives and I don’t think they’re going to help or do anything. Alej was silent for a moment. “Not all of us are as committed to helping people as they are to getting their paycheck. I’m sorry that they didn’t help you and I’m sorry for what happened to you,” it was like a warm hug over the phone. After we hung up I ran down the list of eight names and my pulse quickened.

I quickly opened up my laptop and went to Facebook. First things first, I wanted to see if I eliminate any of these names as the man who attacked me. I searched, and searched, and searched again. Three of the men I definitely found and between their names and their pictures, I could rule them out. I crossed their names off the list. Three of them I couldn’t find on Facebook at all, and the other two I found but couldn’t see any pictures of them on their pages. The five names that stared back at me from the paper taunting me. I know the man that took me was Indian, I know it. Only one name on the list had an Indian surname, Patel. Mohamed Patel, to be exact. I felt all the blood drain from my head and started seeing spots. I reached out an arm for my bed and slowly lowered myself to the floor. It had to be him. It had to be.

I called Alejandro on my way to the Motel 6 that is only a twelve-minute drive from my apartment. I got his voicemail and told him that I was going to the Motel 6 to confront Mohamed about what he did to me. I told him I figured it out and I was going to make it right. I sped all the way there, ignoring the quick changing lights and traffic signs telling me to yield. Every part of me started sweating despite the air conditioning pumping icy air through the car. The only thing I could think about was the rotting smell clinging to my nostrils, smelling rot in hair for days, smelling rot on all of my clothes, showering over and over again to make the smell of rotting meat go away. I thought of being filled with smells of lavender and soap. I thought of smelling wet dog and coffee. I thought of smelling anything but the smell of rotting meat for the rest of my life.

I pulled into the parking lot. My heart racing and my mind blank. I asked the woman at the front desk to call the owner and tell him that I need to speak with him, it is immediate and important. I remember that she looked at me, I think she asked a question, but all I could do was repeat myself. I saw her eyes open wide, her lower lip tremble as she reached for the phone. Next thing I knew, the elevator door opened and there he was. Only a few inches taller than me but much heavier. He had broad shoulders, thick, hairy hands, and a substantial beer belly. Without missing a beat, I walked up to him and punched him in the eye. He turned to face me, looking both surprised and enraged. Before he could react, I kicked him. With blood trickling out of his nose, I kicked him as hard as I could. I thought about all the years I spent playing soccer and all the soccer balls I had tried to boot down the field and I kicked him again, even harder. He doubled over, onto his side, his arms scrambling to protect his most vulnerable body parts. I kicked, and kicked, and kicked until I felt someone grab me from behind and pick me up. I screamed, loud and wild, until I realized that I was being carried out of the motel.

There were three police cars that I could count with lights flashing and an ambulance pulled up to the entrance of the hotel right as I was being carried out. Paramedics swarmed me, each holding an appendage while another held a small light up to my eyes, prompting me to take deep breaths. Deep breaths, I thought, deep breaths. I noticed my breathing was short and shallow, basically a wheeze, before everything turned black and I passed out.

When I woke up, I was laid out on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance, my arms restrained on the stretcher. I asked the paramedics what happened and they told me that they gave me a sedative as they released my arms. They called me hysterical. Ha, hysterical. If only you all knew. I got out of the ambulance to see only one police car remained, Alejandro was inside finishing up his conversation with the hotel manager. I thanked him for coming when he said, “We arrested him, Mohamed Patel. I just thought you should know that he’s going to jail. You did it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I replied, my eyes fixated down at my shoes. I gave him a hug and walked back to my car, feeling numb for that first moment. Is my nightmare really over? Can someone pinch me so I know that it’s real?

A sudden relief washed over me. Tears came pouring out of me and I started to hiccup once I was alone in my car. He’s behind bars, never to hurt anyone again. And I’m the one who did it. I walked with a weight lifting from my shoulders. I stood up straighter, with a bounce in my step. No longer feeling unwanted eyes on my back. No longer feeling hot breath making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. No longer smelling rotting garbage everywhere I go, filling the air all around me. I felt the shackles that had tied to me to my apartment crack and crumble. I felt the invisible chains come loose from my mind. The evening Albuquerque air smelled crisp and fresh. The world pulsed with life and possibility. In that moment I vowed to never allow myself to lose this feeling ever again.

He was still at his desk tapping away waiting for a verse to pour out his empty gut, nothing arrived, he was still thinking about her, he could only hope to meet her somehow. He scribbled a few words down to get his poetic sentiments aroused from his empty, demented vessel. The first word he wrote was: “tomorrow” then “land”. What was he doing here still, why bother writing something that wouldn’t exist, all would vanish, or rather everything that ever was had already vanished.

“Ding!”

A sound had burst out of the darkness behind him. “Not now” he thought as he continued his internal self-loathing.

“Ding!Ding!”

“Who the hell is it?!” he yelled aloud, “It is a message by Arthur Aims” the somewhat choppy, robotic feminine voice had responded from John’s laptop lying on his charcoal sheets. “Samantha, what does the message say!” he said as he approached the grey machine,

“Arthur Aims: I see you’re still active on that little website you write on all the time, if you’re still slaving away at that desk again so help me. You have to stop writing so damn late, I can’t have you falling asleep on me anymore behind the counter, if they find you again in that storage room dozing off they will eliminate you and put you before the council, now FOR FUCK SAKES go to bed: Sent by Arthur Aims”.

“Samantha send Arthur Aims a message: Fine I will lay my soulless ass to bed just let me get a few more words in and I will be on my way to this fine little island of sleep, goodnight:

Message sent”.

The room fell silent and John’s hands prepared for one last line, he had finally had it:

Tomorrowland, Tomorrowland

bathed by battled

Hope,

If Tomorrow comes,

or even if it exists,

I wish this:

a world not forged by myth,

beings not dismissed,

freedom from all of this.

He shut the humming machine off with the click of a button, and put down its rectangular face then put it to the side of his bed onto the beige carpeted floor. The Dome of Historia would soon be pumped with light, and the skulking engineers would prepare to begin the next day.

Link to Part 1 of Straight From The Devil’s Mouth: https://theprose.com/post/327618/straight-from-the-devil-s-mouth-version-1-part-1-welcome-to-hell

Image by KellPics ( https://pixabay.com/users/kellepics-4893063/ )

As of late I have found it extremely difficult to sit down and write anything that I believe will to some degree surpass my Being, or the fully fleshed out version of myself that exists at this moment. I find myself doing dishonest things in my writing, just yesterday I found myself writing something for the purpose of bashing someone, and trying to start a fiery argument. When I posted it I was not trying to provide any insight that was worthwhile, but listening to the thumping hatred in my head and heart. I prefer to be genuine and honest, that is my mode of being, perhaps not all of the time, but for the most part I strive to achieve these standards.

In my past “Why I Write” I stated that 1) How can you continue writing without direction or reason? 2) You must always be thankful towards those who give you a chance to express yourself.

I believe this is absolutely true, although I have not lived up to this as of late. This piece is to develop my belief that dark things can be used to expose the beauty of Being. I wish to develop my followers’ understanding of who I am and what I believe. This whole concept is based off of one of my favorite writer’s essays, “Why I Write” by George Orwell. In it he mentions that one must know an author’s background in order to understand their motives.

My love for writing was a slow one, at an early age I rarely read, although I did love creating massive story arcs in my mind and with my toys(generally toy soldiers and superheroes). As far as I can remember I always had a little voice in my head that I characterized as my guide, I imagined that my skull was a headquarters for a group of little human beings that helped me through my life. They dictated my actions and words. Oddly I believed that my whole body was like a machine, at one point I imagined the little humans in my head using an elevator to get down to the lower level of my body to fend off little robotic dogs-it was odd~ish. This was something that I imagined up until the age of about 16 maybe earlier. I still have my little human residing in my mind, but I am certain now that it is my conscience.

By the fifth grade I had reached my first real encounter with books and writing. I had a glorious teacher named Ms.Gonzalez, a wonderful new teacher that engaged with my class in such a manner that work was more of an exploration. She truly pushed me and others to read, the first and second book series I finished were because of her. The first was The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod and the second was The Hunger Games. I was somewhat amazed by these books, but the ones that still interest me today are the ones I read in her class and in the school book club. One being Among The Hidden(I believe) by Margaret Haddix and the other being The City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau. I was amazed by the totalitarian state in Among the Hidden, and the secrecy, it was strange to see how things could get so wrong to the point where a government was willing to limit the number of kids people could have. The City of Ember was a marvel to me, I have always been amazed by cities and the compact drama that occurs within them. Each book stretched my imagination and made me truly visualize the events that occured within the books. My first ambitious piece of writing was one based off the video game Borderlands 2, in which I created a band of characters that slowly united together to fight against the bad guy, that being me. I showed the piece to my teacher which I had written in a green notebook and was surprised to hear her say that she wanted more of one of the characters. I was expecting a beat down, but luckily she gave me a figurative pat on the back and a nice “keep trying kid”. By the end of the fifth grade major changes in my life had led me to what I would like to refer to as my dark days from 6th to 7th grade. It was mainly a major shift from being a clueless 12 year old to a clueless 13 year old with hair and hormones on the fritz. Seventh grade gave me a small chance to write some more in my creative writing class, but it was short-lived. I wrote a story about the Russian Sleep Experiment creepypasta and another one where I wrote a story about a man falling into a ravine and discovering an ancient temple, but in the end it was all just a dream.

By the 10th grade I began a magnificent adventure. I had discovered dystopias, the first being the beautiful 1984. I loved Orwell’s dark and realistic world. From there I moved on to Fahrenheit 451, The Handmaid’s Tale, Animal Farm, The Only Thing To Fear, and later on to Brave New World. I could not help but dig deeper into these books, the way people lived and carried out their day to day actions in a realm where everything was like a boot. They stood up against the hell that ate them alive and did what they could to pursue the truth. I had been deprived for years of books and the worlds inside of them. I looked for guidance in them that I could not find in my fatherless home, books were my teacher. They drove me to find who I was and how I should act. Tenth grade altered my perspective on the world, people believed in me and I began to do so as well. When eleventh grade came around I was embarking on a new adventure, I had read The Odyssey over the summer and a few other books. My thirst for books was growing, by the eleventh grade I had discovered the wonders of prose and poetry. When I went to my school’s south library I had browsed through the poetry section, and found a green book named Leaves Of Grass by Walt Whitman. Whitman completed my voyage for both honesty and character, it was Orwell for truth and Whitman for soul.

I am now in the 12th grade and have lost my momentum. I want to write more poems but I find that doing free verse is not enough. I find myself distant these days from old friends and who I was a year ago. I may have changed for the better but I am stuck in an unknown territory and I do not know whether to swim back or go forward. For now I write for the purpose of helping people transition from hell to some greater purpose, I may not be there myself yet, but I no longer diminish myself at least. I am worthy of walking with God, that is the way I understand it, in other words I deserve the same respect I give to others. I want to lead people through the dark and help them find meaning and to show them that they are not alone.

This is what I will strive to write about for now.

I want to thank the glorious prosers that have supported me both old and new.

Thank you all. Truly, thank you.

@sandflea68

@Mfrobs

@Mnezz

@ParkerProse

@AuroraRaine

@Harry_Situation

@InLoveWithWords

@EstherFlowers1

@Mavia

@Bunny

@AndyBetz

@EmberJoy

@justaperson

@Mazzmyrrheyes

@2Bamboopanda

@Lotusflower

@GaryEnglish

@wetpetals

@whiskeyglitter

@HandsOfFire

@SaffiyaSmith

@RobertDocBarham

@AtomDub

@STBhagyalakshmi

@Hannahvee

@LisaLoveSkinner

@Telka

@QuietSilence

@Mpgsr

@Maggie121402

@OJethwani

@JaneSays

@stupidcupiid

@IntheeyesofMya

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Entering the room, it was more elegant and less foreboding than I had anticipated. It felt like we were being swallowed whole by a tree, every surface was smooth mahogany, polished to perfection. Most of the benches were already filled, but we found three spots together and settled in. A man in uniform was reading off names, the owners of which would stand and move to the front to stand before the judge. He wasn’t intimidating, the way you may imagine. His face bore a wide smile, contradicting the atmosphere the rest of the building exuded. Today was his favorite type of day, you could just tell by the softness behind his eyes.

When they finally called our names, I could feel the awkwardness in the room. I stood at least two feet taller than most of the people there that day and I knew people were watching us, wondering why we were here. Standing before the podium where the judge sat, one of the few things in the room that rose above my own height, I felt my heart begin to quicken as if it was going to escape my ribcage, spill into the room and reveal itself to the congregation.

The judge spoke his script, and we spoke ours. Freedom of speech may be a right in this country, but in a courtroom, there is a protocol to follow. My voice wavered, not because of uncertainty, but out of relief. For most of my life, this moment was one I had eagerly wished for. It was the moment I would finally be free, the moment that would change everything.

Six months earlier, I had celebrated my eighteenth birthday at my favorite restaurant surrounding by my entire family. After the meal, the cake, and too many presents that were truly necessary, my mom had handed me the final gift of the day. It was a thin manila envelope and I looked at her curiously as she delivered it. I could tell by the look in her eye this was going to be something incredible but had no concept of what it may be. Maybe plane tickets somewhere exotic for the upcoming summer, before I left for college. It could have been some tickets for all of us to go see an amazing play.

My mom had always been a skilled gift-giver, not only because she always knew exactly what we wanted but she had a flair for how she delivered the treat. One Christmas, my sister had been dying for a pair of Ugg boots and, that morning, my mom handed her a single card with a clue written inside - she was being sent on a scavenger hunt around the house. The hunt lasted at least 20 minutes with my sister giggling and running around finding the next clue, and then the next until she found the boots hidden on a stuffed animal and screamed with excitement.

That day, as she passed me the envelope, I knew this gift was going to be something I wanted more than anything and still had no clue what that could be. I opened it carefully, slowly bending the metal prongs and gently removing the papers it contained. Scanning the documents, I only grew more confused. I saw my name and then my parent’s names and then a single word that made everything clear - “Adoption.” After living with my aunt & uncle on and off for years and considering them my parents, I was actually going to be adopted.

When I was around fifteen was the first time I asked them if I could call the “mom” and “dad,” and although they had agreed, they had also explained I couldn’t be adopted, not yet at least. If we had pursued adoption while I was still a minor, my birth mother, who was my aunt’s big sister, could fight us to regain custody of me. The idea of returning to her world devastated me, and the fact that she was still keeping me from what I truly wanted was just another reason to add to the long list of reasons I despised her. But I knew they were right, so I settled for just the titles - “mom” and “dad.” That’s who they were to me and that was all that really mattered.

Eighteenth birthdays are important for so many reasons. Becoming a legal adult, leaving home for new adventures, and, for me, legally becoming a part of the family I adored. Six months later, when we stepped into that courtroom, I towered above most everyone else because, one, I was always tall for a girl at five foot nine inches. And two, most of the others in attendance were younger than ten years old. I envied each of them for joining their families at such a young age. Looking back, I hope they know how lucky they were to have that chance.

When the judge asked us if we condoned this arrangement, we excitedly agreed. Then, per tradition, he invited me to select a stuffed animal from the box of donated toys. Initially, I nearly declined, it seemed silly for me, an adult, to take a toy that was intended for the little ones in the room. But my dad stopped me and said, “Take one, this is our day too and you should have this reminder.” So I looked in the box and chose one that made us both laugh - it was a Garfield the cat stuffed animal with suction cups attached to each of his four paws so he could adhere to a window. And on his rear was a button that read, “Stuck on You,” with little hearts. I stuck it on the window in the backseat of my dad’s car on the way home and stared at it for the whole drive.

I lost my dad five years ago and recently found that Garfield stuffed toy in a an old box and when I looked at it, I could still hear his voice urging me to take a memento that day. He was right, and I still need that reminder in my life. It takes me back to the courtroom that day, squeezing both of their hands as they agreed to call me theirs for the rest of our days. It takes me back to the restaurant on my birthday when I first opened the envelope that changed everything. It takes me back to that day when I was fifteen and asked them for more than they could give me at the time. It takes me back to when I was still living with my birth mother, the day I ran to the payphone in a nearby park and made a phone call that redirected my life. The day I asked if I could live with them, not just while my birth mother was in jail, not just for a visit, but forever. They agreed without question because they were my parents even then, and parents always do what’s best for their children.

Unnoticed, I made myself scarce from the room. There were 11 people in the jury who were convinced that the defendant deserved the death penalty. If I continued to oppose them, the case would result in a mistrial. The pressure of my fellow jurors weighed heavily on my shoulders. I took advantage of the discussion whether we should get pizza or burgers to disappear to the restrooms.

I forced myself to look in the mirror. I still can’t reproduce the full story of what happened to me on the day I started hating myself, twenty years ago. I remember seeing a robin in the morning and a nurse introducing herself as Marian in the evening. Everything in between is a blur. I couldn’t tell the police what the man looked like, but I knew I would recognize the tattoo on his right wrist anywhere.

That’s how I discovered him last year. My barber had just retired, and I was in desperate need of a haircut. Choosing a new barber is a delicate matter. I had postponed finding one until further delay was no longer justified. By a dark twist of fate, I walked into that man’s barbershop. My body froze when a pair of scissors hovered above my head. I couldn’t keep my eyes from the crescent moon shining in front of me. It belonged to the man who had ruined my childhood.

I don’t know how I managed to get home that night, but I woke up the next morning determined to confront my demon. I waited until he closed his shop and followed him home. Like a thief, I sneaked into his backyard and looked through the kitchen window. Much to my surprise, I saw a woman pointing a gun at him. She pulled the trigger before I could utter a single sound. As the body fell, I stepped back, triggering a garden light sensor. The next moment, the woman and I looked into each other’s eyes. She lowered her gun and opened the kitchen door.

I could only think of one thing to say: ‘I wouldn’t have had the courage to do what you did.’

‘He deserved it,’ she said.

‘He certainly did,’ I answered.

We didn’t need more words to understand each other.

‘I should probably call the police,’ she concluded. ‘It’s better if you go now.’

We shook hands and I left her with the body of her dead husband on the kitchen floor.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. I didn’t flinch during the “voir dire” when asked if there was any reason why I wouldn’t qualify as a juror. She kept her lips sealed about finding out —after all those years being married to him— that her husband was a child molester.

I repeated my argument one more time in front of the mirror: ‘What about the footprints in the garden? There must have been a third person involved.’

And so the debate continued.

Quick Acknowledgements

To Danceinsilence,Mnezz, and Undermeyou for making me want to continue this series, thank you so much.

John viciously slammed his pen against the dark oak desk. The pen immediately was fractured and oozed out black ink as it spilled out from the round chamber leaving dark stains on his crystal nails and on the remainder of his trembling left hand. His dying words on the darkening page were quickly being consumed by ravenous black ink, John instantly snapped and remembered the words he had written before his miniature outburst :“She was heaven, a being of natural gold…”. John’s photographic memory kept his dark nights from being lost in time and kept them entertaining(or at least interesting enough to stow away for the following days and months). His rage was frequent during his writing sessions, but so was his peace. John picked up the corpse of the pen and threw it into the ‘abyss’, or better known as the holy grail of a writer’s thoughts- a trash can. Specifically, a dark metal bin that was slowly being choked out by crumpled white pages.The bin also had a newly added pool of ink from around 6 P.M and the newest from 10 P.M. The night was diving into the vacant room and John was trying to figure out what would happen from here until the sun jumped back up in the sky: one, he could go to sleep(or at least try to), or two, he could continue to slave away at his embracing desk to try to realize some fictitious ideal. John slowly stood up from his desk in search for another pen and some napkins.

John was locked in a writer’s high, strolling along the smooth,creamy pages of his leather-bound notebook. The dark luscious ink made the night spin and spin. A girl had trapped his every thought, he could not push her away, not even by splashing his words onto these tormenting pages.He was in a daze. For two months John had spent every night trying to escape her, she had brown eyes with waving glowing auburn hair and a crescent smile that mimicked the moon’s glow. Every time he saw her he was pumped with mandated pills and bubbling liquids. His dreams were dark paradisal trips that rode him through the wintry pathways of his mind. Nothing could stop him, he was a juggernaut of love shattering through every image and dream he had of her.

It was around 2 A.M when John gazed out into the glimmering city, he had hardly felt the piercing glow that the Legion Towers emitted all through the flying night. His eyes were caving in and beginning to struggle to maintain the harmonious consciousness that worked as his caffeine well into the night. John knew for sure that sooner or later he would have to lay in his despotic bed, but did it have to be now? He was close to realizing his dreams: “her golden eyes were ferocious, she slithered through dark forged dreams unraveling…”. John had cut short the verse, he was furious and heavily fatigued, “I can’t give up now” he thought, but it was no use, it was another failed night; and a horrendous tomorrow awaited him and those he faintly remembered.

Image by KellPics ( https://pixabay.com/users/kellepics-4893063/ )

If you were to drown

I’d toss and turn

in

Godless rays.

I’d eat the dust and mites

below my

head.

Save the remaining

snack below my

bed.

I hear your gurgling

throat being flooded

by that

trespassing

expanse.

Something about you doesn’t

stop.

Your arm is an

oar.

What do you paddle

for?

I contemplate your

remanents;

your metaphysical

ashes.

Tease me,

slash

these thoughts

in

t

wo!

Why bother?

You’ve drowned,

No one knows.

No one.

I held the words behind the clock.

Every .... struck

Each .... I stopped.

The present was dead.

Who Controls the past,

Controls the future.

Moments she said were inevitable,

a life well lived is decided.

I took the book and turned the page,

days without content

I’ll never count again.

“I’m telling you dude.” Mav gnawed at his steak quesadilla. “She’s into me.”

“What makes you say that?” I wiped my cheek with a finger and coughed. He got the message and mopped his face with his napkin.

“Well she looked over at me.”

“Or she was just looking out the window.” Asaf interjected.

The Pantry Diner seemed more crowded than usual, especially on a Tuesday afternoon. However, the food still remained as fresh as always.

“Can we move on from the girl that looked at you from across the diner?” I sighed. “You do this every time we’re in public.”

“You’re not wrong.” Mav shrugged.

“I’m single too, and you don’t see me lasering random chicks with my stare.” I managed to suppress my own laugh with a grin. “So, onto more pressing matters, we gotta talk about the final in Intro to Calculus.”

“Are you gonna finish your veggie omelet?” Asaf pointed at my food.

“I’ll give it to you if you help Mav and I with math when we get back.”

“Why would I put myself through that?” He swapped the positions of our plates.

“I don’t know, you’re pre-med.”

“It doesn’t work like that man.”

“Why not?” I furrowed my eyebrows. “They’re practically the same thing.”

“Hardly.” Asaf dug into my omelet. “Dumbass.”

“I hate to interrupt your love affair guys.” Mav sipped his coffee and burped. “But there’s a real shady guy checking you out, Leo.”

I looked to my left, then my right, and Mav spoke the truth. A man, around 5’11, wearing black skinny jeans and a plain blue t-shirt, brooded at the diner’s bar. He held up two fingers to the bartender and smiled at her, then returned his gaze to me.

“Staring at someone for more than five seconds in a row can be considered sexual harassment.” Asaf mumbled with his mouth full. “It’s definitely been more than five seconds.”

“I don’t think Leo is into that, Asaf.” Mav whispered.

Asaf face palmed.

“I think I know him.”

“Is he part of that ‘mysterious past’ of yours, eh?” Mav chuckled.

I glared at him and his smile faded.

“If he doesn’t want to share his life before we met him seven months ago, he doesn’t have to.” Asaf jabbed my shoulder.

“Be right back.” I stood up, walked to the bar, and sat next to the man.

“Long time no see, Leon.” He nodded.

“Noone’s called me that since ‒”

“Athens.”

I scanned him one more time before realizing who sat next to me. “Therron, you bastard.”

“In the flesh.”

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” The bartender placed a Corona in front of me, and a Corona light in front of him. “Really? A light? What happened to you over the past decade?”

“Nothing too exciting.” He took a swig of his beer. “Collected a few big bounties while you’ve been running away here in America.”

I looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Alright buddy, listen.” He set his beer on the coaster and turned towards me. “We get why you left Athens, after what happened, but I’m here to tell you that they’ve caught up with you.”

“You’re lying.” My tone raised, and some strangers glanced at me. “That’s impossible.”

“I wish I was.” He leaned in closer. “Their in Atlanta, Georgia right now, and something tells me it didn’t take them this long because you hid well.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a lot of them, Leon.”

“What’s a lot?”

“An army.”

I inhaled and rubbed my forehead. “This is bad.”

“You had to have seen this coming.” He placed his hand on my back. “You’re literally running from Fate herself.”

“I’m aware.”

“And she’s caught up with you now.” He removed his hand and went for the Corona light again. “You weren’t supposed to survive that car accident ‒ hell ‒ she designed it just for you!”

“What’s done is done.” I chugged my drink. “I had no choice.”

“That’s a load of horse ‒”

“What was I to do then, huh?” I threw my arms in the air. “Just die? I didn’t believe in all these cosmic entities until one of them gave me a second chance, and I’m not going to throw it away just because another one is pissed.”

“I’m not judging you on your choices ‒ I can’t. All I’m saying is that Fate has got a nice golden thread with your name on it, and you can’t run from that forever. Moving from state to state every eight to twelve months is not good enough.”

“Interesting conversation you two got going on there.” The bartender furrowed her brow.

“Nothing to worry about.” I giggled at her and turned to address Therron, hushing my voice. “Then tell me what to do.”

“You need to stop running and fight this head on.”

“How do we fight Fate?”

“I have no idea.”

“Which entity did I bargain with?”

“No clue.”

“Do you know how to make contact with any entity in particular?”

“Nope. I know how to find their servants and emissaries though.”

“Well this is a great start.” I set a ten dollar bill on the counter and rose from my seat. “But we need to get out of here now and figure this out in some place less… public.”

“Good idea.” He finished his beer. “Say goodbye to your friends over there.”

I approached Asaf and Mav. “Hey guys, I gotta run, something came up.”

“So you know this guy?” Mav took a bite of the giant chocolate chip cookie.

“Yea, we go way back.”

“I’ll take it.” Asaf slapped the table. “Anything to get me out of helping you too fools with math.”

“Is everything ok?” Mav removed a crum in the corner of his mouth with his tongue.

“Yea, but I really gotta go.” I dropped a twenty on the table. “I’ll catch up with you guys later, ok?”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” Mav stood up and green light flickered in his eyes.

“No way.” Asaf looked at me, then at Mav. “Am I the only one seeing this?”

“Nope.” I took a few steps back. “You should run.”

“Oh, there’s no need for running.” Mav smirked.

“What’s taking so long?” Therron strolled over and noticed the scene. “Oh.”

“Pleasure to meet you in person, Therron.” He stepped out from behind the table and walked up to us. “I’ve heard much about the Greek bounty hunter.”

“Who is this guy?” I inquired.

“Judging by the green in his eyes, he’s gotta be an emissary of Life.”

“Come agai‒” Mav waved his hand in front of Asaf and put him to sleep before he could finish his sentence.

“Yes, excellent observational and deducing skills!” He clapped. “Your appearance this side of the world has put a bit of a wrench in my mother’s plans, Greek, so you’ve forced my hand into action.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” Therron inhaled sharply.

“Your days of running are over, Leon.”

“Over my dead body.”

“That’s the idea.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Yea… I coulda come up with a better retort there.”

“Why have you allied yourself with Fate?” Therron placed his hand on the holster on his hip. “I thought none of you hooligans liked her.”

“Well, we don’t, but this little charade of Leon’s has gone on for far too long.” He turned to face me. “Do you have any idea how many lives have been influenced ‒ how many lives have been lost ‒ because you decided to run from your fate? Your destiny?”

I peered over at Asaf to see his eyes darting around under his eyelids. “Destiny can shove it.”

“Everyone thinks that.” He chuckled. “At first.”

“You still haven’t told us why you’ve allied with that thread-weaving hag.” Therron blared.

“The reason is simple enough that even your puny brain can figure it out.”

My long-time friend squinted his eyes in thought. “Because life is being lost due to his existence…”

Mav nodded.

“Surely not just lost, though.” Therron scratched his head. “The outcomes of a break from fate are not limited to people dying. Others that were not meant to live can be living as well.”

“Like Leon.” Mav rubbed his forehead. “I’ve indulged you two long enough. Now, bounty hunter, step aside.”

As his hand reached for my head, Asaf’s eyes erupted, emitting a soft shockwave, and the entire diner froze, except him, Therron, and myself.

“Always can count on Time to be a party crasher.” Mav spoke, but his body remained idle. “I can’t believe I didn’t see through that disguise, Tempra.”

“Odd.” Asaf — or Tempra, as Mav called him, snickered. “I saw right through yours.”

Mav growled as he struggled to move. “Taking sides now, are we?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Asaf’s voice echoed. “That won’t keep him contained for long. Time sends his regards.”

“That’s our cue.” Therron grabbed my arm and rushed me out of the diner. “Get in the silver Subaru Outback.”

“You’re kidding. “I hopped into the passenger’s seat. “Very inconspicuous.”

“Thanks.” He floored it and got onto the main road.

“So I was thinking.” I adjusted the seat position. “If Life is after me, why not make a deal with Death?”

“Sure thing.” Therron honked the Toyota Camry in front of him and it moved out of the left lane. “Why don’t I give Satan a phone call too while I’m at it.”

“What?”

“Have you watched no movies or TV shows?” He glanced at me. “Read any books?”

“Plenty, why?”

“A deal with Death never ends well for anyone except Death.”

“Ok, so how about we try Time and find Asaf again?” He sped through a yellow light. “Apparently he’s on our side here?”

“Time is a bit fickle.” Therron checked his rear-view mirror a couple times. “No telling what his agenda is and I don’t wanna find out.”

“So then what’s the play?”

“Remember how I said we should fight this head on?” He floored the gas pedal. “Yea, I lied. We’re running.”

“I’m scared, Hob,” says Peters.

Hobson ignores him and points his rifle into the jungle, squinting against the blackness. It is too dark to see anything. Mosquitoes whine in his ears. He fans them with his free hand.

“I’m fucking scared,” says Peters.

Hobson lowers his rifle. In the darkness Peters’s face is pale smear, his eyes like the holes in a skull.

#

Hobson and Peters had gone through boot camp together, but while Hobson was good enough to be assigned to the Third Reconnaissance Battalion, Peters got sent to a regular rifle platoon.

Hobson further distinguished himself during the horrendous battle of Bougainville and received a field promotion to lance corporal. When the Third Recon rotated to Aukland for R&R, Hobson had a drunken misadventure that got him thrown in the brig for a week. The colonel was so disgusted he busted Hobson to private and transferred him to the Fourth Marines as a replacement rifleman.

The Fourth was stationed on Guadalcanal awaiting the next island invasion. Nobody knew where. After the close camaraderie of Third Recon, the callow jostle of a replacement unit was jarring. Hobson didn’t know a soul and was too ashamed to make new friends. He’d been doing so well, but he’d fucked it all up.

He was standing in the chow line when Peters came up and slapped him on the back.

Hobson was overjoyed to see a familiar face. “Peters!” he yelled. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“I was with the Second Division but got malaria a week before the Tarawa invasion. They evacuated me to Hawaii.”

“You lucky son of a bitch. Missed out on a slaughterhouse, I hear.”

“Didn’t feel so lucky. Had a 105 fever for months. Doctors couldn’t figure it out. They thought I’d die, but I hung in there.”

“And here you are, stuck with me in the Fourth Division with all the replacements.”

Peters looked at the ground, shuffling his feet. “My whole platoon was wiped out before they even made it to the beach,” he said in a quiet voice. “That’s why they sent me here. There was no Second Division left to go back to.”

Hobson peered at him, unsure of what to say. “No shame in surviving, buddy. You got lucky.” He put his arm around his friend. “Anyway, what I saw of the Japs, you’ll get plenty other opportunities. They never surrender.”

#

They started to pal around. Peters was good company, quick with a story or a joke. It was like old times, the war far away. The only thing different was that now Hobson had recurring nightmares of Japs sneaking in and slitting his throat. He’d awake covered in sweat. Sometimes he would get up and walk around the camp at night. As he passed by tents full of sleeping Marines he’d hear groaning and shouts, so he guessed other guys had the same problem. The Japs murdered sleep.

The Fourth was a disorganized mess. Hundreds of replacements arrived every week. Marines slept six or eight to a tent, and there were long lines for everything––chow hall, showers, and, especially, the latrine. A man might wait a half hour for a chance to take a shit, sitting on a johnny hole with nothing but a piece of canvas hanging between him and the men on either side, guys in line yelling to hurry the fuck up.

The good thing about the chaos wass that there were few NCOs and no officers whatsover. Since nobody was around to give them orders, Hobson and Peters killed time exploring the island, hiking and swimming and goofing off. The floral jungles of Guadalcanal were so peaceful it was hard to believe there’d ever been a war there. They’d walk through a cathedral of tree trunks, the canopy a hundred feet above them and casting a soft green light like they were underwater. All around were vines and broad-leaved creepers, spreads of gorgeous orchids wrapped around low branches. If not for the swarms of mosquitos, it would have been a paradise.

#

On what turned out to be their last day of freedom, they lounged on the beach drinking beers Peters had cadged from the officers’ club. The beers felt good, the alcohol loosening things up.

“So,” said Peters, “I’ve been dying to ask. What did you do to get busted and transferred out of Recon?”

Hobson shrugged.

“Come on, Hob,” said Peters. “Everybody knows it happened, but nobody knows why.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Be a decent fella for once. Tell me. I’ll tell you something, too. Deal?”

Hobson looked at Peters’s extended hand, then shook it.

“Ok. After Bougainville, we got sent to Aukland for R&R. I figured we probably only had a week or two of liberty before they made us start marching again, so me and some buddies skipped chow the first night and went on the town. I guess the liquor hit me pretty hard because I blacked out. I came to in the brig the next day. The MPs told me I’d stolen one of their jeeps and crashed it into a cigar store. Apparently I was trying to run down the wooden Indian but lost control. The only reason they didn’t court-martial me is because nobody was hurt and the storeowner didn’t care to press charges.”

“Jesus, Hob. And you don’t remember anything?”

“Last thing I remember was doing shots at a bar.”

He didn’t mention the scathing interview with the colonel. The colonel hadn’t yelled or even sworn at him, but the shame of his disapproval burned deep in Hobson’s gut even now. You almost make me ashamed to be a Marine, the colonel’s exact words.

“Okay,” said Hobson. “Your turn.”

“I didn’t have Malaria,” said Peters, smirking a little.

“What?”

“I’d put my thermometer in my water glass and heat it up with my Zippo until it reached 110, then I’d put it in my mouth. Sometimes I’d spash water on on my face to make it look like I was sweating.” He laughed. “I’d shake and quiver. One time I even wet the bed. You can bet your ass that got their attention!”

He was so caught up in the recollection he didn’t realize that Hobson wasn’t laughing, didn’t see the look on his face.

“There was this one old bitch, Nurse Goines,” he continued. “She suspected me of malingering and laid a trap. Caught me red-handed. The shit hit the fan. They threw me out of the hospital and shipped me out within 24 hours. And here I am.”

Hobson said nothing. He was remembering the terrifying weeks on Bougainville, the Banzai charge where they’d had to kill hundreds of Jap attackers with machine guns and grenades. The endless nights when Japanese would infiltrate the lines and kill Marines as they slept. Hobson remembered the two guys in Recon captured by the Japs and tortured, their bodies left out in the open for the other Marines to find, eyes gouged and tongues cut out, their chopped-off cocks shoved into their dead mouths.

The thought of Peters malingering in the hospital while his whole Division got slaughtered on Tarawa made Hobson feel sick. The fucking coward. It was unbelievable.

Hobson stood up. “Fuck you,” he spat. He started back to camp.

Peters ran after him, calling out “What did I do?” over and over.

#

Gunnery Sergeant Snope was sent from Camp Lejune to whip the Fourth Marines into fighting shape. Snope was a career Marine, a real leatherneck.

He knew all about Hobson’s time in Third Recon and why he got kicked out. He also knew about Peters and happened in Hawaii.

He knew everything.

Snope put his iron face an inch away from Hobson’s and said, “Hobson, from now on you are that man’s shadow. Peters is your responsibility. He’s a coward and a fuckup, but he is still a Marine and Uncle Sugar spent good money training him. You fucked up too. Your new job is to turn that man into a fighting machine. You do that and maybe you get your stripes back. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes Gunny!” Hobson yelled.

#

The next five weeks were a hell of weapons drills and forced marches and rifle practice and landing practice and field exercises in the jungle. Outwardly Peters seemed to be getting his shit together. He was a fair shot and a quick mover.

But he talked all the time and perpetually asked Hobson about combat. “Is this what it’s like, Hob? Is it like this?”

It drove Hobson crazy. He longed to tell the fucking coward that a field exercise was nothing like combat, even if it was held on Guadalcanal. There was no enemy in an exercise, no terror, no real danger. Nobody died or got mangled.

But ever since that conversation on the beach he loathed Peters and refused to speak to him. Instead, he shoved him and used gestures to get his point across. Go there. Do that.

And then Hobson stopped talking altogether. If given a direct order, he’d scream SIR YES SIR, but other than that he never said anything. Careless noise is fatal, he told himself. He armored himself with silence.

Hobson’s dogged speechlessness seemed to nibble away at what courage Peters had. Peters became even more talkative, needier. His movements were uncertain. He flinched a lot. Hobson remembered what Gunny Snope told him and watched Peters like a mother hen, hating his guts more than ever.

The field exercises continued right up until the Fourth Regiment was ordered aboard ship to sail for a secret destination. The exhausted men shuffled up the gangplank carrying their rifles and combat packs, eyes hollow and backs bent.

The vast chambers below deck were twenty feet high. Despite its enormous size, the ship’s interior felt stuffy and claustrophobic. It was dim and hot and reeked of diesel fuel. Hundreds of closely spaced bunks like library shelves ran floor to ceiling with narrow passages between them, a few tables and benches bolted to the deck here and there for meals and poker games.

Two days before the landing, Sergeant Snope pulled the combat veterans aside and gave them all cigarettes.

“Listen, men,” he said. “On Tarawa six out of ten Marines got killed before they hit the beach. This landing will be worse. You Marines need to be a good example to the new guys. Help them, especially that first night.” Snope smiled. “The good news is that anyone who survives that beachhead will be a hardened veteran by dark.”

#

But the landing on Guam was virtually unopposed. The Marines splashed up onto the beach and into the jungle without a shot being fired. The new men were relieved, laughing and joking and playing horse. They joshed the combat veterans, accused them of exaggeration. You assholes were just trying to scare us.

Hobson knew better. He’d heard scuttlebutt that the Japs were changing their tactics, giving up the beachheads to lure the Marines into slaughter. He remembered how they’d hide in the jungle and bide their time, waiting for nightfall. On Bougainville they were invisible shadows that slipped into foxholes to slit the throats of the Marines they found there.

Hobson remembered the terrible morning he awoke to find his best friend Jacobs dead next to him, blood everywhere, neck gaping like some hideous mouth. They’d killed one and left the other alive, just to scare the shit out of him.

That was what was in Hobson’s nightmare every night. He’d never told anyone about it, nor would he.

The regiment marched five miles inland where Captain Fish ordered them to dig in for the night. Peters was pale, but mercifully silent. They unfolded their entrenching tools and quickly excavated a hole in the soft and spongy ground.

#

Now in the dark Hobson fingers the stacking swivel of his M-1 where the metal joins the walnut stock. Next to him in the hole he can feel Peters shaking.

“I’m scared, Hob, whispers Peters. “Fuck me, I’m scared.”

Hobson says nothing. He takes out his Kabar and jams it into the wall of the hole, keeping it handy.

“Fuck me I’m scared,” says Peters, louder now.

“Shut that man up!” calls a Marine down the line.

Peters is yelling now. “I’m goddamned scared! I don’t want to die, Hob! I’m scared!”

“Fuck’s sake!” hisses the Marine in the next hole. “Shut the hell up before you give away our position!”

Peters rocks back and forth, yelling “HOB I’M SCARED” over and over. Marines in other foxholes take up the cry to silence him, cursing him and Hobson both.

“Shut up, Peters!” says Hobson, the first words he’s uttered in weeks. “Please shut up. Everybody’s scared.”

“I’M SCARED!” screams Peters. “OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!” He sounds inhuman.

“SHUT HIM UP!” yells the neighboring Marine, panicky.

Hobson grabs Peters by his shoulders, but Peters just screams and claws at Hobson’s face. Hobson punches him in the jaw, trying to knock him out.

Peters shrieks and flails like an epileptic. Hobson hits him again, but Peters has maniac strength and won’t go down.

“Just shoot the motherfucker!” yells a different Marine.

Hobson hesitates. He picks up his rifle and points it at Peters.

Peters’ s eyes are wild. He screams and screams.

#fiction #war