A bikini strap crept from beneath her terrycloth robe sometimes at lunch. 10:30, every day. We’d eat sandwiches, she’d put the dishes in the sink, kiss me, then shut herself in her office until 3:00. A lot of her regulars popped on during lunch breaks.

She had told me she was a cam girl long before, and when I told her I didn’t care, I meant it—yeah, that’d be great, IPA—I meant it, mostly. But day after day, sitting just on the other side of the wall—no, fresh glass, thanks—I thought about it more and more. Wouldn't you?

After I moved in four months back, I asked if I could sit in the corner while she cammed. She giggled sweetly and said, “no.” She didn’t giggle when I asked the second time or the third.

I brought up the popping sounds, in a cute jokey way. She smiled but said nothing. Then she bought me a pair of Beats. Noise cancelling.

I kept thinking about it, more near the end. Reading sleep study data is a boring fucking job, in case you didn’t know, even if your girlfriend isn’t undressing next door. I thought she had to be lying about something, if I couldn’t watch. This morning I finally did it: I logged in. Don’t fucking look at me like that, I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. I changed my screen name to “Looner666” to fit in.

And there she was, on my screen, just like she’d said. And there was her bikini, small, but fully on and not crazy small; it was the one she wore to the beach when she rented a house for my birthday.

And there were the balloons.

She was grinding on a huge purple one. It popped, and as she tumbled onto the bed and laughed the chat went wild, I mean, she was getting tips left and right. She got a small green one, I think left over from my nephew’s birthday. She knelt and stuck her butt toward the camera and laid the green balloon on her calves. “I don’t know, boys,” she said into my noise-cancelling Beats, “I might be too much for this one.”

I shut my laptop and eyes. I couldn’t stop seeing it, though, her ass descending toward the balloon. Yeah, go ahead, laugh, but I wasn’t laughing, and I no longer gave a damn if Patient 10347 had sleep apnea, so I went for a walk. I ended up at the liquor store. Then I ended up at Dick’s Sporting Goods.

I had martini in hand when her terrycloth robe stepped out of her office. She saw me in the jacket and tie first, I think, and the new exercise ball beside the sofa second. “Bounce for me,” I told her.

She clammed up. She came back five minutes later in a sweatshirt to tell me she didn’t like my tone. She said to leave the key on the counter by Monday.

Women.

“Remember,” a stern voice echoes over the intercom, “There is only one rule.”

I straighten my posture on the uncomfortable metal chair, and the male voice continues.

“No matter what you think you hear, no matter what you think you see, you cannot leave this room. Do you understand?”

I nod my head slightly, trying to ignore the unease thrumming alongside my heartbeat.

“If you understand, look at the camera and reply with a yes,” the man persists.

I exhale anxiously and shift my eyes to the camera in the left corner of the room.

“Yes,” I state firmly.

“Good,” the voice commends, “We will reconnect in 24 hours.”

Then, the intercom falls silent, leaving deafening stillness in its wake. I smooth out my pastel purple, knee-length dress and snort at the out-of-place clothing.

“Why did I choose to wear a dress today?” I murmur to myself, “I don’t even like dresses.”

I lean back in the stiff chair and stretch my arms to the ceiling.

The room is small. There is no decor, no human touch, just a white ceiling with white walls. The vinyl floors vary slightly with their light gray hue. However, the tone evokes no sense of warmth. There is no furniture in the room, save for the metal chair situated directly at its center, which I am presently sitting on. The chair faces a single metal door and—perhaps the room’s most unsettling feature—a large floor-to-ceiling window that spans the entire wall. Through the window, I can see every inch of the adjoining room, and appearance-wise, it is nearly the same, down to the empty metal chair in the center. The only difference is the presence of another metal door on the wall opposite of the window.

“Creepy,” I whisper playfully, unsuccessfully distracting myself from the unnerving scene.

At least I’ll be five grand richer soon. I saw the ad for the program last week on Instagram. I was skeptical at first, but after doing my due diligence I found that the offer was legit. It’s simple really. All I have to do is sit in a room for 24 hours. The research facility wants to study participants’ reactions to isolation, imprisonment, and to a lesser extent, claustrophobia. In fact, I had to abstain from drinking and eating the past 24 hours since the “blank room,” as the scientists call it, has no bathroom. Although I am extremely hungry and thirsty, I am willing to sacrifice my comfort for the $5,000 compensation. I am now a single mother with two young daughters and a soon-to-be ex-husband.

“Bastard,” I cannot help but mutter before shaking my head at the unwelcome thoughts.

I instinctively reach for my phone to check the time, but of course, the scientists confiscated it before I entered the blank room. Maybe this experiment should be a study about boredom instead.

A few hours pass by—I think—and nothing happens. Nothing at all. Soon, the monotonous environment, paired with my nutrient-deprived body, causes my eyelids to droop. I internally run through the experiment’s requirements, but there is only one rule. Don’t leave the room. So sleeping is fine, I guess. Plus, it’ll make the time go by faster. Satisfied with my reasoning, I nestle into the inflexible chair and pray for a long nap.

However, moments later—perhaps minutes or hours, I am not sure—something abruptly pulls me from unconsciousness. I sit up hastily and grimace at the soreness that blooms across my back from the rigid chair. Prompted by my body’s sudden influx of adrenaline, I hurriedly examine my surroundings. Why did I wake up?

Then, I see it. Through the window, the door on the opposite side of the adjacent room is moving. No, not the door. The door handle. It is moving up and down, slowly, methodically. Not like someone is trying to enter the room. No, it’s like someone is playing with the metal handle.

“That’s weird,” I laugh nervously.

While the scene is obviously creepy, I expected this kind of mischief. Why would the scientists give me full view of an empty room and then not display anything? They probably want to study how I react to the events.

Abruptly, the handle stops moving with its tip pointing to the ceiling, and somehow, that frozen position is even scarier. Anxiously, I laugh out loud again.

“Nice one,” I say directly to the camera.

Wide awake now, I decide to stand and stretch my cramped body. I present my back to the window for a moment, but the sense of vulnerability makes me quickly turn around again. The door handle is now back in its original position.

I frown and focus on myself instead and regrettably catch sight of my engagement ring. Blinding fury lights up my eyes.

“Why the fuck am I wearing this?” I hiss.

The small diamond sparkles, unaware of the tarnished relationship it now symbolizes.

“Infidelity,” I say coldly, “That’s all this tiny rock represents.”

Before my mind has time to pull me down that well-trodden spiral path, a thunderous boom whisks me back to reality. This time, it’s not the door handle that’s moving. It’s the door. And unlike the slow playful nature of the previous event, the door slams open, and in the entryway, stands a woman.

She has medium-length, wavy brown hair and light skin with an average build and average height. My heart skips a beat as I notice her outfit. Just like me, she is wearing a light purple dress.

I examine the stranger more thoroughly and then gasp as I come to a jarring conclusion. The person on the other side of the glass is not just a woman. She is… me.

I am barely breathing when the woman—or me, I don’t know—sprints to the window. Panic stretches her features as she slams both hands against the glass.

“Listen,” she speaks in a desperate tone, “This “experiment” is not what you think it is. I know you’re confused, but I don’t have a lot of time to explain. You just have to trust me, okay?”

I twitch as my back comes in contact with the wall opposite of the window. I didn’t realize I had been walking backwards.

“W-what?” I stutter in a small voice.

She regards me with sympathetic eyes laced with impatience.

“We are both in unimaginable danger. The only way we can escape is together. However, I cannot enter your room. It’s locked from the inside. You have to leave,” she urges.

“No,” I state firmly, “I’m not leaving.”

She exhales roughly, tears collecting in her eyes.

“The…” she begins, but freezes when a low growl emanates from the doorway behind her. Her eyes widen in knowing horror. I open my mouth to ask what the hell that noise was, but she rushes on, speaking with increased urgency.

“The money’s fake. You’re not going to get anything.”

“You’re lying,” I answer with forced confidence, “You’re trying to trick me.”

She glances at the open door behind her, sighs deeply, and then continues in an even tone.

“Look at what you’re wearing. You—we—hate dresses. You don’t even own a purple dress, right? Isn’t that weird?”

I consider her words and investigate the garment more closely. Do I own a purple dress? I shake my head. I’ve been very stressed. Perhaps I bought the dress as a fresh start and forgot.

“Also, how did you arrive at the facility?” she asks, “Did you drive here? Did someone drop you off?”

I open my mouth to reply but answer in a breathy sigh. I drove myself here, right? I cannot think of another explanation. Why do I not remember driving though? I swallow shakily. In fact, I cannot even remember how I entered the blank room.

“See,” she says softly, noticing my silent epiphanies, “This whole situation doesn’t make sense. We need to leave.”

Adrenaline fuels my conflicting emotions, and I stand paralyzed by the warring thoughts. This whole situation is unreal. The woman must be a part of the experiment, and my lapses in memory must be a result of my starved and dehydrated mind.

“I don’t believe you,” I finally answer.

“Please, we…” she starts before a louder inhuman snarl interrupts her.

She fixes her pleading eyes on me.

“Please,” she sobs.

My eyes burn in response to her raw emotions, but I don’t risk movement. I cannot trust her. It is all a part of the experiment.

Then, I see it, and noticing my suddenly ghostly pallor, the woman turns around.

As if born from the shadows, a bony, humanoid form emerges from the darkened room beyond. The hairless creature stands over eight feet tall and has tight, colorless skin that seems too small for its bones. The stretched skin accentuates all its joints and skeletal divots. It is naked and has no genitalia. Each movement elicits bone-crunching cracks accompanied by the sound of nearly tearing flesh. It has a bulbous skull and a flat face with no eyes, ears, or a nose. The only feature on its profile is an overly wide mouth filled with square, human teeth.

I watch in disbelief, still not trusting my senses.

“It’s not real,” I breathe, “None of this is real.”

Despite the being’s lack of eyes, it looks directly at me and regards me with a grotesque smile.

“It’s not real,” I repeat in horror.

Its grin grows wider, as if it can hear my words, and then, it redirects its attention to the woman.

She remains still, crouched in a flight or fight stance.

“There’s still time,” she speaks softly without removing her eyes from the monster, “You can still open the door.”

I shake my head even though she cannot see me; however, my silence is answer enough.

“Just remember that I tried,” she replies, defeated.

The creature steps forward with saliva gathering in its gaping mouth. In one swift movement, the woman lunges for the chair in the center of the room and hurls it at the creature. It easily dodges her attempt and steps forward once, then twice, then three times, bridging the gap between them.

She dashes for the open door but is too slow, and the being easily snatches her by that dreadful purple dress. With its free hand, it clutches her torso. She struggles to break free, but her efforts are futile. I try to look away but cannot as the monster reels its hand back, fingers splayed, and slashes her face diagonally from forehead to chin. Her screams pierce the fear-polluted air, and my already unstable legs collapse beneath me.

The creature delicately lifts the woman with one hand around her neck and the other on her abdomen and walks to the window.

Like a child showing off its favorite doll, the monster holds up the woman—me—to the glass. I cringe at the brutal wound now marring her face. She looks at me with her only remaining eye.

“I guess we deserve this,” she chokes wetly.

I have no time to comprehend her words as the scene before me unfolds rapidly. In one fluid motion, the creature moves its hand to the woman’s shoulders and then viciously severs her head with the other. I double over and dry heave as the sounds of broken bones and torn sinew replay in my ears. Cold sweat dots my forehead as I hesitantly return my eyes to the window. I gasp.

The creature is gone. The woman is gone. There is no blood. There is no evidence that anyone was in that room.

“What?” I say weakly, still nauseated from the traumatic scene.

Suddenly, the sound of distant commotion reaches my ears. Moments later, a man crashes through the door in the adjoining room shouting,

“Police!”

Disoriented, I lock eyes with the officer, and he yells through the doorway,

“I found her!”

He rushes to the blank room’s door but is unable to open it.

“Ma’am,” the policeman says in a calm tone.

I raise my hazy eyes.

“Can you open the door on your end?” he asks slowly.

I swallow. My eyes dart between the officer and the metal door. Images of the woman’s blood-stained face color my vision. The creature’s crooked grin insnares my mobility.

“It wasn’t real,” I murmur to myself as I drop my eyes to the floor, “None of this is real.”

I look up, half expecting the officer to disintegrate like an illusion, but he remains solid.

“Ma’am. I am here to help you. Your family has been looking for you for weeks,” the officer speaks compassionately.

“Weeks?” I echo in disbelief.

I rise on quivering legs.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” the officer says with a kind smile, “Help me help you.”

I look at the door. How long have I been in this room? Even if the woman wasn’t real, she was right. I don’t remember how I got here or why I am wearing this dress. Nothing makes sense.

I walk to the door and place my hand on the cold handle.

“That’s it,” the police officer reassures me on the other side, “You’re doing a great job."

I look behind me at the blank room, then at the camera positioned above my head.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I say quietly.

Desperation guides my actions, and I watch as my hand opens the door. The caring-faced police officer greets me on the other side.

“You did wonderfully. Let’s get you home.”

He holds out a hand, and I cannot stop myself from accepting it and taking that step towards freedom. I release a heavy breath once I clear the threshold and turn to the officer with a grateful smile. However, my relief quickly shifts to horror as the man’s gentle face transitions into one dripping with evil intent. He blinks, revealing empty, pupil-less eyes. I stumble backwards, but he simply matches my action with a step forward.

“There is only one rule,” he speaks in an ominous tone, “And you broke it.”

“No, no, no,” I chant like a protective mantra.

He responds with a wicked smirk before harshly grabbing my wrist. Then, everything goes black.

I wake up on a metal chair, and, for a moment, I think I am back in the blank room.

“Good morning, sweetie,” a male voice oozes with false kindness, “I think you’ll want to see this.”

The sleazy voice grounds me in my surroundings. I am sitting beside the white-eyed man at a white desk with a single monitor and microphone. My heart stutters when I realize that the monitor is playing live footage of the blank room. I feel the man’s eyes on me, but I am unable to turn away from the screen as the creature from earlier enters the frame cradling the woman’s body and decapitated head.

Bile rises in my throat as I watch the monster viciously shove the woman’s head back onto her body. It washes her, mends her torn skin, and finally dresses her in a pristine purple dress. Denial rings in my ears as I watch her chest start to rise and fall. The creature smiles at the camera, at me, and then exits the room.

“Time for my favorite part,” the white-eyed man chimes.

On screen, the woman’s eyes flutter open and her slacken face adjusts slightly to reflect a disinterested one. I look at the man and he returns the favor with dark eyes. Then, he clears his throat.

“Remember,” he speaks in a professional manner, “There is only one rule.”

At those words, my mobility returns and I shoot up, clumsily moving backwards and tripping over the metal chair. From my position on the floor, the man finishes his introductory statement.

“If you understand, look at the camera and reply with a yes.”

A strangled cry emerges from my core as the woman looks at the camera and says “yes.”

The man ends the chat and turns his attention to me. My mind is a storm of emotions and questions, all fighting for release simultaneously.

“Where am I?” I eventually ask.

The man tilts his head.

“I thought that would be fairly obvious,” he replies.

My blank stare prompts him to continue.

“You’re in Hell, honey.”

“Hell,” I shake, “I-I don’t belong in Hell.”

“Oh, trust me. You do,” he responds nonchalantly as his eyes fall to my engagement ring.

I try to ignore the unclean feelings dancing beneath my skin.

“How long have I been here?” I ask instead.

The man abandons his chair and crouches beside me, caressing the nape of my neck.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to,” he whispers in my ear.

Before I have time to digest his words, he grabs my wrist and suddenly we are standing in front of a metal door.

“Have you figured out the game yet?” he inquires, “Here’s a hint.”

I watch as the white-eyed man places his hand on the door handle and slowly maneuvers it—up and down, up and down. Realization sharpens my foggy mind.

“I’m the woman on the other side of the blank room now,” I whisper.

“Yes,” the man drawls, “And the only way you can escape this infinite loop of torture is if you convince your other self to leave the blank room. You both must walk through this door together.”

I stare soundlessly in reply.

“Of course, you must accomplish your goal before my smiley friend joins the party,” he adds with a sinister half grin.

Unbridled despair and fear like I have never known before cascade through my body.

“W-who are you?” I quiver.

The white-eyed man smiles wildly.

“I think you know the answer to that,” he says simply before stepping away from the door, “See you soon.”

I glance at the door handle, then back to him, but he is gone.

Oppressive darkness taints my surroundings. So, with no other options, I heave the door open. And like some cruel version of deja vu, I sprint to the glass and meet my other self’s untrusting gaze.

“Please,” I begin, “You have to listen to me. We don’t have much time.”

No, seriously, I do. So I hope you don’t mind too much

if I share a few really bad lines that are funny.

My wife said I was immature. So I told her to get out of my fort.

I didn’t want to believe that my dad was stealing from his job as a traffic cop, but when I got home, all the signs were there.

I spent a lot of time, money, and effort childproofing my house but the kids still get in.

When I was a kid, my mother told me I could be anyone I wanted to be. Turns out, identity theft is a crime.

A guy goes to his doctor because he can see into the future. The doctor asks him, “How long have you suffered from that condition?” The guy tells him, “Since next Monday.”

and finally ...

I wish Covid-19 had started in Las Vegas. Because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

I now have 999, 994 left.

They think me a villain?

To what exactly?

To society?

To them?

All I’m doing is ridding the world,

of the people who don’t need to be here.

I’m getting rid of the ones who made my people suffer so.

I’m getting rid of them all.

The Jews, Gypsies, Disabled,

All of those WEAK,

All of them USELESS.

THEY DESERVE TO DIE!

Why do people oppose me?

I’m helping them in the long run.

They don’t see it yet,

They Just don’t understand what I’m doing for them.

They just don’t understand.

But they will,

they will see.

They will worship me as a hero,

for years and years to come.

Praise me for my genius,

applaud my efforts.

They don’t understand yet but

they will see

they will see

they will see.

In the POV of Hitler.

The goal of my thesis was to discover the answer to the age old question, “When I injure my hand, do I feel the pain in my hand, or does the pain actually register in my head?”

So I laid my left hand on the table and swung the hammer as hard as I could, striking the middle finger a solid blow. It took a good second before I could scientifically say I felt anything at all. It occurred to me in that singular moment that the reason for the time lapse was due to the pain having to travel through the nerves from the alarmed fingertip to the unaware brain. I was on to something!

So, with hopes of stopping that flow of pain-signaling neurons from reaching my brain, I delivered another ringing hammer blow to the side of my head. This worked, as the pain in my hand immediately dissipated! Eureka!

Unfortunately, when I awoke I could not remember the outcomes, and realized I would have to start my experimentations all over again.

This time though, I think I will video tape it so that future generations can see the results.

I don’t speak

Its been a tough week

It’s hard to speak up

So I sit here quietly, I won’t interrupt

I’m scared of what people think of me

And it gets so hard to breathe

I could be standing in a crowd, they could be saying nothing

But their presence is so loud it feels like they are judging

I can feel this fantasy rejection

And just like wifi, I’m losing connection

They blame it on society

That it is the reason I have Social Anxiety

But that’s not the matter

Because I feel as if I’m about to shatter

And that feeling of nervousness comes creeping quietly

Followed by the rest of my anxieties

I am a really nice person but whenever I think to say hello

My self-consciousness comes in, and its something I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow

And I see judgment in your eyes

My mind keeps producing these lies

And I’m on a steady decline

that I wish I could define

My voice I do not own

So I stand here alone

Choking on my words

While I watch my tiny world burn

Good News! I'm excited to report that, based on the entries received so far, and the entries that are promised (keep writing) we are proceeding with the anthology! If you are interested in participating and you haven't notified me already: please email me at parentsbook2021@gmail.com . There is an informational web page at www.howecreative.net/collaboration. Password is 1234. All entries are due by March 1, 2021. This will allow time for editing, compiling the anthology, and to make publishing arrangements prior to Mother's Day (US).

Following is the introduction co-authored by @mfrobs @kmCassidy and @christopherhow1 (that's me).

Let’s write about our parents and our childhood, the painful and the uplifting, the miserable and the grand, and everything in between.

The richness of so many stories, (and especially family stories) comes from reflecting on even the hardest of memories. Past events give our current stories greater depth and meaning. A joyful event becomes even more joyful when contrasted with a sorrowful event of the past, or one that looms in the future.

This anthology is not simply a tribute to the perfect mother, the perfect father, or the perfect child. Though the writing that follows presents us with many examples of wonderful parents and inspiring parent / child relationships, we should recognize that no one is perfect. No relationship is perfect.

All of your experiences with parenthood are welcome here. Whether you found a mother figure in someone with whom you share no blood, or you were adopted and your experience without birth parents shaped you in a significant way, or you have two moms, two dads, or you were emancipated, or raised by grandparents. There is breadth of human experience here to share, limitless and without boundary.

Parenthood can be a constant challenge, balancing our goals with those of our loved ones, controlling our tempers and emotions, and allowing our children to learn and grow, while protecting them from harm. Sometimes we are successful. Sometimes we fall short. Sometimes our children choose the wrong path, despite our best efforts. Sometimes we realize that we didn’t try hard enough.

There are many ways to love each other, and countless ways to demonstrate our love. Some parents express their love for their children explicitly. Others are more subtle or reserved. Some parents may not appear to express their love at all. Sadly, some parents express the opposite of love.

Children are faced with the challenge of interpreting our parent’s words and actions. This can be a lifelong quest.

With all love there is eventually pain. The most difficult aspect of the parent / child relationship is that eventually we will have to say “goodbye”. Grief is part of life. So, it is welcomed here as well.

With all this in mind, this anthology is a celebration of the joys of parenthood, childhood, and the enduring gift of a parent’s love. It is also a celebration of our capacity for forgiveness, personal growth, healing, and change. When we’re vulnerable, we can produce some of our best work.

Christopher Howe KMCassidy Mfrobs

January 23, 2021

@elleneckert@gld

@chacko_stephen

@rellyn

@victoriabowman

@mariantoinette

@Bonnieboo

@valiantraptor47

@christopherhow1

@whitewolf32@spurtsofdark@mnezz@ruby9@annelgray@mfrobs@ellacressman

@bogdan_dragos

@shayna13@ernaline@dctezcan@anarosewood@kmcassidy

@huckleberry_hoo

@jmcbee@milu@rosey_@avruss@ajrfanz@rockdoctor18@wordlove

Delores:

Delores was tired. She had been tired for a long time now. Her 86 years on Earth had been a mixture of happiness, grief, and confusion, and looking back on it now, she loved every moment of it. She knew what was coming, she could feel it in the air these past few weeks. For a long time, death had loomed over her head. She was afraid of it, afraid of what could come after. She was partly religious but more spiritual than anything else. Still, in a secular world, she felt crazy sometimes for believing that there was something on the other side. She questioned herself on more than one occasion and had cried multiple times because she could not fathom life off this earth. Now, she felt silly, so silly for overthinking it all. Her time was coming and she had made peace with it. There was no more pressure to live. She had done all that already. She had learned, loved, and lived to the best of her ability. She had climbed mountains, raised three children, and danced her heart out. Her husband was gone now and her family far away, but she felt okay. Now, laying in bed in a quiet room, she didn’t feel so alone. She couldn’t quite describe it, but she no longer felt herself. It was as if the spirit inside her was ready to join the rest of the universe. After spending some time looking at photos and reliving the past 86 years, she closed her eyes for the last time. It was time to let go.

Johan:

Johan was afraid, he was afraid of dying. Ever since his diagnosis he had spent too much time in the hospital. He heard codes called over the speakers and knew the result when the nurses walked in with blank expressions. He was 43 now, and after 2 years in and out of the hospital, he knew he didn’t have much time left. The end was coming, but he wasn’t as scared as he expected to be. He asked to go home earlier this week, much to his doctor’s dismay. Dr.Fredricks was young and ambitious, he did not like failure. Sadly, that was exactly what Johan was, another life that could not be saved. Cancer was like that sometimes, it bested even the most strong-willed opponents. The air was heavy at home these past few days. His wife had cried enough for the both of them and his kids seemed to know that their time with their dad was limited. Why else would they spend so much time with him as opposed to their phones and videogames? In all honesty, he appreciated their company, because despite knowing what was coming he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to make peace with it all, but he was still afraid. After spending so much time undergoing chemo and surgery, he was sure he could handle any pain that death brought. The fear was no longer in the process itself, but what would come after. He wasn’t religious, he never had been. He didn’t know what to expect on the other side. His biggest fear was that it would be darkness, an endless oblivion. He wanted there to be something, yet he didn’t know what. As the weeks went on, he felt himself fading further from reality. It was getting close now. He expected it to happen at night, in the darkness, but it was midday. His wife was at work and his children at school. He wanted to make it to the bed but didn’t seem to have the energy. He rested his head on the couch and knew that it was time to let go. It was time and he wasn't afraid anymore.

Kelly:

Kelly was confused. She didn’t quite know what was happening. The last thing she remembered was fighting with her boyfriend in the car. She was so angry and then all of a sudden she wasn’t in control anymore. She opened her eyes to find two women looking frantic. She heard various words of assurance, but couldn’t quite piece the sentences together. She was 23, far too young for this. She wondered where Kyle was. Did he make it out of the car? She couldn't even remember why she was angry with him. She couldn’t remember anything from the incident. She tried to get up, but her body disobeyed her. She wasn’t in pain, though she suspected that it was the shock of it all. She watched as doctors filled the room, they looked terrified and she couldn’t imagine why. What was happening? Her mind couldn’t piece everything together fast enough, yet she felt okay. She wanted to reach out to her doctors and tell them the same thing. She didn’t quite know what was going on, but she knew it was her time. It was time to leave, time to let go. It was sudden and chaotic, but she felt okay. She hadn't lived long, but she wasn’t afraid of leaving so soon. She was more worried for those she’d leave behind. As the frantic voices around her faded away, she was able to find peace. It was warm and loving and she knew that everything would make sense soon enough.

Reader:

No matter who we are, death takes us eventually. We might be ready for it, or we may not be. No one knows what’s on the other side, but I hope that none of you feel afraid as we go. Whether we are young or old, we all must go some time. It can sometimes be a long process or come as a surprise. I trust that you all find peace in the process and live your precious time on earth to the fullest. My fellow humans, I love every one of you. Do not fear the end, for the present is what matters the most right now.

-Vee